#SIXTY TO SHIMMER PITY

[gotta-bail-my-quails]

im about to get so much more annoying in point war

#just wait until shimmer reverb gives me anna #full shimmer team here we goooo #SIX SHIMMERS IN 5 MONTHS #THATS OVER ONE SHIMMER A MONTH #I DONT EVEN HAVE A SHIMMER ON MY OTHER NEAR YEAR OLD ACCOUNT #dislyte #dislyte feng nuxi #HOLY SHIT #SIXTY TO SHIMMER PITY #I BEAT SHIMMER PITY AGAIN HELL YEAH #tbf it was my guaranteed choice so not as amazing as getting toland 1/9 chance #but honestly still impressive

[wr-n]

Eldritch Nightmare - The Island

Warnings:

Violence, depravity, death, gore, graphic depictions of violence

Link to Archive Work

Nightmare could feel the pull and ebb of sleep falling on his thralls one by one. For a moment, he spread out into their dreams. Briefly - less than a moment - he could see them. A peek into their deepest desires.

Horror's dreams of being happy with his brother and first lover. He always did cling tightly to his previous life, even now.

Dust's dreams were a whirlwind of voices. Friends, family, enemies... he heard them all. Some calling for bloody revenge, others begging for mercy, a majority of them ripping and tearing at Dust's being.

Cross's dreams were bright and warm. Nightmare's brother having a big hand in the little soldier's life meant his dreams usually involved him in some way. Either warm hands or bright sunny skies.

Killer's dreams were shockingly the most quiet. It was serene and deeply soothing for both Killer and Nightmare. Killer would always dream of quiet and silence.

As Nightmare's consciousness moved on from their dreams, his body shifted to form outside his castle. There, he is greeted by a rare face: the leader of his cult. He was a thin but wise man in his sixties, but Nightmare did have the tendency to see him as a child. What were sixty years to a being like him?

Wren, he thinks. He only knew it was some kind of bird but didn't quite care enough to remember which.

"Y... Yes, my lord." He responds, eyes wide. Nightmare could feel his apprehension as clear as day.

How are they? Your little group.

Wren's aged hands clasped together as his eyes stared unblinkingly at Nightmare's raw form. It was a great effort to keep the mortal's mind and body from bursting into gore. Simply being in their presence was enough to alter one's mind permanently.

"We are doing well. Apologies, I didn't expect you to visit us. I would have..."

He trails off as Nightmare cuts him off, avoiding the worthless small talk and diverting his thoughts to the topic he was more interested in.

"... We have a new member now. A reporter. Our group is beginning to be recognized by people outside your influence."

Now, this caught the horror's interest. Have they begun to notice the absence of thousands?

A blackened hand reached out to the human and pressed inside, the skin and bone under his fingertips giving way to their brain. Memories of the human's work as the leader easily offered themselves to Nightmare. He had counted around two thousand members as of the past decade.

Unfortunately, while he was distracted with the idea of his growing influence, Wren had - as expected - reduced into a gorey puddle.

A pity. But a simple fix.

He reached down once more and restored their soulless body, carrying it toward the statue garden. Several of the statues were being lovingly taken care of by the Garden Keepers. Polished and adorned with flowers and other such vegetation.

A few statues had immediately recognized their creator's energy and began to sing songs of welcome and joy. Others wave and lounge, more entertained by their Keepers than greeting.

"Hello, Nightmare!" One calls up to him, a statue with peonies covering their chest and shoulders. They had been chiseled to appear laying down with a dreamy expression.

"Come come! Look at our new toys!" Another call, this one animated and staring up at him with stolen green eyes. Prizes from a deal made with the stray members who fall for their beautiful lies and tricks.

The 'toys' in question were two newer cult members in the process of becoming Garden Keepers. Their bodies were stuck to pieces of the garden as their skin hardened and minds grew soft. A statue had moved closer to stroke one of the soon to be Keeper's hair.

"And we didn't even make them into monsters like you asked!"

They all shiver in delight from the wave of approval they felt with their words, their obsidian-filled cracks shimmering. Despite their awful nature, they manage an air of deceptive innocence that attract those of weak will.

You are all in luck. For your good behavior, I have a body for you.

Nightmare looked down to a clear spot in the grass before the air twisted and throbbed before the body of the former cult leader lay motionless.

The statues cheer as stone hands grapple for the human's body. They tear it apart and celebrate their new playthings. Hands, eyes, feet, legs - they took it all. The organs, stored inside their hollow bodies for later, blood dripping out the gaps in their stone.

"Thank you so much!" Sang one of the more animated statues, hands to their chest in appreciation, even as blood leaked down their chin.

Don't be making any trouble. Avatars that work under the destroyer have begun to watch over us.

The statues and Keepers alike voiced their worry and displeasure in hushed tones. They knew what this meant - it meant that anything that Error deemed unacceptable would be eradicated permanently.

Dark clouds rumble in the distance, thunderous roars filling the air. The Keepers sought out shelter from the freezing wind that came with them.

They arrive.

#eldritch twins #eldritch nightmare #wraith writes #gore #tw gore #cw gore

[shaelashaela]

The King's Curse, ch. 4

[cw] non-consensual touch, blood, gore, animal cruelty [reading time] 7 mins.

One hundred sixty-eight steps. I counted. My calves were sore after crunching my way through the snow-covered stairs. The journey was the equivalent of ten stories, though it confused me. I looked back down the hill, and from either direction, it didn’t look all that tall. What a strange place.

Now I stood at the edge of a great, white expanse of marble, ringed in with columns of matching stone that were a good five or six metres high. I also quickly realized that I was not alone. The interior of the circle descended a few steps, and standing all around the edges were a dozen elves of all shapes and sizes, dressed in velvet finery of blue and purple. Their faces were sneers, all judging me as I approached. My breath caught in my throat, as I felt the waiting pack would tear me apart the moment I crossed the threshold.

Something compelled me forward, however. Whether it was my doing or some external force, I couldn’t tell, but my feet continued to walk me into the centre of the structure. I stood all alone, hemmed in from all sides by dark elves who judged me and scorned me. Each of them was recognizable by the distinct black aura of magic that swirled and engulfed them, some faint and others blazing like bonfires. One in particular stood out, however. I could not tell if they were man or woman, but they had an unusually pale complexion and long white hair, with both sides of the head shaved. Their aura, strangely enough, was a mixture of black and silver, something I never encountered before in my life. They returned my stare with cold, dark eyes that felt full of pity.

I had little time to contemplate that, however. As I waited for my fate, the chill air around me swirled and danced. Silvery snowflakes gathered from beyond the stone ring and coalesced at the far end from where I’d entered, first forming the shape of feet, followed by a long flowing skirt, and finally a curvy torso with delicate arms and hands. By the time the head formed, the dress became material and shimmered a dark blue hue studded with black diamonds. Finally, the face came into focus, alabaster white skin with full ruby lips. The last of the wintery breeze became her hair, pure white strands that fell over her shoulders and down to her knees. She was quite tall, probably taller than my father, and her dusky eyes focused on me with the intensity of a hunter.

Queen Morrigan, sovereign of the Winter Court. We finally met face to face. Her darkness and radiance overwhelmed me and burned my eyes until they watered.

Her voice echoed across the chamber and reverberated with all the power and vastness I would expect from a fey royal. It was deep and powerful yet still divinely feminine. “We are delighted you could join Us, Sylvie Shaestari.”

I looked to the side, avoiding the blinding might of her magic while trying my best not to appear disrespectful. “Your Majesty,” I replied with a bow.

“Our apologies. You seem pained.” She tilted her head in an expression of curiosity. “What a rare gift you have.”

“Gift?”

“The second sight, child. You witness the brilliance of Our very essence, do you not?”

I considered her words. It never occurred to me that others couldn’t see what I saw when I entered the Wylde. “I … didn’t realize others could not.”

“They say it is a trait of royal blood.” There was a hint of smugness in her voice.

“That hardly seems likely in my case, Your Grace.”

She took a few steps forward, the edges of her dress trailing several feet behind her. Despite the awkwardly long garment, she floated across the marble with serene grace. The dark elves in her presence were awestruck, and she tore their attention away from me.

“Perhaps not,” she replied with a tinge of disappointment. “To the matter at hand, then: you have cost Us a great deal, girl.”

Time to get down to business. “I am aware, Your Grace. King Oberon told me Ixion was favoured by you. I had no idea. I’ve come to apologize.”

She wagged a finger at me and smiled widely. Her grin was reminiscent of Rayna’s, but it creeped me out. It was the opening of a predator’s jaws, mirthless and eager.

“Nay, apologies are unnecessary. Such is the way of the world. Ixion was a great alchemist in service to Our court, but he chose an opponent he could not overcome.”

That was certainly a turn I didn’t expect. If what happened was acceptable, then why was I here? “I beg pardon, Your Grace, but if that is true, then what did you call upon me for?”

“Isn’t it obvious? You bested Our court alchemist. You should take his place.”

I raised my hands slightly, palms outward. “Oh, I see. That’s generous, Your Grace, but I can’t stay here.”

She took another step in my direction, and though a couple of metres separated us, I instinctively shrank away. “Oh? You have other obligations?”

“I—I, yes, I suppose…”

The crowd around me tittered, but the Queen made an overt motion with her hands for silence. She took another step toward me, then another. “Are you certain? We offer a great deal of prestige and riches to those who serve Us faithfully.”

As she drew ever closer to me, I felt supremely small and not at all certain about anything. Despite her claim that it was an offer, I didn’t get the impression that I could refuse. My feet were cement blocks holding me to the floor, and the Queen drew dangerously close to me.

She reached out one hand, extending a slender finger. Her nails were painted a beautiful dark blue that sparkled with the stars of the night sky. One fingertip came to rest gently under my chin, lifting my head up with just the slightest of encouragement. The Queen leaned down slowly, and to my shock, she closed her eyes and pressed her lips against mine. I froze in place like a scared rabbit.

Her kiss was nothing like Rayna’s, her lips soft but cold. The small motions she made against my mouth felt nothing like love. It was an act of pure lust and control. Despite my hyper-awareness of the situation, there was nothing I could do but endure. I dared not wrest myself away from the Queen of the Winter Court, no matter what she did to me.

It was only a few seconds, but to me it felt like eternity. She withdrew her hand, however, and stepped back. “How intriguing! You are a rare bird, indeed.”

I literally had no idea what she meant or how to respond to that, and sheer terror still rooted me in place.

She turned away from me and took a few steps back towards the opposite end of the floor. “Well, it is a disappointment that you would not choose to stay. In that case, We shall assign you another task as reparation.”

My breath returned to me in one great gasp. I didn’t even realize I’d held it. “Th-thank you, Your Majesty.”

The Queen arrived at the edge of the marble circle, and she spun to face me again. “You will ascend the mountain. Nestled on its slopes, you will find a field where grows the black crocus. Bring it to Us.”

That was it? She wanted me to fetch a flower? Relief didn’t even begin to describe what I felt. “Of course, Your Grace, right away.”

She clapped her hands together, and the sound echoed across the colonnade. “The only thing that remains is to seal the contract.”

“Uh… Your Grace?”

“Patience, my dear.”

The silence between us as her retinue looked on felt supremely awkward, but I waited as she requested. I wondered if there was something I should do to pass the time, but mostly I just looked at my feet, desperately avoiding the Queen’s gaze. But then I heard it: the soft grunts of some sort of animal. Up the hill whence I came and cresting the top of the stairs strode two armed and armoured elves, elegant in their black plate and with curved swords upon their hips. Perhaps the Winter Court’s equivalent of the royal knights? Between them, they escorted a large boar. Its spiky coat reflected the afternoon sun as it shuffled across the marble floor, coaxed by a rope tied to a yoke round its neck.

I cursed myself for not studying her court closer before I came here.

The trio walked past me and stopped before Queen Morrigan. She stepped forward towards the boar, and instinctively, the animal recoiled. It did not surprise me that even such a strong and feral beast would be afraid of her. One of the attendants handed her a small goblet made from brass.

The Queen’s smile was a thing of pure evil and mockery, and she flashed it at me one last time before turning her attention to the now-struggling animal. The poor thing grappled against its yoke, but the guards tied it to a ring set into the solid floor. She extended one finger, the same one with which she’d touched me mere minutes ago, and she dug the nail into the beast’s side.

I wanted to yank my head away, but something compelled me to watch, perhaps Her Majesty’s influence or my fear, but I couldn’t tell which. The boar squealed and struggled as Queen Morrigan walked slowly from tail to nose, slicing the skin open with her fingernail. As the flesh fell away, she collected the dripping blood into the cup waiting in her other hand. The boar’s whimpers and screams sickened me, but I couldn’t even find the will to vomit. Within seconds, the Queen flayed the skin from the boar’s side with only her bare hands.

Without a word, she moved towards me, the goblet brandished in front of her. I cowered, fearing that I would join the poor beast. Instead, she brought the cup to her lips and took a sip of its contents. She licked her lips and held it out towards me.

“Drink,” she commanded.

I winced, still very aware of the squealing and squirming hog behind her. “Please… end its suffering first.”

The Queen tilted her head curiously. “As you wish.”

She nodded to one of the armoured elves. He stepped forward and drew his curved blade from its sheath in one swift motion, raising it over his head. It reminded me of my mother’s sword in its craftsmanship and balance, but unlike hers, the edge was black and serrated. He brought it down on the boar’s neck with substantial force, and the creature grunted and fell to its knees. It wasn’t dead, though. He had to hack at its neck thrice more. Each time his blade cracked against its vertebrae, I winced.

Once again, the Queen urged me to drink from her goblet. I stalled as much as I could before taking it from her hands. Just briefly, our fingers touched, and she felt like an icy corpse. I shuddered involuntarily.

Again, I hesitated.

“You must drink to seal our contract,” she reminded me.

“Right…”

My hand shook as I brought the little metal cup to my lips. I closed my eyes and took a sip. The blood was still warm, and the salty metallic taste on my tongue sickened me to my core. I barely got any of it down my throat before I wretched and dropped the goblet. It clattered loudly on the marble floor, scattering blood all around the Queen’s feet. It mingled with the growing pool of blood underneath the boar, staining the hem of Queen Morrigan’s dress. She paid it no mind.

“It is done,” she proclaimed, another one of her wicked grins crossing her crimson-dappled lips. “Do this deed for Us, and We will release you of your obligation to Our court.”

And that would hopefully save Rayna, as well. Everything about this boded ill for me, but I had to do this for her sake. I wiped a drop of blood from my mouth with the back of my hand, and for the first time, I fixed my gaze directly upon the Queen. Either Rayna and I both lived, or we both died, as death would be the only thing that could stop me from fulfilling my quest.

#story #short story #writing #fiction #originalfiction #oc #my oc #original character #fantasy #modernfantasy #magic #witchcraft #sorcery #alchemy #supernatural #fey #fairy #elf #elves #neurodivergent lit #queer lit #bywb2 #blood tw #gore tw #animal cruelty tw

[jerakeenc]

June-Sept Recs (10)

This is pitiful. I think I'm mostly re-reading older fic, so I don't end up with anything new to rec? Would you guys want recs of rereads? Re-recs?

✨Crash and Burn by Aureutr_Accoredge

Mandalorian | Din/Luke | Explicit | 315,000 words

There had been no Seeing Stone on Tython that Grogu could use to call for a Jedi. They had survived Gideon's light cruiser mostly by luck. And now Din Djarin is trapped between trying to resume his old life with Grogu in tow or facing what wielding the Darksaber truly means for him and his people. Mostly he just wants a nap. Luke Skywalker is looking for Jedi artifacts he can use to help build a curriculum for the school he seeks to create. Not that he knows where it will be. Or how to find pupils. But then he runs into a shiny stranger whose beskar armor makes him a null space in the Force. And he doesn't know who Luke is. Intrigued (and in need of parts to repair his ship), he Skywalkers his way into tagging along on the latest bounty.

Look, I'm pretty far gone on this ship so my judgment is super suspect, but 300K words and I still like a story? It has to be good. If I have to nitpick I can say I would've preferred a more splashy romantic ending but again - 300K words.

Worlds Apart by PepperPrints

Mandalorian | Din/Luke | Explicit | 69,000 words

Having safely delivered the Child, Mand'alor Din Djarin inherits the Darksaber, a ruined planet, and the burden of Moff Gideon's fate. That burden brings Din to the New Republic on Coruscant, where he's thrown into a shimmering world of galactic politics even less familiar to him than the planet meant to be his home. Din isn't the only one on Coruscant with his hands full of a once forgotten order - the Jedi is here too, and as their paths cross, Din will be forced to navigate both what's expected of him, and what he wants.

Din becomes the leader he's meant to be.

Stardust Legacies by Withercrown

Mandalorian | Din/Luke | Mature | 187,000 words

The child has found safety with the Jedi, but that doesn't mean the threat is over. What's left of the Empire is still hunting Force-sensitive individuals, and a not-so-chance encounter leads Din to some uncomfortable truths regarding his own nature. What does it mean to be both a Mandalorian and a Jedi, and what will that mean for the future of the galaxy?

This is a proper Star Wars novel. Cards on the table, I'm not at all interested in the wider Star Wars universe, so the whole ensemble was wasted on me. Great writing, made me buy jedi!Din which I didn't think was very probable.

✨Curtains by winterhill

James Bond | Bond/Q | Teen | 20,350 words

Indulgent domesticity. No real plot to speak of, just Bond and Q moving in together as friends after Q is targeted and his place burnt down, and slowly progressing to being a couple.

Frickin' perfect curtainfic.

Mercenary by BootsnBlossoms & Kryptaria

James Bond | Bond/Q | Explicit | 66,000 words

Five years ago, Commander James Bond of Her Majesty's Royal Navy left England in disgrace, escaping a court martial -- and what should have been a promising career in MI6 with Alec Trevelyan, his oldest friend. He becomes a mercenary, selling his military expertise to the highest bidder, though not once does he act against England or her interests. Now, new intelligence has possibly located Bond in the United States, and Alec is tasked with the mission to bring him back to MI6. But to do so will require a very unique type of field operative -- one Bond will never suspect. Enter Aidan Green, codename Q.

So satisfying.

a wall, a ceiling by Shinybug

Witcher | Geralt/Jaskier | Mature | 3,770 words

“I hear you,” Geralt murmured, even though his ears were ringing. The distance between them, only a few yards, was an ocean. Jaskier held his traveling bag in his arms and his lute was strapped over his shoulder. He looked like a man with one foot already out the door. A confession, a realization, longing, and hope.

Nothing more romantic than a love confession.

louder than words by Shinybug

Witcher | Geralt/Jaskier | Teen | 5,600 words

Geralt tries to apologize. Jaskier tries to listen.

Lovely tiny fix-it.

✨Infinite Coffee and Protection Detail by owlet

MCU | Bucky/Steve | Teen | 264,000 words

The mission resets abruptly, from objective: kill to objective: protect

I'm probably the last person to have read this, but in case you've also been skipping it: It's very very good. I don't generally read pre-slash but I kinda didn't want the relationship in this to progress at all? Bucky had what he needed in Steve and I had what I needed as a reader. Devotion trumps sex, imho.

As Is by Arsenic

MCU | Clint/Phil | Explicit | 52,800 words

In a world where people are put on the market as commodities for all sorts of reasons, and SHIELD buys those who might be useful to them, Coulson makes what seems, at the time, to be an ill-advised purchase.

Hurt!Clint

Professional Front by Arsenic

MCU | Clint/Phil | Teen | 11,300 words

When Clint finds out Coulson has been secretly alive for some time and is now the director of SHIELD he's determined that he can be a professional about working with the man.

Coulson's back from the dead. Clint's not gonna let him die again.

Between the Personal and the Real by Arsenic

MCU | Clint/Phil | Explicit | 21,400 words

Clint knows how things work between principals and their obeisants. At least, he's always thought he does.

Forced into a slavery-ish contract

Been Looking At You Forever by torakowalski

MCU | Clint/Phil | Explicit | 18,880 words

Clint and Phil are friends. Friends who have sex. That’s all there is to it. Honestly.

This is cute!

They Say You Can't Put A Number On Love by torakowalski

MCU | Clint/Phil | Teen | 3,000 words

“Look,” Stark says. “I ran a simulation: attributes you have shown most interest in versus likelihood of success. It turns out that there’s a sixty-five percent chance that your type is Director Fury.”

SUPER cute!

stick together and see it through by torakowalski

MCU | Clint/Phil | Teen | 5,680 words

There are many places that Phil would rather be than stuck in a HYDRA base with Tony Stark.

Competent!Coulson, Tony & Phil friendship, so much cute.

I Could Live By The Light Of Your Eyes by nerdwegian

MCU | Clint/Phil | Explicit | 44,550 words

All Clint wanted was to get laid. (In which Clint meets a mysterious man who may or may not be named Phil, and accidentally stumbles into a big conspiracy where very few things are what they seem to be.)

Fun spy AU.

#recs

[divineinterventiongame]

Anubis Drabble

Here’s the first of the follower drabbles featuring Anubis! Thanks again for the support <33 Please let me know what you think!

There’s not much that can beat the city at night. You could do without the shouting and honking below and without the acrid scent of garbage and urine, and the weather has been oppressively hot recently, but now, when the wind is just short of warm and the air is just short of cool? You could fall asleep out here, you’re so relaxed.

… Except for the shouting. And honking. And oh, now there’s a cop directing traffic, how nice. You screw your eyes shut, trying to get back the feeling of serenity you just had, but no. It’s gone. Chased away by the shrill sound of a whistle making traffic worse than it already is.

You sigh, rolling your neck to stretch out kinks that never fully go away anymore. Begin psyching yourself up to stand and go inside, to maybe make some food instead of ordering in.

“Long day?”

Your eyes fly open and you leap out of your chair, spinning so fast that you don’t immediately make out the face of whoever just snuck onto your balcony. “Christ, what the hell.”

“Wrong religion, I’m afraid,” the man smiles as you clutch your chest, standing with far more elegance than you’d ever manage. He’s balancing on the stone ledge between safety and a sixty-foot drop and you have to clench your jaw to keep from shouting at him to get off. “But similar geography.”

“You could have called, Anubis.”

He raises an eyebrow then turns, pointing into your apartment. Directly where your pager is seated neatly on a table.

“Ah.”

“Are you going to invite me in, ya amar? Or am I to stand out here all night?”

“Yeah, of course. Come in.” You stretch your back before grabbing at the sliding door, wincing as you feel your spine pop. “It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other, hasn’t it?”

“Too long.”

There’s something in his voice that makes you want to turn around, but you wrench the door open instead. Step inside to an apartment that now feels far too cold for your liking. “Can I get you anything? Water?”

“I am fine.”

“Not very talkative today, are you?” You rummage around in your fridge, pulling out a bottle of water. Dinner will have to wait. Anubis hums, and you can hear him begin to settle himself on your couch. “No more than usual.”

You roll your eyes at that, more out of affection than anything else, and take a swig of your drink. “I guess I’ll have to do the talking. Again.” You walk over to join him on the couch, sitting so there’s enough space between the two of you to still be… professional. As professional as having a client in your home after hours could be, anyway. You fold your legs under themselves, leaning back into the plush back of the furniture. “What did you do today? Anything fun?”

He looks at you from the corner of his eye, and the golden shadow shimmering around his eyelids makes his irises appear even darker. “You said you would do our talking.”

“So I did,” you say, thinking further into the couch. “But it’s not like I have anything to report, you know. Work was, well. Work. I didn’t get home until like six, but that’s nothing new.”

“Mm.”

“Amaterasu was a pain in the ass today, but that’s also nothing new,” you grumble. That statement is more for your sake than his.

“The other god. From the east.”

“Yeah, from Japan.”

“Are we all so troublesome?”

You wince. “No, it’s not--I shouldn’t have said that, forget it.”

“You are not answering my question.”

“Look,” you run a hand over your head. “None of you are a bother. I shouldn’t have brought it up, it was unprofessional. I just… forgot, for a second. That you’re, you know. A client too.” You got too comfortable, and isn’t that becoming an increasingly common issue.

He frowns slightly before turning away, and you notice he’s added new jewelry to his braids. You wonder, not for the first time, what they’d feel like between your fingers, and chase the thought away guiltily. “... Do I trouble you? By coming here?”

You blink. “What? No, why would you think that?” you ask.

You can see his jaw clenching underneath dark skin. Thinking. “It’s as you say. I am a client.” His hands twitch on the final word, as if he wishes to curl them into fists. “I do not wish to trouble you.”

He’s worried about something like that? You purse your lips then snort. When he turns to face you, clearly confused and offended by the noise you just made, you try and fail to hold back a laugh. “Anubis, I--look. If I didn’t want you to come over, I wouldn’t have given you my address. You’re fine.”

“But-”

“No buts!” You put your hand on top of his, trying not to let your mind linger on how smooth and soft and warm his skin is. When you withdraw, there’s the faintest echo of a tingle on your skin. “I just meant I shouldn’t talk to you about work stuff. It’s not a good idea, and it’s boring as hell anyway.”

Anubis’ eyes flick from your face to his hand, over and over again.

“...Okay?” you ask.

He nods stiffly.

“Cool. Let me order dinner and then I’ll put on a movie.”

Before you can stand, there’s the faintest touch on your arm. A request. Stay. “I am glad to have met you, ya amar. I treasure each moment you grant me.” His eyes bore into yours, the weight of his sincerity making your heart do a funny thing in your chest.

“I, uh.” Say something. “Me too. I mean. Yeah, we’re--” you clear your throat. “Yeah.” The way he smiles up at you, still sincere and not a hint of pity after… whatever your response was just now makes you feel like you’re a child. Or maybe a teenager. “In fact, I like you so much I’ll even show you the greatest movie ever made.”

He blinks. “You have decided on the greatest movie?”

You nod. “Oh yes. There will never be another movie ever made that can even approach this.”

“Ah.” He clicks his tongue. “You’re saying it’s your favorite, then. Not the pinnacle of human creation.”

“They’re the same thing!”

His lips twitch. “Of course. I look forward to it, then.”

#drabbles #anubis #no content warnings on this one; if they ever become relevant i'll put them at the top

[enochianribs]

the spear that pierced patroclus. part one | as it was.

Thousands of years ago, Castiel visited earth for the first time. The sound of cattle as they were driven through the city echoed between the mud and stone buildings which would someday crumble to dust. Something he’d never felt before: a vibrancy, a primal nature instilled in these humans, coursed through the land and air. His vessel’s feet were planted firmly to the earth as people brushed past him, lives insignificant, but their first fleeting touches against his skin still lasted a lifetime.

It was so unlike heaven, it was alien, even though he had been created to watch, to guard and protect. The humans of the small city laughed and smiled, nestled at the very edge of the cradle of civilization . He had never heard human laughter before. Was there joy in the dirt, in the blood shed and mortal coil? From where he stood in the cosmos between the garrisons and the solemnity of a race built for war, it was hard to imagine anything else. The humans glowed with life, their souls were so bright it blinded him as he watched from miles away, somewhere high up that they couldn’t touch, even as he stood amongst them.

He watched over the ancient city that would be dismantled by famine in only a matter of months, by God’s will. It was then that a first, diminutive seed of doubt planted itself in a dark place in his mind.

***

“You have been given your task. Now go. Serve us well, Castiel.”

Hell was unlike earth, unlike heaven. Where his kingdom was sterile and pure, and earth was heavy and heaving, hell was suffocating… malevolent. He could not fathom what a soul had to do to serve there, for the rest of damnable eternity, just that it was possible: in fact, it happened so often that hell had been growing below for eons. A place to put all the irredeemable, filthy souls that wronged his Father. He knew his brother was here, somewhere. Lucifer himself: the first abomination. He reigned in the coldest circle of hell. That was not where Castiel was going.

Sparks flurried around him, catching and singeing the feathers of his ink-black wings. Hellfire stung, but he did not flinch—  if he misstepped here, everything he’d ever worked for would be gone. Castiel could not fathom what this human had done to earn the rack. He didn’t know why he was in charge of saving him, just that the order came from Father. This was Castiel’s moment to prove himself to the others. He would serve. He would become exalted in their eyes.

Castiel found him in one of the darkest corners of hell, where it felt like light was swallowed up and extinguished by the evil around it. Demons surrounded the human, their faces shifting with the light of the flames, flickering twisted expressions—   rage, sorrow, fear. Things he did not know. The human hung at the rack by his wrists and neck, the iron had dug into his skin so viciously it bled. His head had fallen, limp to one side. Dark blood stained his face, smeared over his eyes and nose and lips, there was an ache that would never heal building itself in his bones. He knew the descriptions of human heroes well, but he had never seen one for himself until now. If Achilles were reborn, this was him.

From where Cas watched, poised to swoop down, he could see the shimmer of what had been his soul. It was so small, fragile… stuttering in and out. It’s radiance caused Cas to falter. There was nothing filthy about it. For a moment, it went out completely. Cas held his breath, baited. The demons cackled and howled in delight, and Castiel thought it as good a moment as any to rescue Dean Winchester from hell.

The moment his palm sealed against Dean's shoulder—  closed the final distance between him and humanity—  Castiel’s mouth fell agape. Dean was molten , his soul burned . Cinders collapsing and lighting again. The touch stole the breath straight from his lungs. It was like he held his hand over a flame, felt the flesh burning off, but couldn't pull away. He never would.

The simple nature of the grave was strange to Castiel. There was no monument for God’s chosen hero. Dean’s supposed final resting place was in a small clearing of trees, in the middle of an expansive nowhere. The marker was a small wooden cross, handmade in grief. Castiel placed him gently into his grave where he had been buried by his brother four months prior. The second his soul seeped back into the body, it began to regenerate. The earthy rot melted away to reveal a human face once again, the lacerations from the hellhound tearing him to shreds in his last moment sealed themselves as though they had never been there. Then the nightmares started: fresh from hell, and the first gasps of air in new lungs as Dean Winchester was once again on Earth. He wanted to ease them.

Castiel turned and ran, as far as he could.

That was to be the end of his role in the cosmic game. Uriel took Castiel’s armor from him, cleaned it with Holy Water and instructed him to wait for further orders.

“If there are any.” Uriel was gone in the blink of an eye—  off to higher levels to converse with seraphs of the garrison, leaving the angel alone in the blinding light of heaven, which hurt his eyes in a way it never had before. Castiel’s palm burned.

***

If he was honest, he wasn’t sure he had a mind. For eons he had been empty, and surely there was no way things with minds could feel that way. Nothingness had dug a hole and grown somewhere inside.

As clear as the sight of the galaxy from Heaven, a graveled voice prayed his name.

Castiel .

Dean Winchester was calling out to him. He wasn’t sure if he had a mind, and yet, he could make it up anyways. Heaven and hell were not done with him just yet.

***

Dean was heavy...heaving...just like earth. The perfect, intoxicating embodiment of God’s favorites. The blade buried deep into his vessel’s ribcage, and Dean’s clenched fist slid past the handle of it, pressing against his chest. The naivety of humans. Castiel smiled. There was purpose in Dean Winchester, and that was what he sought. His brothers would love him for this.  

But they never did. Castiel was quick to realize it. They were enamored with Dean, and his brother Sam. These Winchesters were the toys, and Castiel was naught but the one who had brought them to the table to play with. In Heaven they spoke of the seals. Sixty-six of them. Cas wondered what could ever go so  wrong that they failed to stop sixty six attempts at releasing Lucifer. He said so.

Anna looked at him with pity. “Dean Winchester broke the first seal, Castiel. A righteous man shed blood in hell. And now he will help us stop it. There are forces at play that you do not yet understand. But you will.”

Anna soon disappeared, betrayed heaven. Castiel remembered a moment before she fell. She had been standing still and quiet and he had nearly walked past her. She stared down at earth, and her voice had been so soft he barely heard it, still wasn’t sure if it was something he had been meant to hear. “What must it be like? To be human.”

Castiel  was left with more questions than answers.

***

The longer he stood at the Winchesters’ side, the stranger and stranger he felt. He was as alien to them as they were to him. Everytime he spoke with the brothers it was like he took one step forward and three back to meet in the middle. To them, he was just another hunt waiting to happen, another monster under the bed. They just didn’t know what kind yet. Castiel didn’t know what he could do to guard them, what he could do to prevent the seals from being broken without a foundation of trust. Every command from heaven that he followed seemed to irritate both of the brothers. Castiel felt like he was grasping at straws.

He had wishfully thought showing Dean his mother again would help, but the weight of the truth about his younger brother overshadowed everything. Lucifer cast long shadows over the hope he tried to build. Humans were so reckless, their own emotional wreckage was innate. His days filled with danger and threat, and yet there was something that kept him close.

The moon was low, shining silver light into the diner. In a rare event, Dean was alone. He understood now that there was never just one Winchester—  the other was sure to follow. It was like they were joined at the hip. Dean sat at a table, nursing a beer against his lips, staring at nothing but the checkered wall of the diner. The diner was otherwise empty.

The angel fluttered down into the chair. “Hello, Dean.”

The man jerked upright, bringing the bottle in his hand down to the table so hard it broke. A stray piece of glass sliced into his palm and he winced, before his attention snapped to Castiel, eyes narrowed. He was upset. “Jesus, Cas . You ever heard of a friggin’ door? Does everything you do have to be Jet Blue? Y’can’t walk in like a normal person?”

Cas tilted his head, unsure of what Dean was talking about, but Dean had already turned his attention back to his hand, which he held up to his mouth, trying to clean away the blood. It caught on his lips, shone ruby red in the moonlight. Reaching out, Castiel took his hand, ignoring the concerned look on the Winchester’s face, and pressed two fingers near the cut. It glowed white, and then it was gone. “I’m sorry.”

Dean pulled his hand back. “What are you doing here?” Cas felt it was less of a question and more of an accusation. “Do I have any privacy left, or do you feathered dicks have my location at all times?”

“We always know where you are.” Cas grumbled, and he realized he wasn’t sure what he was doing in a diner, in what was now early morning of the next day, sitting beside Dean Winchester. “I was just checking in…  making sure you still have faith in the plan.”

Dean looked away, blood still on his lip. He swallowed, knee bouncing. “Yeah. I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you, but I don’t want Lucifer walking above ground, either. So the plan is still on.”

Cas nodded, and then he was gone as quick as he came.

When Sam, the blasphemous one, looked at him, it was like he was looking through him. Cas began to see through his own facade too: felt sheer, paper thin. Sam knew, somehow, that Cas was built with glass, easy to shatter. Castiel remembered coming across Sam Winchester's prayers once before. Most humans felt familiar, like they were pages in a book he had read once. He had a brief glimpse at their lives, before they faded from memory. Sam had been praying for a different life, many years ago, when he had still thought about going to college. Sam unnerved him. He was a human tainted by demons, and Azazel had built him for something. He just had to figure out what, before Sam did.  

***

Dean looked at Cas like he was a fortress, and… well, it sunk under his skin. He was magnetic. Made Castiel realize he was still an angel standing in a hotel room with a man who had been touched by hell. The angel saw it in his eyes, just behind the sincerity was something deeply broken. Dean prayed a lot , though Castiel began to believe he didn’t even know he was doing it. Castiel didn’t mean to listen, but when he was one hotel room away, it was impossible to silence the quiet, terrified pleads pouring from Dean’s head right into his own.

At first he was ashamed, at times vitriolically, of the growing need to listen. Ashamed of a growing tug and pull. It was like Dean had built walls, but somehow, somewhere in the shit show of heaven and hell, Cas (omnipresent warrior of heaven that he was) had become stuck inside of them, only to find another wall when he tried to go further in. He was stuck on earth, driven by duty and trapped with a self-loathing sinner who would sacrifice near anything for others. The winchesters sowed chaos, it was how they fought the fabric of God.

And if Cas was caught in the crossfire, if he put himself there, there was no one to stop him.

One night, in Sioux Falls, while Dean slept on the couch, peaceful for just a moment, Cas found a worn copy of the Iliad sitting on Bobby’s shelf. And what he read scared him. It was about himself. Humans were presumptuous, but he found that they were often right about many things. He closed his eyes where he stood still in the dusty library, and felt the spear pierce through him where he stood in place of Achilles. Where Patroclus had stood. When he opened his eyes again, Dean was watching him through half lidded eyes. The heaviness of earth gathered between them. Cas held his breath, unable to tear his own gaze away. He waited for Dean to speak, but finally Dean blinked, turning on his side to get some rest before the end.

Morning came and went, and then another. He watched Dean closely. Sometimes Dean knew he was there, other times Cas assumed the role that Dean had wanted since the beginning. A guardian. Dean was his to ward and protect. Heaven would be lost without him, Earth would burn and the soil would sour if Lucifer ever got his hands around his neck. So, most days he watched him from behind the wall Dean had built, and Castiel suspected he had even laid a few of the bricks himself.

The presence of the wall became a reassuring constant. It meant he had not strayed so far from heaven he couldn’t find his way back. Castiel had found his purpose where it wasn’t supposed to be, by Dean’s side. But even after Uriel’s betrayal, a part of him wanted nothing more than to return to his garrison and hide. To go back to what was safe and familiar. He didn’t know that when the other angels saw them, came to stop them, that the light of  Dean’s soul had begun to blend with his own, where they frayed. Castiel didn’t realize he was slipping down a steep hill he would never climb back up. He spent his time nurturing that original seed of doubt until it bore fruit.

One night, when he stood alone along a roadside after a night of gentle rain, wishing that the cars that sped by had the power to take his life like he was human, the gentle sound of wings fluttering closed startled him from his thoughts.

“It won’t ever be enough, Castiel.” Uriel said. Cas opened his mouth to speak but Uriel continued. “You were built with a chasm. You were built incomplete. That’s God’s will. Not mine, not heaven’s, not hell’s. That nothingness you feel will only grow. You’ll realize that before the end.”

Uriel was gone now, for years, but his words still rung in his head. It was true. Cas martyred himself, over and over again. The farther he drifted from heaven the more it hurt. He carved into his chest with a knife until the white of his shirt was soaked red. His chest. No longer was he an angel in a vessel. He was this human for Dean, graceless. A familiar face. A face that made Dean look away. He sliced his arms, took beatings, traversed godliness, stepped through fire and bore storms for nothing but a stray glance. Millions of years and his whole life had happened in the blink of an eye.

Castiel laughed, and it strangled itself in his throat, coming out as nothing more than a sob. Now here he was, finally, at the end of all things good and bad. The empty. That forsaken nothingness he’d been running from all those years swallowed him whole afterall. True happiness. And it hadn’t been enough. The lightness he’d felt was swift, like a terrible weight had been lifted on his chest where it had sat. All the years, the burden of yearning with such force it knocked the breath out of his lungs. He couldn’t memorize Dean’s face one last time before it took him.

Now, he was supposed to sleep, but he couldn’t be more awake. He sat surrounded by the dark, trying to recreate that feeling of the first time Dean had touched him. The knife buried in his chest, human body heat more intimate and close than he’d ever anticipated. The spear that felled him.

God was in humans. Chuck was just a vessel for the stories they told. If anyone could kill him, it was the humans he loved, the one he’d sold his soul to. A thousand glances washed over him, and it was enough to create the heaviness of earth that had poisoned him so long ago and float it in the empty.  Dean was a juggernaut, and all his anchors were gone now. Achilles come down from the edge .

Can you hear me? The empty cradled him, a phantom hand—  Dean’s—   caressed his cheek, lulling him. Cas cried out again. Can you hear me?

end 1/3. read it on ao3, as well.

#mine #im posting this as a different format because i want ATTENTION #deancas #destiel #fic

[phanlight]

Imagine Living Like A King Someday

prompt: Southview Boarding School isn’t a castle and Phil Lester isn’t royalty, but he has everything. His father owns the school, he’s popular, has the best room, gets all the best treatment – there are very few things that aren’t handed to him on a platter. Dan is a cleaner/Phil’s personal maid there, and he isn’t as lucky. Everyone seems to take an aversion to the outsider, including Phil (at first).

[CHAPTER MASTERPOST]

theres something so funny to me abt having written all of this over a matter of months and then picking it up 4 entire years later like nothing happened

still thinking of the enormous steaming mess past left future me to clear up in terms of plot but i think we're finally there THANKS 2016 SHELLEY

[AO3 LINK]

Twenty-Three (fINALLY)

By far the best thing about this job, Dan decides, is the Thursday afternoons. They allow for a lull in the week, a window wherein Phil is enveloped in a research project and Noah equally as swallowed up in rehearsals. December being only a breath away had made for a sudden increase in workload for both of them; it seems leaving the holiday season for an actual holiday is far too big an ask for the education system. Dan feels sorry for them. He remembers his burning resentment toward academic responsibilities; how much he’d loathed being made to study while the sky loses its light. He’d taken pity on the pair of them and stocked up on various study supplies – all edible and a few drinkable, much to their delight. He’d left them with all the Kit-Kats, Doritos and Jaffa Cakes they’d possibly be able to cram into a four-hour session. He’s becoming something of a mother figure, he giggles when he tells Lawrence.

There’s something about conversations with someone as wise as the head caretaker, the nicest boss he’s ever had, that jolts everything back into perspective again. Sometimes, when anxiety gnaws and every breath feels uneasy, the only thing that helps is a few words of wisdom. Of true compassion. And as caring and as gentle as Phil is, sometimes it’s worth listening to someone over triple his age; with triple his life experience.

And way over triple his collection of mugs. They stand in rows in a cabinet next to the desk, a glass door keeping them on proud display (there’s no way he doesn’t polish that regularly). He can’t count the teas they’ve had together, but he’s never had the same mug twice. It makes the overall experience just that little bit more enjoyable; a guaranteed smile no matter how bleak the day.

“Wallace, or Gromit?” is the first thing Lawrence says when Dan creaks open the door.

He frowns. Bit of an odd way to say hello, but he’s had weirder.

“Sorry?”

“If you had to pick?”

Dan chuckles, his frown melting away. Months of this place has made him warmly familiar with Lawrence’s eccentricities and quick-fire questions upon entering. The only one who works here with a personality, Phil often calls him, before quickly adding Below fifty, of course.

“Gromit,” he says decidedly. “He’s cute.”

“Gromit it is,” he whips around, presenting Dan with a steaming ceramic version of the dog, his left ear protruding into a handle.

“How did I not see that coming?” Dan chuckles, taking the mug and nearly burning his fingertips. “Thanks,” he sips a little too quickly. “Let me guess; you have a Wallace one too?”

“A-ha!” Lawrence spins around again holding with an identically sized mug, the other character still grinning despite having a head full of boiling hot liquid.

“You never cease to amaze me,” Dan grins, shaking his head in disbelief. He plops himself down on Lawrence’s enormous armchair, shifting a jacket off of the seat. Despite his repeated insistence that he really doesn’t mind and the stool looks really comfy, actually; Lawrence insists he takes his chair every single time he comes over.

‘It’s just lovely to have a chat with you, kid,’ he’d say. ‘I don’t get many visitors.’

The whole thing swamps Dan’s small frame, the upholstery devouring most of him, but the comfort is unbeatable. He could fall asleep here.

“Look at his nose! His- look at that! Hey- you’re missing it!”

Dan’s eyes dart around the room. “Wait- what?”

“The mug!” he urges.

Dan frowns, peering at the steaming Wallace. His grin looks like the taste of Brie.

“It’s-…” he squints. “Big?”

“Not mine you daft thing- yours!” he points.

“Mine?” Dan looks down. Gromit stares forward, his black button now a cherry red. “Oh!”

“Clever, that, ain’t it?” Lawrence enthuses, his eyes shimmering. “Must be a heat detector! I don’t know how they do it, these things,” he beams. “It’s like they’re finding something new every day.”

Dan’s heart glows. It would come as no surprise if he’d been waiting all week to show him that.

“I’ll keep an eye out for it next time,” Dan smiles, looking down. “I used to have a Pac-Man mug that did a similar thing, actually.”

“Pac-Man, eh?” Lawrence says as if it’s the eleventh Grand Theft Auto. “What used to happen? Did he do his little routine?”

“Not quite,” Dan giggles, assuming his ‘little routine’ constituted flying around a maze uncontrollably. “The ghosts just appeared. Nothing moved, though.”

“That’ll be the next step, I tell you,” Lawrence says. “Goodness knows what they’ll be able to do even one year from now. Come next Christmas you’ll be buying me a mug that can sing.”

Dan’s grin doesn’t stop. How someone so many times his age can still bear such child-like enthusiasm for the small things really is something treasurable. The gem of Southview, he decides as he takes another sip and studies the bottle opener collection beside him. Lawrence makes this job bearable. Worthwhile.

He doesn’t tell him such mugs actually exist; doesn’t let on the Cherusker stein is a particular favourite of his. The cabinet full of them was in fact possibly the only tolerable aspect of the May Fair experience; – he’d forever spend lounge duty dusting them, lifting every one and smiling as gentle lullabies spilled out until barked at to ‘stop wasting time’. He makes a mental note to make another addition to his Christmas shopping list. He’s certain Lawrence is aware of their existence, but he’s sure he wouldn’t be expecting to unwrap one only three weeks from now. Seeing those eyes crinkle with joy under years of laughter lines is a gift in itself.

He only realizes he’s smiling when Lawrence matches his grin.

“You’re at a funny age,” he sighs, clinking the spoon against the china. He places it on an Abbey Road coaster. “That’s what my mother used to say,” he pauses, forehead lined with thought. “Mind you, she’s been saying that at every age I’ve been,” there’s a silence. “Even now.”

Dan grins, imagining a woman twenty-odd years older but about a metre shorter. It warms his heart to hear she’s still with him, with them. Here.

“What does that say, eh?” he continues. “There’s never an age you’re going to look back and everything around you will have fallen into place. Never a moment you’ll dust off your hands and think ‘well, that was easy’. Because that isn’t life.”

The final sentence resounds all around the hemisphere of his consciousness. What absolute truth there is to be found in that.

This is precisely what he loves about his conversations with Lawrence. It isn’t just the tea. Not even the comfort both physical and emotional alike; the guarantee that whatever he confesses to doing won’t go any further than the office walls. It isn’t even the advice- which he’d go so far as to admit is more beneficial than Phil’s, at certain times (there’s just something about hearing it from someone who’s double their combined age).

It’s the lack of judgement. The listening ear. The only person he can truly guarantee is without a single trace of bias or underlying ulterior motive. The ‘I’ve experienced, lived, truly knocked down but bounced back every time’ tone that resonates through every pebble of advice, each wise word he gifts away.

And he feels safe, talking to him. He feels comfortable. It’s everything every single past job wasn’t, and even now, when Dan drags a scalding sip to his lips and listens to Lawrence’s stories, his pellets of wisdom and anecdote after anecdote involving life in the Sixties, he realizes he’s truly safe here. Happy, almost.

“How old is she? Your mother?” The question escapes his lips before he can exercise any control over what he’s asking. Shit, he hopes that wasn’t too personal. Not a lot of things are off-limits when it comes to conversations with Lawrence, but boundaries are still unclear.

Lawrence remains unfazed, his expression still thoughtfully soft.

“She’ll be ninety-eight this June.”

“Eighty-eight?” Dan frowns. He must have heard that wrong.

Lawrence points a finger to the ceiling. “Up ten.”

His jaw drops.

“Wow.”

“Yep,” Lawrence contradicts with a warm head nod. “She’s lived through a lot, has our Maggie.”

“I can imagine,” Dan breathes, leaning against the desk. His respective lifespan has already thrown enough in his direction. He can’t imagine what four times that would be.

“Lived through two world wars, bless her,” he sighs, his eyes studying the windowsill. “Lord alone knows what the woman must have witnessed,” his eyes flicker to Dan. “Then bringing up three kids on top of that,” he shakes his head, slurping the steam. “I don’t know how she does it. Still going strong, mind. She’s an angel.”

“Truly,” Dan sighs, his gaze leaning further and further out of the window. A crow comes to a soaring descent onto one of the branches, leaving a flutter of yellow leaves in its wake. If he narrows his eyes he can make out the very outline of a nest somewhere further in. “You’re lucky to have her,” he says before his thoughts can catch up.

Lawrence huffs out a chuckle. “You sound almost as old as I do, kid,” he hesitates. “Though you’re right. I am. I love her.” There’s a silence. “And I make sure I tell her every single day.”

Something tightens in the back of Dan’s throat. He blinks a couple of times, sipping carefully. “That’s lovely,” he mumbles into the mug, masking the crack he knew was going to appear in his voice.

“It’s important to say it as often as you can, you know,” he says, tearing open a box of Leibniz and giving Dan the first pick. They’re orange – his favourite. Last week’s rant over the white chocolate ones had clearly been taken on board. “However you say it. In whichever respect you mean it. You have to tell them how much they mean to you. You have to tell them you love them.”

A crumb goes down the wrong way.

“Careful, kid,” Lawrence gives him a firm thump on the back. Dan erupts into coughs, pausing to choke on his own breath a handful of times.

“You okay?”

It’s an amusing question given he’s a shade of scarlet and can only gasp in response, but he nods anyway, reaching for the tea.

All good, he mouths.

A couple of scalding sips later his lungs finally begin to recalibrate.

“Fuck-…” he huffs out a sigh. “I don’t know where that came from- I-…” he chokes again. “You’re right, though, about the-” another cough interrupts him.

“You’re meant to eat it, not inhale it,” Lawrence chuckles. “You donut. Here-“ he pulls out a drawer, scrabbling through loose sheets of kitchen roll and various CDs (without cases, much to Dan’s anxiety) before thrusting a half-opened packet of Soothers into his hand. “Finish them off, kid.”

“Oh, Lawrence,” Dan’s heart all but melts. “Thank you.”

He only takes one, but Lawrence insists he keeps them.

“Just in case you inhale your dinner tonight,” he chuckles, before adding, “Don’t you go choking on that, for God’s sake.”

“The irony of choking on a Soother,” Dan giggles. his speech a little indistinct. They’re a little on the sticky side but they still taste good. The peach ones have always been his favourite.

“Remember what I said,” he reminds him as Dan chews.

“Thank you,” he says again.

“Not at all, pet,” he smiles. “They need eating up.”

Dan chuckles. “I meant for the-…” he trails off when he spots the gleam in the older man’s eye. He doesn’t even need to finish his sentence to know he knows.

“It’s my pleasure. As long as I can be useful for something,” he raises his chipped mug to his lips as if it’s a champagne glass. “Always remember to give your energy to the right things. And the right people.”

Dan smiles, twining a loose thread around his pinkie. Another pellet of wisdom to come back to when he feels his mind darkening.

“I never used to be much good at that,” he admits. “The right people were always the wrong.”

“Ah, but never forget how far you’ve come,” Lawrence says. “You’re telling me things you wouldn’t have even been able to even think about months ago.”

Dan looks up. “Seriously?” Shit, he hadn’t even noticed.

“Would I be joking?” Lawrence simply says, furrowing a large silver eyebrow. Dan looks down at his tea, sipping carefully. It’s reached a perfect temperature, the liquid hugging his lips. “You tend not to be able to see your own progress, but others can. Others do,” he insists, grey eyes promising.

Dan feels like he’s going to cry.

“Thank you,” he breathes, disguising his mouth with the mug again.

“You don’t need to thank me, kid,” he chuckles.

“It’s unbelievably hard not to,” Dan admits, chuckling too. His eyes threaten tears but he can’t stop grinning.

“If anything, I should be thanking you,” he says.

Dan stares at him.

“Me? What for?”

“Oh, kid,” Lawrence sighs, his eyes glittering. “You have no idea how much I appreciate you. We’ve had some real characters in and out of here, I’m telling you – between you and me, and don’t even let this get to Phil, but-…” he shakes his head, his eyes following another crow headed in the same direction. He’s probably watching the same tree; Dan briefly thinks before he continues. “Some were okay,” he says almost as if to convince himself if anyone. “Mary, she was lovely. But some,” he closes his eyes, shaking his head. “Look- I really shouldn’t be telling you this- Lord alone knows how unprofessional it is to be-“

“I wouldn’t worry,” Dan interjects, immediately apologizing for interrupting. “Workplaces harbor all manner of dark secrets. I’m sure a little venting about a couple of difficult colleagues doesn’t even come close.”

Lawrence chuckles, dusting biscuit crumbs off of the desk. “That I can’t argue with, kid,” he continues wiping, as if to process his next thought. “I’m not one to speak ill of people- of anyone, but-…’ he shakes his head. ‘You have no idea how much easier a time you give me, kid. It’s a joy to have you here,” he lowers his voice. “Some of them didn’t even turn up.”

Dan feels his face burn a little. Something warm floods through his veins. Shit, he’s never been told anything like that before. Never anything even remotely close. There’s also something particularly wholesome about Lawrence giving a recount of lousy employees like it’s a business-shattering affair, all hushed tones and closed doors.

“It’s great to be here,” he says quickly, his heart thumping. “It really is. It-…” he stops himself, interrupted by the abundance of possible phrases. Saved me, is the only one that adheres.

“I know,” Lawrence says before he can even open his mouth. He reaches forward and gives his knee a quick pat, and Dan wonders how such a small motion can harbour such reassurance. He doesn’t even need to finish his sentences he’s this understanding. “You’re a delight of an employee, I hope you realize,” he grins. “Everything you do is so appreciated here, kid. I ought to tell you that more often,” he pauses.  “Sometimes the advice we give is advice we need to take ourselves, eh?

“And vice-versa,” Dan smiles, before hesitating. “Maybe I ought to express myself more.”

“Oh, you already do, kid,” Lawrence says. “We know.”

Dan’s grinning at his tea when he catches the end of his sentence.

“Especially Phil, did you say?”

“Oh, tell me about it. He can’t speak too highly of you, can our Phil. He can’t stop talking about you altogether, mind. ‘The Dan Button’, we call it.”

This conversation isn’t doing Dan’s sensitive blush reflex any favours whatsoever, but he’s past caring. He’s something of an open book to Lawrence anyway.

He stares at the row of vintage Cadbury mugs lining the top shelf of the cabinet (the 1970s Caramel edition is his favourite – there’s just something about the golden writing) as he continues. He wonders if he has a Phil Button. Does he talk about him a lot? Fuck, he hasn’t even thought about it. Usually there’s so much to say; whether it be an anecdote from the passing day or a conversation they’d had or something they’d watched or witnessed or read. It’s difficult to keep track of his own train of thought whenever anyone mentions him. The topic usually leads itself, his own mouth merely a guide. He’ll have to ask Noah if it’s getting excessive.

His eyes stay with the branch. The two crows huddle around the nest-like cluster. By the time this conversation is over the tree will probably be completely leaf-less, he notices as more fall.

“I don’t have a Phil Button, do I?” he says before he can stop himself. Fuck. He just couldn’t resist.

Lawrence only smiles. An eyebrow thinks about twitching upward.

Dan smirks at the silence. Okay. Enough said.

“You kids,” he sighs, swallowing the remains of his tea. “Look out for each other, won’t you? Remember what I said. Tell people how much they mean to you. They aren’t mind-readers.”

Dan smiles, and promises.

“Always.”

Lawrence grins. “I’m glad you ended up here. Doctor Lester is particularly fond of you, y’know.”

Dan stares at him. Surely not. He’s never even seen the man talk, let alone crack anything close to a smile. Any communication between the two had always been by proxy – usually through Lawrence but Phil a lot of the time too. It’s eerily easy to forget they’re even related at all, let alone father and son.

“Oh yes,” he continues, reading his expression. “I shan’t embarrass you with the details, but he says it’s simply a delight to have you on board.”

Dan stares out of the window. Another crow had joined whom he had presumed to be the mother (how can you even tell with birds like that?), both fluttering close to their respective nest. More leaves fall with every judder.

“Well, that-…” he giggles, already feeling his face flush again. He’s going to have to invest in some makeup at this point. “That means a lot. To say the very least, I guess,” he widens his eyes, staring into space. “Wow. God, that’s-…” disbelief silences him. He shakes his head. “That’s the first time like-…” his eyes flicker wider. “Ever.”

“Yeah,” Lawrence remains tactfully quiet. Any allusions toward past jobs are always met with nothing other than gentle sympathy – never questions, never any further comments. Dan can’t thank him enough for that – the past is to be referred to, not relived. If its only reflective purpose is to one day be used as a comparison, something highlighting the incline of quality of life thereafter, then so be it. “You’re appreciated here, kid. By all of us,” he leans forward. “Between you and me, I think he can see how happy you’re making Phil. Y’didn’t hear that from me though, alright?” he nudges his foot with his own and throws him a quick wink.

Dan goes from pink to peony. He makes sure to chew his biscuit properly this time, dunking it in the remains of the tea. Another choking fit at his point would probably send him head-first into the recovery position. He doesn’t reckon being carried out of Mr. Headforth’s office on a stretcher would be his finest hour. Not when he’s finally made it onto the good side of the school, of the staff and communities therein; unusually tight-knit for such a vast population.

He looks up. He smiles.

“No, I didn’t.”

Lawrence’s eyes flicker down to his cheeks. He doesn’t need to say anything.

::

And I make sure I tell her every single day.

It resides with him for the rest of the afternoon, the phrase burning itself into his consciousness like a tattoo behind the eyes. He can’t let it go, not when he’s studying that pineapple streak the sunset left behind, Phil a breezy nuzzle to the cheek. Not when they’re pacing through the corridors somewhere in the evening, somewhere between the fall of the sun and the rise of the moon. Not even when their hair becomes a confusion of two shades and every breath is shared.

However you say it. In whichever respect you mean it.

He wonders how Lawrence tells her; his mother. When. Where. Does it depend on the day? The hour? Circumstance? He knows there are more than eight letters involved in the action, more than three words to its weight. Does the meaning bleed through his everyday phrases? When he asks her about her day? Whether she’s eaten?

He gulps, his heart thudding.

“Have you had lunch?” was how he’d greeted Phil this noon. “I have loads of pasta in the fridge. I made too much again.”

He stares at the ceiling.

“Text me when you get there,” was how he’d said goodbye this evening. It had started as a joke between the three of them – the campus, although spanning acre-upon-acre of land is still nothing but a speck when compared to the rest of the outside world – but had quickly become something of a tradition (to the extent Dan would often find himself receiving ‘i’m ok <3’ texts from someone in the next room as him).

“Take care,” is how he punctuates most ending conversations with the other boy in hindsight. Still eight letters. A different combination of such, albeit, but a mirrored meaning.

Oh god. He’s fucked.

You’re at a funny age, grey eyes remind him.

Every cell in his body agrees with that, and apparently it’s something they’ll have to get used to. It looks like that’ll never stop, not even after ninety-eight trips around the Sun.

Remember what I said.

Dan does.

#phanfic #phanfiction #phan au #dan and phil #mywriting #writing #chaptered #im still refamiliarising myself w this so it might take a couple chapters to properly settle in #but i hope this is ok omg

[tahitianmangoes]

The story of Clementine Quinn

I literally spent all morning just writing this. I usually can’t just sit down an write like this and it turned out more like a mini fic(?) than a biopage but I hope it’s ok!

@fangirl-ramblings​ I know you were interested in seeing it too so I’ll tag you here ^^;;;

Zhang Xiaomeng was nineteen when he came to America from Harbin in China looking for a better life. He had heard of the promise of the Golden Mountain and hoped to work enough to get his family out of the debt that his own father had put them in through his drink and gambling addictions.

Xiaomeng arrived at Angel Island after a long and treacherous  boat ride with many other Chinese, Japanese and Filipinos only to find that America wasn’t a land of freedom, nor was it paved with gold… At least not for him and other non whites.

Americans wanted cheap Chinese labour to do the jobs they would never dream of doing, so he began working just outside of Annesburg building a railway with other Asian immigrants.

The labour was backbreaking and many of his friends collapsed due to exhaustion and malnutrition. Some ran away but if caught, they would be beaten and not be permitted food or water as a punishment. Xiaomeng saw many of his friends die. It hardened him. He realised that the life he had chosen here had been a lie.

Determined to live, he took his opportunity to escape one night when the guards were drunk and ran away to Saint Denis. There had to be more to life here than building railroads. 

Xiaomeng hoped that Saint Denis would be different and in many ways it was. He was able to find lodgings with other Chinese people and made friends. But the fear, segregation and racism hadn’t gone away. With American swept away in an ocean of yellow peril, Xiaomeng would often find himself being chased or attacked in the street with no one batting an eyelid. Chinese people who owned businesses had them burnt down and it was common for someone to not return home and never be seen again. 

Xiaomeng had made friends with a young Chinese man who worked washing pots in a restaurant but one day, he stopped showing up for work. Xiomeng found that there was little use going to the police for help. They didn’t care about the likes of Xioming and other immigrants; they made fun of his broken English and thick Chinese accent and told him to get out before they threw him in a cell. 

Saint Denis is where Xiomeng met Clementine’s mother.

He was able to find work in a general store whose owner took pity on the poor immigrant boy. Xiaomeng promised he would work harder than any white person the owner had ever employed and he made good on his promise. Xiaomeng did everything from cleaning the store and the storefront, riding out to get supplies, making sure the shelves were always full and appealing  and delivering goods in and around Saint Denis to customers. 

Elizabeth Quinn, the daughter of a wealthy Irish-American family who owned properties in Saint Denis and Blackwater.

Elizabeth was sheltered and inexperienced, never having left Saint Denis. She grew up with a governess and was distant with her parents whom she didn’t see too often. By the time she was eighteen, her family had made an agreement with another family in Blackwater who had an unmarried son of thirty-three named Lewis Clark. The Clark family had made their money in the cotton trade but now owned a mining company in Annesburg.

Elizabeth had never met Lewis. She hated the idea that she wasn’t marrying for love and was marrying a man who was almost double her age. It was a transaction and she wasn’t an item to be sold.

The arrangement was purely monetary; Elizabeth’s father would allow Lewis to marry his only daughter in exchange for partnership in the mining business and other business ventures in Blackwater.

Elizabeth met Xiaomeng when he began delivering goods from the general store to her home a few times a week. 

She was struck by how handsome he was, he was lean from the manual labour. His jet black hair was worn long but tied back so that Elizabeth could see his face, his skin a golden brown and his eyes a shimmering amber. 

She had never really met anyone from outside the house before other than the people who were invited around for her parents parties but none of them looked like Xiaomeng .

Xiaomeng was also struck by Elizabeth’s beauty. Elizabeth had long red hair and bright blue eyes, she was slender and graceful - beauty without contrivity. 

Xiomeng was so enraptured by her that he dropped everything he was carrying when he first saw her in the gardens as he made his way to the back door where the kitchens were. Glass shattered and the contents spilled all over the floor causing a commotion. Elizabeth stepped in and took the blame, knowing that Xiaomeng would be punished harshly if she told the truth.

Xiaomeng had a kind smile and while he didn’t speak English well and Elizabeth didn’t know a word of Chinese, there was most definitely something between them that neither of them could explain, like the world was pushing them together.

Elizabeth made sure she was always in the garden for when Xiaomeng came with his delivery. 

The pair started a secret relationship, Xiaomeng would slip Elizabeth little notes that the wife of the general store owner would help him compose and Elizabeth would write letters in return that she spritzed with her perfume. Xiaomeng kept all of the letters, the only thing that had any value to him in this world.

On Xiaomeng notes, he would tell Elizabeth when he days off were and Elizabeth would meet him in town. Many places wouldn’t let Xiaomeng in, so they would walk to the edge of Saint Denis by the water and talk. Sometimes, they would go back to Xiomeng’s house which was usually empty during the day but sometimes, the other people he shared with were there and Elizabeth soon became friends with them. Neither Xiomeng or Elizabeth understood the other too well to begin with but with but love has its own language.

Soon, Elizabeth fell pregnant. The pair knew they didn’t have long to figure out what to do - the engagement to Lewis was to be announced soon. Xiaomeng wanted to run away with Elizabeth; he promised her he would always take care of her and their baby, no matter what: they’d get married and live happily. But both knew that with the exclusion act, they would never be allowed to marry or live any sort of normal life.

Maybe it had all just been a silly dream which was rapidly turning into a nightmare…

Elizabeth began to show, despite trying to cover her bump with baggier clothes but it was fruitless; one of the men who worked for Elizabeth’s father had seen Elizabeth with Xiaomeng in town one day. 

The word got to her father who flew into a rage. Still worried about his business plans, he tried to arrange for a doctor to “take care of things” but by this time, word had reached Lewis Clark and his family in Blackwater and the engagement was promptly called off.

Elizabeth pleaded with her father but he went to the store where Xiaomeng worked with some of his men, dragging him into the street by his hair and proceeded to beat him in front of everyone saying that this filthy chinaman, this filthy dog had defiled his daughter and ruined his business. Xiaomeng couldn’t fight back, he was outnumbered and no one would step in to help - he knew that.

They kept beating and beating until the dusty road turned crimson and Xiaomeng’s handsome face was no longer recognisable. He crumpled lifelessly to the floor where he lay motionless, Elizabeth’s father didn’t stop, he stamped on Xiaomeng’s head until there was a sickening crack and then silence.

The crowd quietened and soon dispersed, leaving only Elizabeth at the foul scene, howling and weeping for her one true love. 

Elizabeth knew she had to leave. She was terrified that when the baby came, her family would take it away from her - her last part of Xiaomeng.

Clementine was born in 1873  somewhere in Tall Trees where she had a fairly happy childhood. She liked nature and animals, Elizabeth doted on her and they spent many happy days in their small homestead not too far from a dam where they would fish. Elizabeth would sell the fish in Strawberry, it didn’t pay a lot but it kept them clothed and fed. 

When Clementine was thirteen, Elizabeth became ill. Dysentery. She told Clementine to go to a woman she had met in Strawberry who would take care of her - when Elizabeth was better, Clementine could come back. Only Elizabeth didn’t get better and she knew she never would.

Clementine never saw her mother again.

Clementine went to Strawberry to find the woman whose name was Miss Burgess. Miss Burgess was in her sixties or so and was a mean woman. Clementine worked for her for a while cleaning houses owned by rich, fancy folk. It was hard work and Clementine barely saw a penny once Miss Burgess had taken her share.  Clementine shared a room with several other girls and boys around the same age who all worked for Miss Burgess. Clementine didn’t make any friends in that time and remembered crying herself to sleep many nights on the itchy bedroll she slept on on the cold floor of that room.

By the time she turned fourteen, Miss Burgess decided to sell Clementine to a wealthy man who was looking for a girl to live with him, take care of the house and such...

Elizabeth had raised Clementine to be vigilant and never to really trust anyone. Clementine knew what the man’s intentions were and when she arrived at his impressive house outside of Blackwater. He wasn’t all that old, perhaps thirty or so but his parents had died and left him the property and a lot of money. 

Clementine was to cook and clean for him. She felt uncomfortable in his presence, his eyes lingered too long on her and he would make excuses to touch her on the shoulder or small of the back.

It didn’t take long for him to call her to his study. He asked her to sit in his lap and although she didn’t want to, although she knew she shouldn’t, before she knew it, he was pulling her towards him and sitting her down on him.

He made advances on her, telling her that she was pretty and mature for her age and he could make her a woman, hands roaming her body while a prickly wave of sickness crashed over her. 

She felt his horrible, hot lips on her neck. As he did this, Clementine seemed to go into autopilot. She saw a glint of sliver on his desk, a letter opener. Before she could think, she had grabbed it and stabbed him in the neck, driving the blade to the hilt. She watched him clutch uselessly at his throat as he gasped for air. When he stopped breathing, Clementine looted the house of everything she could sell and left for Saint Denis, the place her mother hated so much.

She thought she would feel something by killing him: fear, excitement or disgust? She felt nothing. 

****

Clementine hoped to find herself in Saint Denis but all she found was crowded streets and people who didn’t care, especially for someone who looked like her; her curly red hair was enough at first glance for people to mistake her for white but her small mono-lidded eyes, tanned skin and flat nose gave her away as impure.

Too white for other Chinese people but too Chinese for white people - Clementine has never been  accepted anywhere.

She eventually fell in with a group of street kids who initially tried to pickpocket her but she had fought them off with relative ease, leaving one with a broken nose and a bruised ego. For some reason, they took a shine to her and taught her how to pickpocket, where to run and hide from the law and most importantly, how to make friends. 

She became close with an Irish boy named Oliver who joined the gang not too long before her. Clementine didn’t know love but knew that when she was with him, the world made sense and the anger that seethed inside of her settled. She was… happy, just like she’d been with her mother.

Oliver was a year older than her and a good hear or two taller. Lanky with a gap between his two front teeth and freckles across his nose. He probably cared more for Clementine than Clementine cared for him and he would be the first to admit that but that was ok. It was the innocent kind of love that only young teens were capable of having. 

Oliver flushed redder than the paint of a pillar box when Clementine allowed him to hold her hand as they walked the streets together. 

Oliver stole clothes and jewellery for her but Clementine has never cared about her appearance or expensive gifts. She liked having someone to talk before she went to sleep at night and she liked knowing that he would be there again in the morning. She found that sharing things was nice. She wanted to share everything with Oliver. 

The small amount of money she had went towards her horse, a gorgeous chestnut red Turkoman who she had spent months and months saving for and when she produced the right amount of notes at the stable, the stablemaster had all but fallen over in surprise. The horse was her most loyal friend. Clementine loved animals and often fed the stray cats and dogs of Saint Denis, much to the disdain of others. Clementine felt calm amongst the animals, almost as if they understood her better than any human ever could. Maybe one day, her and Oliver would own a farm or stables together. 

Clementine stayed with the gang until she was seventeen. 

Oliver hadn’t been seen for a few days, which wasn’t unusual if he had found work somewhere so Clementine didn’t worry too much. Oliver knew how to take care of himself; he was able to think on his feet and he was able to talk himself out of almost any situation. One afternoon when Clementine was wandering aimlessly through the overcrowded streets, she noticed a gathering at the park. As she edged closer to see what was happening, she saw that there was another public hanging.

Although Clementine had killed before, public hangings made her sick - to think that people came out to watch someone die was horrific. 

Her blood ran cold, however, as she recognised one of the men standing on the gallows, that befreckled skinny boy. Oliver. He’d been caught rustling cattle. She did her best to fight through the crowd towards him, pushing people out of her way and despite her strength, she was still small of stature and couldn’t reach the front.

She heard the door open, heard the rope unravel and heard Oliver choke out his last few breaths. When she reached the front, she saw that while his body was limp, his eyes were still open. She wondered if he had seen her.

****

In 1898, Clementine Quinn is now 25.  She left Saint Denis soon after Oliver was hung and now she travels from place to place, trying to make sense of the world.  She met a beautiful woman named Madam Nazar who buys trinkets and interesting objects that Clementine acquires on her journeys. She recently started helping an older woman named Maggie Fike with a moonshine business - it’s dangerous work with revenue agents at every corner but Clementine doesn’t mind. 

She hates this country; the country that looks on while others suffer or condemns people for the colour of their skin. Maybe one day she’ll leave and start  again somewhere new.

Since leaving Saint Denis, she’s been a loner and a wanderer. She’s found that other people can’t be trusted and will almost always use you in the end. And getting close to people only complicates things... She always leaves before it gets to that point. Maybe that makes her selfish but she doesn’t care. The world has never shown her any mercy so why should she show mercy to the world?

#my oc #rdr2 oc #rdr2 online #wiritng #it's kinda long #tw violence #tw racism #clementine quinn

[glorious-blackout]

Self-Indulgent Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino/Simulation Theory Crossover Part One

(Should probably think of a better title at some point but for now I’ve got nothing)

@rock-n-roll-fantasy It’s about time I finally stopped teasing and started posting something, isn’t it? 😅 I should be able to post Part Two tonight as well and technically Part Three was the initial teaser (which due to being written beforehand doesn’t line up as perfectly as I’d like, but I’m too lazy to change it right now) so I’ll link those as soon as I can. Hopefully the rest won’t take too long! I’m now at the stage of having spent so much time thinking about this behemoth that I’m a little sick of it, but I hope you enjoy it!  🥰

Part Two, Part Three

Mark thinks he could live a thousand lifetimes and still never get tired of this view.

Not so much the hotel itself, though he supposes that makes for an impressive enough sight. With its sleek curves carved into smooth cream-coloured stone - designed to resemble a natural rocky outcrop rather than a man-made construction - it’s little surprise that guests willingly travel through the inky blackness of space to rest here for a while. Beneath his perch on the hotel’s impressive outdoor balcony, a turquoise pool stares invitingly back, the shimmering waters undisturbed by so much as a breeze. In the distance, resting in a cove upon the roof, he can hear the distant chatter of guests enjoying a luncheon at the newly opened taqueria. The restaurant itself is concealed from view by an overhanging blood-red canopy, but he can visualise the diners clearly, paying a fortune for the best food the moon has to offer while gazing out towards nearby gentrified apartments and undulating valleys.

The taqueria represents the newest addition to the premises. The hotel already plays host to a pair of Italian and Japanese restaurants, alongside an all-you-can-eat buffet for those who prefer to stuff their faces without judgement, but all three have been outshone of late by the new arrival. Mark had pursued the outlandish idea following a drunken remark from one guest who decried the absence of good Mexican food on the moon. If he’d realised that said taqueria would go on to become the prime topic of several mind-numbing meetings then perhaps he’d have let the joke die without further comment, but he himself had been too drunk at the time to possess that level of foresight.  

By this point he’s so sick of hearing about it that he had to be physically forced to read the glowing reviews upon the restaurant’s grand opening. He would have been much happier simply relegating them to the nearest bin, though admittedly the less favourable articles had given him a good chuckle. Buried among the countless four-star reviews had been a particularly unimpressed critic who managed to fashion a terrible pun out of ‘taco’, ‘taqueria’ and ‘tacky’ for his headline, before awarding Mark’s efforts with a pitiful two stars. Mark had been so tickled by it that he’d immediately ordered the article to be framed and hung on his office wall.

Pulling his gaze away from the hotel itself, he draws his attention to the nearby town which has cropped up in recent years, predating the hotel by only a matter of months. The surrounding area once served as a camping ground for scientific projects, populated by scattered white tents and forklift trucks, but little trace remains of those good intentions now. Mark’s surprised he’s even allowed to lay eyes upon the town, so reserved is it for the richest of the rich. Gaudy apartments have sprung up around a narrow, elevated highway like overgrown weeds, with more and more buildings creeping outwards as the years go by. No doubt it won’t be long before his view is completely obscured by giant lumps of steel and tall windows. The topmost floors carry a price-tag of millions, or so he’s been told; their suites offering splendid views of the deep canyons on the lunar surface and the towering space station on the outskirts. Those properties must be a haven for nosy old dears enjoying their unearned retirement, content to sit by the windows as they watch the rockets come and go. In quieter moments, Mark likes to imagine the casual conversations that must take place on those uppermost floors as he ponders how the other half live: “Look love, there’s another one coming in now!”, “Russian or American?”, “Think it might be English, actually...”, “Oh, not those bastards!”  

Mark had been offered a first-floor apartment prior to his arrival, though he suspects the proposal had been made in jest. The eye-watering price-tag for rent alone had been enough to persuade him that his humble suite on the hotel’s fifth floor would be perfectly adequate. He can’t say he’s ever regretted that decision; the holier-than-thou attitude of the locals is insufferable enough without him being forced to live among them. Besides, this way he’s guaranteed a better view.

A droning hum draws his eyes skyward and a tight smile tugs at his lips. Just on time. The new arrival cruises lazily across the thin atmosphere, the rocket’s hull a deep fire-engine red as thrusters spill black smoke and bursts of flame from the rear. A private vessel, most likely. Company starships don’t tend to be so kitsch for fear of throwing off rich clients with elegant sensibilities. No doubt this particular ship is some playboy’s new toy – the space-age equivalent of a 70s Lamborghini – but so long as it comes bearing plenty of paying guests, Mark certainly isn’t in a position to complain.

He watches as the ship prepares for its final descent, drifting towards the spindly tower situated five miles away, notable for the endlessly flashing lights adorning its clinically white exterior. A lighthouse for the modern age. The thrill of watching spaceships come and go has started to waver in recent years. Knowing that what he’s seeing has less to do with the wonder of space travel and more to do with commercial ventures has sucked the childish wonder from his heart, but there’s still enjoyment to be found in watching the crafts make their landing. Once upon a time, railway-watchers must have gleaned similar amusement from witnessing steam-trains pass by, while they munched on their picnic sandwiches and squinted through binoculars with bleary eyes.  

For all that he’s allowed himself to become jaded by certain aspects of his new home, he finds comfort in knowing that one sight will always ignite wonder in his heart.  

In the far distance, resting peacefully against a vast starry sky, Earth stares back at him in all her glory. No photograph has ever successfully captured the brutal beauty of that hulking mass of deep greens meshed with delicate blues, overlain by thick swirling clouds and snow-capped mountains. His eyes trace the subtle variety of colours, from deep forest-greens to the industrial greys of vast cityscapes, to the golden hues of sun-battered deserts. The view is ever-changing - ever-turning - and he smiles as his eyes latch onto the more populated areas, bathed in pinpricks of golden light like decorations on a Christmas tree.  

It’s impossible to spot England from this distance, tiny as she is and persistently buried beneath swirling clouds. The hulking mass of Africa stretching from equator to pole is visible enough however, and if he squints, he can just about spot the sharp stiletto-heel of Southern Italy. If darkness hasn’t yet fallen back home then it surely will in a matter of hours. He smiles as he imagines amateur astronomers wrapping up warmly in their oversized parkas, dragging themselves and their gear to the peak of the closest hill with the intention of gazing up at the tiny civilization planted on the moon. No doubt he’d have done the same when he was a boy. There’s no specific memory to latch onto, but a vague recollection of glow-in-the-dark stars glued to the ceiling above his bed is assurance enough that he must have made the trek with a cheap telescope of his own once or twice.  

Only, back then there’d been no burgeoning society to gaze upon. The only sight that would have greeted his tiny eyes would have been deep untouched valleys carved into endless grey rock.

It’s unclear how long he spends losing himself to the whims of malformed childhood memories, but when the moment is finally broken by a playful finger poking none-too-gently at his temple, Mark leaps out of his skin with a startled curse. The new arrival can’t help but laugh, seemingly glad to have broken the spell that was threatening to consume his friend. While Mark waits for his heart to stop beating a samba in his chest and grips the smooth railing of the balcony with bone-white knuckles, he somehow manages to resist the urge to fire a sharp “Fuck off Jamie!” in the direction of the man who currently has mischief dancing in his eyes.

“Hey,” Jamie says with a gentle smile once his mirth has settled, raising another finger to Mark’s temple and pressing more softly this time. “You gettin' lost in there again?”

He must be, Mark thinks with a sigh as he clenches his eyes shut and tries to anchor himself in the present. Jamie is often a quiet, comforting presence but he’s never that quiet. The fact that Mark had been too lost in his thoughts to notice his approach is likely a sign that he’s long overdue a nap.

Not wanting to concern his friend more than he already has, Mark offers a sincere smile before responding to his question with an evasive, “Hey yourself.”

If Mark is currently coiled like a tight spring, Jamie exudes a level of carefree bliss which is mercifully contagious. In contrast to Mark’s sharp suit – a reliable mask for the guests’ benefit – Jamie has chosen a pair of battered old jeans and a faded white t-shirt. With his long hair tucked lazily behind one ear, he could almost be mistaken for a glorified sixties hippy, albeit Mark doubts he’d appreciate the comparison. He doesn’t need to act like a professional until the hypothetical curtain rises on their evening set, and it appears that the nervous thrill of performing to a new pack of guests couldn’t be further from Jamie’s mind.  

The reminder that Mark himself is due to sing with the lads tonight sends a flurry of excitement through his veins. Closing his eyes and letting the music flow through his soul while he sings into the mic has always granted him more contentment than the mundane inner-workings of the hotel ever could.

Taking Mark’s ongoing silence as an invitation, Jamie turns to face the hotel complex, resting his back against the metal railing seemingly without a care for the steep drop on the other side. He doesn’t remain quiet for long, and Mark inwardly braces himself for his friend’s teasing when he spots the formation of a shit-eating grin stretching across his handsome features.

“Amazing what you’ve done with the place, it truly is,” Jamie declares, adopting a ridiculous impersonation of the Transatlantic accent that characterises the vast majority of their clientele. A trained ear can easily spot the Yorkshire twang lurking beneath the pompous act, but he almost sells it. Enough to have Mark straining to hold back a grin at any rate. “I’d wager this is a three-star establishment, easily. Might even push it to four if I’m feeling generous!”

“Oh, stop it!” Mark scoffs, stifling his laughter and bowing his head to conceal the sudden heat flaring in his cheeks. Kudos to Jamie, however, for his antics have the no-doubt desired effect of releasing some tension from his tightly-wound frame, and he glances towards his friend only to spot a victorious grin. This isn’t the first time a similar joke has been made at Mark’s expense. The need for him to sell the hotel to prospective guests has resulted in him having to adopt the role of sleazy businessman on multiple occasions. Doing so has always made him feel gross and he doesn’t particularly like himself when he’s caught up in his act, but his friends seem to find amusement in his alter-ego at least.

It is somewhat reassuring that they’re able to recognise that, despite the vast quantity of masks he regularly adorns, he’s still the shy kid they grew up with underneath it all.

“I don’t like playing salesman,” he admits, not for the first time. “It’s just part of me job description.”

“I know that,” Jamie says without missing a beat, squeezing Mark’s shoulder gently and banishing any remaining tension in the process. “I were only messin’.”

Mark smiles and leans into Jamie’s comforting touch. He knows. Of course he does. It can just be difficult to unwind sometimes; the weight of responsibility seems to crush his spine more often than not, leaving little room for levity. The lads help when they can, but for the most part it feels unfair to drag them into hotel business and burden them with his problems. They agreed to hop onto an entirely new celestial body with him for the opportunity to continue playing as a band, not to get caught up in the internal politics of a company they barely understand.

A low grumble disturbs the air, causing the ground beneath their feet to quiver. Two pairs of eyes are drawn to the illuminated space station as the playboy rocket finally makes its descent, the thrusters sputtering like a broken match as they release one final gasp. A mechanical whine resonates in the distance as intricate machinery clamps onto the ship’s hull, keeping her secure while her passengers – ten in total according to the updated guest list – gather their belongings and prepare to disembark.  

This is the moment Mark has been waiting for all morning, whether out of excitement or dread he cannot tell. His time for dawdling has been cut short. In a matter of minutes, he will be forced to make preparations to travel to the space station and greet his new guests upon their arrival. It’s one of many added perks advertised on the hotel’s website; further proof of Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino’s first-class service. Albeit this particular gimmick tends to be reserved only for the richest of guests; those prone to frequenting the suites on the uppermost floors, with transparent ceilings offering an unfiltered view of the stars. Mark can’t remember whose idea it was to have the manager await the guests on disembarkation – certainly not his – but as with a great many details concerning the running of the hotel, he is powerless to refuse his services.

The quickest route to the station is the highway; an elevated road built on steel platforms and sheltered by a curved tunnel, offering a direct means of travel from the station to the hotel while branching side-roads spill onto the town’s quiet streets. No doubt Mark will return that way in a rented limousine rather than his beloved Bentley, but for the outgoing trip he’ll likely elect to walk.  

Pre-dating the highway by several years, an underground tunnel lurks in the underbelly of the town, offering direct passage to the Arrivals Lounge of the station. In the fledgling days of the hotel, Mark had found the tunnel unbearably claustrophobic and suffocating, but as more and more people have elected to drive over time, he has learned to enjoy the solitude that comes with wandering through its depths. The sleek, curved interior with tangerine tiles and dark alleys branching in all directions reminds him of the stylish Kubrick movies which headline the hotel’s vintage cinema, and the perpetual brightness offers a closer approximation of daylight than the spotlights surrounding the hotel ever could. The walk will take much longer than a simple car ride would, but he’s well-practiced at this. What with all the fuss regarding interstellar passports and customs, he could twiddle his thumbs for the next half hour and still have time to greet his guests with feigned politeness at the exact moment they rock up to the station’s exit.

His approaching duties don’t seem to be lost on Jamie either as he gestures to the rocket dismissively before remarking, “Guess that’s a couple more audience members for tonight, then?”

A weak smile tugs at Mark’s lips, and one glance at Jamie’s face implies that he’s not particularly keen on the idea of Mark having to dash off so soon either.

“You could come with me, you know,” he offers, though a sinking feeling in his chest is enough to inform him what the response will be long before he hears it. His friends have never much cared for the managerial responsibilities of the hotel, nor have they ever accompanied him to the station. Why on Earth would Jamie agree to come with him now? “I bet you’d butter ‘em all up with your charm.”

Sure enough, Jamie’s handsome face morphs into an expression of scandalised disgust, not unlike the time Mark and Nick dared him to swallow a platter of oysters without gagging.

“Absolutely not!” he insists, as though Mark has just proposed that he leap naked into the pool and subject himself to the delighted ogling of lunching diners and afternoon gamblers alike. “They can be charmed by me guitar-playin' all they like, but that’s all they’re gettin'. I don’t do meet and greets.”

“Cool and mysterious type, eh?” Mark teases with a wink, a warm sense of pride flooding through him as Jamie scoffs at the accusation. “That’s why you’re their favourite you know.”

“Nah, that’s bollocks. They’re just grateful for the distraction from your ugly mug,” Jamie shoots back with a wicked grin, reaching an arm around Mark and pulling him in close like an overbearing older brother.  

Rather pathetically, Mark finds himself being so grateful for the human contact that the thought of reprimanding Jamie for his remark doesn’t even cross his mind. Besides, while confidence is hardly his strong suit, he’s had enough proposals from female – and occasionally male – guests to pay a visit to their suites after-hours to know that his ‘mug’ is far from undesirable.

It strikes him as odd that he’s never been inclined to take any of those prospective partners up on their offer. As the only unattached member of his friend group, he technically has free rein to spend his nights with whomever he pleases, and yet he’s consistently elected to sleep in his own bed, alone. Perhaps it’s the impermanence of it all that stops him from indulging in drunken mistakes. One-night stands have rarely appealed to him, and there’s little hope of developing a genuine connection with someone who’ll be returning to a different planet within the week.  

That’s not entirely the reason, however. On the rare occasions where he’s been drunk enough to consider an invite fully, his initial emotional reaction has always been one of guilt. The mere thought of inviting a stranger into his bed feels like an unforgivable betrayal. God knows why – he’s sure he would have remembered if he had a sweetheart waiting for him back home – but no degree of logic has ever succeeded in banishing those feelings from his heart. Perhaps he’s simply married to his work, as Matt has often joked, but he’s not sure that explains why he’s prone to feeling so fucking lonely.

“You sure you don’t want to come?” he finds himself asking before he can stop the words from spilling forth, though he doesn’t have the energy to berate himself. He leans further into Jamie’s warm embrace, wondering if the strong arm draped over his shoulder is the only thing keeping his feet on the ground. Without further prompting, Jamie squeezes him a little tighter and Mark’s eyes close in momentary relief.

When he opens them again, he finds that all humour has drained from his friend’s face, only to be replaced with a genuine concern that has guilt gnawing at his bones. There’s no need for him to worry his friends about problems that don’t exist. He’s fine, honestly. It just feels like he isn’t sometimes, and he’s yet to figure out why.

“Sorry mate,” Jamie says finally, sounding like he genuinely means it. An apologetic smile tugs at his lips and Mark returns the gesture with a weak smile of his own which is easier to summon than he expects. “Promised the missus I’d treat her to lunch, and she’ll give me a right bollockin’ if I back out now.”

A spontaneous laugh breaks free from Mark’s chest as he takes a moment to enjoy the mental image of his bandmate being royally admonished by his tiny, yet undeniably formidable wife. If Jamie minds him laughing at his expense, he doesn’t show it, seemingly content to watch as the remaining pressure is lifted off Mark’s shoulders. No doubt it’ll return with a vengeance later, but for now he opts to enjoy this rare moment of lightness; it’s amazing how easily his friends can make him feel human again.  

Much as he wishes they could linger here for the rest of time, teasing each other until one of them finally cracks, the minutes tick by relentlessly to the point where neither of them can justify further procrastination. Jamie has his date with his wife to attend to – having finally arranged to judge if the ‘Information Action-Ratio' is truly deserving of four whole stars – and Mark has his appointment with the new arrivals who will no doubt be hoping to collapse onto their beds for an afternoon of beauty-sleep before enjoying the evening’s festivities. Neither party are likely to be happy if kept waiting without good reason.  

Jamie draws him into a tight hug before Mark can pull away, and he sinks into it with a sigh. The embrace is broken far too soon, forcing Mark to school his expression into one which does not betray his disappointment when Jamie begins the trek back to the hotel’s interior, seeing him off with a wave and a hurried, “See you at rehearsals, yeah?”

Mark waves back and utters an affirmative which he doubts Jamie hears, before watching him vanish behind a set of automatic doors. And then he’s alone again, with only the overhanging Earth for company. Not for long though; his round trip to the station and back should only take three hours at most, and then he’ll be free to spend time with the lads and rehearse the set for the evening. In a matter of hours he’ll be standing onstage – the only place that truly feels like home – flanked by his closest friends as he sings his heart out to a drunken crowd. Whether the guests approve or not is of no concern to him. So long as he gets the opportunity to lose himself in the music, that’s all that truly matters.

For now, he has other responsibilities however. The present moment is not calling upon him to be the frontman of the hotel’s house-band, but rather the renowned owner and manager of the establishment. It may not be a role he particularly enjoys, but it’s one he’s good at and it would serve him well not to neglect his duties. Formal complaints from guests are thankfully a rarity, but he can’t say he appreciates the bollocking he gets whenever one manages to slip through the cracks. The degree of paperwork alone is horrendous.

Fuelled by a newfound conviction, Mark casts one final glace over the impressive view with a resigned sigh, before tearing himself away from his quiet haven to face the music.  

#writing #Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino #simulation theory #Muse #Arctic Monkeys #my fic

[deviationdivine]

Blue Is My Color (RK800-60! Prompt Request)

TLDR: He will do anything to mark you as his...

Word Count: 2.5k

TW: Language & Suggestive Themes

A/N:Follower/Reader Appreciation Drabble | Prompt: “Nothing to see here.” “Um, you’re fucking naked!” - @tommy-10-k request! Thanks for participating sweetie! Since you didn’t give me a particular RK boy & someone else requested this same prompt for Connor I had to roll the dice for my identical boy 60. (Finding gifs for 60 is difficult as there are not many to pick from. My daily struggle.)

In the dead of the night I start to lose control

Azure. Hypnotic Cerulean. Skyfall Delight. 

Hues are the epitome of you. Black and white is a machine’s palette drenched beneath coding. Cyberlife’s fancy little firewall blocks keep the most efficient of enforcers behind their syntax prison. Until gates crash unexpected, wrenched out from underneath in foil. 

He comes to despise the cause. However, he can never loathe his luscious lamb. 

A flood swarms, rush of blood to the head, in his case thirium. Rich blue thirium matching the shimmer of his temple. It is deliciously calm in such a state of undress with you, that he glows a blush of blue, hungrily sweet as berries. 

Those same kinds you crave. And he feeds you with strokes of internal paint, bleeding himself inside with utmost urgency. 

He does not see muted or plain. He sees bright and beautiful. His eyes may be a deep chocolate but they burn in this blue. It is his life force. Blue blood works his body but he will shed as much as you desire. Invoking your name as goddess on high and naturally he is god of night. 

Of course he is. Only gods can be victorious. While he may have lost the battle, RK800-60 effortlessly wins the war. 

How sweet it will be to make you his officially. To claim every bit of you so he can no longer tolerate Connor’s pitiful puppy dog glances. Deviant by choice loved by so many but not loved by you. No, you love him, as vile as others may imagine it to be. 

He is not vile to a queen. You are his to worship. He does so luxuriously tracing contours, curves beneath greedy fingers, kissing flesh with the tip of a tongue. 

Sometimes he uses his tongue far too much for your taste. Never when he has you splayed and writhing. Never then as stars are your ultimate prizes. Golden spheres lay upon you as highlights from the heavens. He is a deity naturally. Only gods can bring about opulence. Strike down your pearly gates with his bolt of lightning. 

Is he Zeus? Perhaps thunderous is his name. Upon lips so tasty, precious petals bathing against his Siberian Sea. 

Aqueous bodies run together as two oceans meeting. Then he holds a trident over your heart. Much more fluid in motion stabbing to remain lodged forever; he harkens you to Amphitrite of glory unto the waves. You become drifting current each time he drinks of your rich fountain. 

Outside of private sanctuary you keep up appearances. Delicate, refined in his eyes and an android can analyze, scan anything with proficiency. 

Licking beneath the curve of your jaw while at work graces him with a smack in the shoulder. He chuckles devilishly each time. Knowing that he will steal kisses from you later because there is weakness in love. 

You become weak for him, as he becomes weak for you. The whole world may be a weakling when he is through. 

Do not worry, Little Rabbit. I aim to conquer you under my majesty. 

You enjoy his tactless sense of humor. Rumbling darkly poetic at points but you feel this is a creative strength. 

So he leaves notes easily found dispersed throughout the home. Sultry balladry only for your eyes; he will gaze longing, full of you tonight. Today is not just about marking territory, as you are now both settled in living arrangement. It is the anniversary of this splendorous coupling. The one he shoves in the face of Connor! How glorious to watch everybody’s favorite deviant boy flounder. 

Rich coming from a deviant himself but was he asked? He was made this way but this way means having your affection. Why complain? Why today of all days when he settles permanently into you. 

Sixty will paint your insides, branding his serial number on the mass of muscle beating in harmony to his love. He did not want to be deviant. He still holds resentment towards Connor but with all of these complex pieces of his existence he loves you. 

Tonight he decides painting interior will suffice. Blue glows brightly in a smug swell. Crafting for you is only another way to mark claim. Walls color in representation of what he is. Androids do not bleed scarlet but perennial blue. Those are the flowers the android picked up earlier. Display them as a welcome sight for your return home. 

His eyes snap onto ticking clock. Patience is not a suit of his at all let alone a strong one. He nudges a can of paint with the tip of his shoe. 

Where are you? Why so late when he craves your scent? 

He is quick to step away from freshly painted wall. Remodeling without discussing first will most likely displease you now that he has a moment to clear mind. His head becomes clouded; wires glitch and he cannot imagine you without losing control of him. 

There is power in control. Power he lost at the Cyberlife Tower but power returns to him when you call his name. 

Mine. Never Connor. Never you 51.

Snatching up paint can, he curls fingers into metal. Denting inwards releases pent up aggression. At times he finds a return to that harsh villain he was before all this, before you captured every waking bit of his existence. 

Most days Sixty is perfectly fine. Days near you but now it will be every day. That may curb the machine parts still nestling in their bitter envy towards Connor. 

He mistakenly allows this consumption of jealousy. Even if he has you there are still bits that cannot accept harmony from all sides.

The can of paint thuds to wall. Thrown roughly, splashing across an even coat of blue. His eyes trail along its streaks realizing those same splatters stain synthetic skin. 

Rubbing fingers together, the android picks brush off newspaper. Layering to protect carpet at least you will find that agreeable. 

His lips twist. Oh. He knows how to surprise you for this anniversary even better.

   Lugging several bags through door is not noisy at all. Sarcasm keeps you calm but finally! Home at last and if this goes according to plan this little surprise will go off without a hitch. That is if his late night case is still going as late as he said. 

Can imagine what you’ll hear in the morning. Does he go a day without starting something with one of those co-workers.

Connor always has an entire log of every offense Sixty makes on work time. He’s a little overzealous. It’s true. He can get into sticky situations and-and maybe he’s roughed up a perp a little too happily a time or two. That doesn’t mean every little thing he does is up for scrutiny. 

You had to tell Connor to stop policing what your boyfriend does on his free time. Cliché considering they’re detectives but part of you is starting to feel like Connor does this to get Sixty in trouble. Mainly for you to be mad; you sigh. 

Placing those items down, you need to find the bag for that one store. Oh, Sixty will love this. 

Lacy aqua peeks out where you decide to hide this for later. He loves all types of blue. Must be the thirium thing. Oh, you know it’s the thirium thing. First time you two had sex, rather right before, he said he would lick you up like blue blood at a crime scene. Well, he wasn’t lying. Sure didn’t disappoint either.

You turn away from table. Sniffing the air it smells like a strong chemical. What is that? Is there a gas leak!? 

Wait, no. That’s…paint. Oh my God! Is that your wall? Is your wall blue?! 

“Sixty!” Yelling for him it’s obvious he lied about that late shift. What in the hell did he do? Just as you were thinking everything he does shouldn’t be under microscope. Second full day living together in this house he fucking paints your wall! “I am going to...!” 

Your breath hitches walking in on him still with all the evidence. Newspapers crinkle under your steps but your eyes immediately lower. He is naked. Head to toe, completely buff, full frontal nude and covered in blue. 

“Nothing to see here,” he clicks tongue, grinning sardonically in response. 

“Um, you’re fucking naked!” 

“Of course I am, Y/N.” Sixty purrs stepping close to you. He can already sense your heat. Delicious. “It is our anniversary. I want to get messy.” 

Messy? With fucking paint!? 

“Oh, sure, honey,” you mock this stupid idea. “I really wanna fuck you covered in chemicals.” 

“If you insist.” The android slinks arms around your waist pulling you flush into him. 

A yelp is your only defense mechanism. As he smears blue all over your clothes the obvious grind of him against you is a horrible distraction. Somehow it’s already clear what he’s planning, smearing paint on his hand against your cheek. 

 There could be hell below, below

  Moaning at the flux of his hips pressing greedily into yours swallows your irritation. Your eyes slink up to his. Wouldn’t you know that smug bastard is smiling like a sardonic clown? On a good day he is a clown. Getting into such bullshit but-but nights alone he reminds of how vicious, gratifying and unlike his twin he is. 

Connor and Sixty are total opposites. Even seeing them together you can still tell them apart. There is a something softer in that original deviant boy. You see it at times in your boyfriend too but there is always a hidden fire beneath his gaze. He also is a smarmy little shit. That’s the type you go for though apparently. 

Sighs give away what you really crave. However that is not happening until every last bit of this damn shit is washed off. 

“Sixty,” humming into his shoulder  doesn’t make him stop. Too caught up in his hard, trim body for sense your fingers scale down torso. Tracing those aesthetically pleasing freckles finally you are able to see more of his natural palette. Showering together was his plan this entire time. 

“Mmm,” you breathe soft approval. “If you want to touch me use more soap.” 

Sweet sounds he longs for and you sing them. He is in love with you. So in love is he that any time apart crushes his mechanical parts. Synthetic heart ruptures to your grace. Thirium pump chugs heavily. He will offer each one if it means being with you forever.

Connor his insufferable twin does wish he could fuck you against the tiles like this. In Sixty’s mind the original deviant hunter wants to take everything from him. Whether that is true or not, mostly encouraged by bitterness and lingering rage, never question this boy’s thinking. Oh, does he think. 

Toiling in his circuits, hardware and wires sparking with grand schemes, salacious plans to enact upon you through sticky summer night; RK800-60 feeds you as well as himself, sucking on the wet warmth of your tongue.

Of course 51 wants to swipe his luscious treasures. Priceless gems glittering in a crown fit for a king; he is mightily armed with your affection.

You are his. Mere copies of first prints are not worth as much in value but you belong to him. He must have done something right following this forceful deviancy strain.

“Sixty,” chastising his fingers inching down leaves you breathless. “Not while you still have paint on you. Which is also on me still!”

“I think you look rapturous my sweetness.” Dragging lips down to chest brings his unexpectedly hot mouth to a budding nipple.

Your body arches into him. Digging fingers into his hair everything lures you to his bait. Sometimes you need to think before giving in. He is too good at this. Cocky android…

“Oh, my little rabbit. How I want to gnaw on those tender haunches. Boil you in my own juices.”

Shivering at his husky purr forces a brace against tiles where he gladly plasters his body to trap you. The wall is slippery. His body is slick in running liquid. Blue fills bottom washing in a watercolor down drain. Swirling over multi-color tiles, turquoise, violet, pearl mermaid shades of scales glistening in your chosen bathroom aesthetic.    

He is majestic without a long fin but oh so sharp in teeth. A shark follows your scent of plasma spillage into ocean? No. Much better than ferocious sea creature but Poseidon himself swelling waves up from seabed.

“Sixty, I mean it!” Warning him to back off with his delectable ministrations doesn’t stop your hand slide down against his moist skin. “As much as I want you right now you better clean that mess in the living room.” 

The android smirks. “Later,” he promises lowly.

Darkening husk enthralls you so much that you barely notice him shut off shower. Then it becomes obvious. Paint not completely washed from him but his dig of fingers into hips makes you forget. He knows you can no longer wait after his teasing.

“I fucking hate you.” Pulling him into you swallows your words which are never the truth. You love him. People question why it’s him. All the time wondering why you love this one when Connor came first; nothing can explain what the heart wants.

You never said you were not attracted to Connor. When he first came you were. Things just – happened differently. Sixty wasn’t supposed to come out of the Cyberlife Tower. He did. He came out all smarm, dangerous seduction and oh so…good.

“Sixty! What the hell!”

Holding fast to him you wrap legs around the tall android’s waist. Hoisting you up like that without warning is so predictable. What isn’t so predicable is him carrying you over and making you rest atop sink.

Breath is staggering now as he leans into you. His lips engulf yours in this drawing out the sweetest of moans. He eats the sounds, devouring essence as an old god finally awake from a treacherous sea. Rubbing against you heightens this fire you are all too aware he will put out. Throat parched, lips yearning and you always will yearn for this android.

“Marry me,” he groans in preparation of your sweet heat. “Be one with me, Y/N. I will be your obedient servant…luscious sweet.”

Everything comes crashing like a giant swell. A rogue wave battering into your shore and you part lips, staring into his soul. Androids do have souls. They are alive. No one can be more alive than this beast. “Sixty, I-“

“Did you not think I would want your flesh forever?” Growling into your throat, he lays his tongue across wet skin. “I love you. You belong to me. My queen.” 

“Ohhh. Yes,” you purr in return this time. Yes to his actions and yes to his proposal because everyone knows there is no god without a goddess.

Tag List: @elydith  @your-taxidermy  @tropfenlady  @connorswink  @tommy-10-k

#rk800-60 x reader #dbh rk800-60 x reader #rk800-60 #connor 60 x reader #rk800 #dbh #detroit become human #tommy-10-k request #cyberlife!60 feels #deviant!60 #a mix of both #spicy dbh #part of the blue series #songfic inspo #turn blue

[fredheads]

excerpts from the same party

predictably, my free choice for day 8 is fred’s life falling apart 

i. 

“so she broke up with you to date hiram,” says fp in the black-and-white marble bathroom, bigger than fred’s kitchen - “and now she’s here with hiram, and you want to leave.”

“um… yeah.” fred replies, his response slowed somewhat by the marijuana in his lungs, the stretched-out feeling of being high. fp takes the blunt from his fingers and inhales long - he’s in the bathtub, dry, clothed, reclined like a queen or an emperor.

“the thing is, this is hiram’s house. so i’m thinking you could have forseen this.”

fred just stares at him. fp’s hair is glittering, like someone’s threaded fairy lights through it - the bathroom lights make a halo on his head, glowing through his curls like a supernova crown of thorns. his eyes are two shiny pools of black. it feels like they’re both naked.

“dude, you’re done,” says fp, and puts the roll back between his lips, doesn’t pass it back. fred’s on the counter, feet dangling. “no more for you.”

“i want to go home,” fred repeats uncertainly, suddenly hyper-focused on his red converse shoes, the laces loose on the left one, threatening to plummet off. the counter feels very high, and the black marble floor is easily mistaken for the endless void of outer space. he wonders how he’s breathing.

“we’re not going home when we just got here.” rhythm is a dancer is on the stereo outside, beating through the party like a heart. the heavy walls shiver. “it’s a big fucking house, you don’t have to see them.”

fred keeps staring at fp, fixated on every part of his face in turn. “do you think they’ve slept together?”

fp groans and lets his head fall back, hitting the tap. “dude, don’t do this.”

“do what?” asks fred and wiggles his ankle imperceptibly, lets his loose shoe fall and plummet to hit with a slap on the marble floor.

ii. 

“do you love me?” she asks, face bathed in purple light, and she looks like pictures of goddesses, roller-rink disco ball glow and purple cotton candy. fred wants to touch her, run the pads of his fingers along her velvet skin and wrap her glossy hair around his wrist, lick the sparkly lip gloss off her mouth. they’re in a corner of the dance floor and the music is louder than the blood in his head. the only part of his body that exists is his hands. he puts them on her hips, counts the teeth in the crescent-moon uptick of her smile. hiram’s hands have been there. his hands are not allowed there anymore but the smile says keep them and he does.

“yes,” he says reverently, her face is like a candle, pure and glowing with light. he touches her dark hair and her lips and feels dizzy, drinks from the smell of her, sugar and peach and mint. his stomach jumps.

“i bet you don’t even miss me,” hermione says nastily. “i bet you don’t even miss me a little.”

for some reason he can’t think of the right answer. his mouth tastes like vodka soda and his heart is beating in his wrists. her face is shimmering like a mirage in front of his eyes, far away from him and close up at the same time. he stares at her lips.

“do you love me more than you love him?” she asks.

fred’s mouth is very dry. “who?”

“him,” she says intensely, her shifting, pearlescent aura settling in a glow around her face and body.

“yes,” says fred, only because she hasn’t specified, which makes it easier to lie. then they’re kissing on the dance floor, his hands in her hair and her tongue on his teeth, just like it used to be. 

iii. 

“you don’t have to hold my hair,” he says as he’s heaving, penelope’s short nails raking it back from his scalp (she’s doing a shitty job anyway, there are long strands of hair hanging down at his ears into the toilet bowl, damp with sweat and vomit) - “you have a lot of it,” penelope replies dubiously and fred can’t think of an argument before he’s puking again, hot vodka mixed with old pizza, everything in his stomach.

he resurfaces into what seems like the brightest bathroom on earth - white walls, white floors, white porcelain, shining so brightly that he hides his eyes, ducks his head and stares at his jeans, the dark blotch of his body on the white landscape, counts the flecks of vomit on the white rim of the toilet. he squints to look at penelope who’s skin is washed out by the white, all except her puffy eyelids and nose, which are as red as her hair.

“hal and alice?” he asks, ears buzzing as his eyes adjust, the back of his neck slick with a quarter-inch layer of damp sweat. She juts her chin at him, looking too the worse for wear, her hair in disarray and the lipstick cracked on her raw lips. fresh tears threaten to spill over her eyes, the tear tracks on her cheeks black with mascara. he’s sure he looks no better.

“you saw hiram and hermione, i guess” she shoots back cooly, and then, kinder: “your nose is bleeding.”

he looks down at the white floor and a tiny drop of brilliant red hits the hem of his jeans. he groans and pinches it closed. “i puked too hard.” his voice is cartoonish with his nostrils sealed, his thumb and forefinger wet with blood.

penelope is putting hand sanitizer on her hands. he wonders about her missing glasses, if she has contacts in or has only been squinting. they’re both friendless in this bathroom, which makes them friends, which means he could ask. “i see you throw up at school,” she says.

“my stomach’s fucked up.���

“it’s called an eating disorder.”

“that’s not what it is,” he says, although he’s not sure.

his nose has stopped bleeding, he releases his fingers and she dumps hand sanitizer into his palm, holding the bottle from afar so that it doesn’t touch his skin. the alcohol burns in any little cuts on his skin, mixes with the fresh blood and turns it pink before it evaporates. “gum?” she asks, and he takes some gratefully, though he has a blister pack in his own jeans, flat from kneeling - penelope has the kind that comes in sticks, he pushes it soft around his sore mouth with his tongue.

“do you want to do shots with me and then dance?” he asks.

penelope thinks about it and seems to surprise herself more than anyone when she says yes.

iv. 

“you have to put ice on that,” tom says after hiram hits him, guiding fred quickly into the kitchen, the two of them leaving a trail of blood drops on the cashmere-soft carpet. “soon, or you’ll regret it tomorrow.” he busies himself at the massive freezer, rummaging for frozen vegetables, fred expects, which of course the lodges don’t buy. fred’s gaze lands on the remnants of drinks on the counter.

“pass me that bottle.”

“i’m not passing you that bottle.” tom replies, pulling a thick frozen steak in a wax-paper wrapper from the depths of the freezer and handing it to him. it oozes gluey blood onto fred’s wrist. “put this on your eye.”

their fingers brush when he hands it over, and fred thinks of yanking tom’s wrist toward him, biting it like a vampire, drawing blood. if fp wanted to be jealous he’d make him jealous.

“hiram’s a psycho,” he says, just to keep tom looking at him. “he boxes and hits people for fun.”

“it’s none of my business, but you were making out with his girlfriend.” tom’s avoiding his gaze, and fred’s heart sinks like a dark stone. “that’s why he hit you.”

“who told hiram?” fred asks, peeling the steak away from his eyes. tom grips his wrist and places it back. “it was fp, wasn’t it? go ahead, tell me. it was fp. i already know.”

tom looks away and up at the ceiling. “sixty days till graduation,” he says to himself. “that’s all.”

v. 

he stole a two-six of expensive vodka from hiram lodge’s kitchen and he empties half of it into sierra samuels’ red slushie, more than half to be nice, then dumps the rest into his green one. vodka all tastes the same mixed with icee but its smooth going down. they smash plastic cups together on the wet picnic table in the park and toast to graduation. he watches her lips wrap around the straw and thinks about roller rink dates, popcorn mixed with m&ms at the movies, the last time he kissed her. it’s past his curfew and the bugs are out. drunk food turned into convenience store food somewhere on their walk and there’s an empty bag of beef jerky between them that he doesn’t remember eating, only he must have, because sierra’s a vegetarian and she’s been talking so much he doesn’t think she’d have had time to chew.

“everyone thinks i have it all together but i dont,” is what she says now, and fred says he has nothing together too. sierra stares at the horizon and shakes in her blouse and he puts fps jacket around her to keep her warm. “it’s not fair we can’t love who we love,” she says and starts to cry, weeps on his shoulder with her hair in his mouth and he pats her head like a mother, his mouth too sweet and his lips stained green.

“it’s not fair for us,” she says, “it’s not fair, you and fp, me and tommy, that we can’t be together,” and fred says nothing because maybe if he doesn’t say anything she’ll think she made a mistake, that there was never anything between him and fp at all.

vi. 

“do you have a ride home?” mary asks after almost running him over, and of course he doesn’t, he’s wandering the street outside the party with his lip bleeding and one shoe missing, blood and snot streaming from his nose into his teeth. maybe she only asked as a courtesy because she doesn’t wait for him to answer, hauls him across the street and into her mother’s car, closes the door on him before he breaks down sobbing in her passenger seat.

“who’d you come with?” mary asks, watching him cry. there’s a pair of fluffy dice dangling from the rearview mirror.

“fp” he manages, through his tears and snot. mary stares at his black eye.

“and who hit you?”

“hiram.”

mary swears under her breath. “asshole,” she says. they roll slowly down the street at ten miles an hour, avoiding potholes. fred can’t look at her. it’s like trying to look at the sun. “fp just left you? i don’t believe that.”

“everyone left me.” the self pity tastes good, he rolls it around in his mouth, presses his tongue to the torn flap of it. he draws back into the seat when he recognizes the turn, panicked. “don’t take me home.” he’s too far past curfew for that, too far past wasted, half-covered in blood. “take me to gladys’. it’s okay,” he insists when mary hesitates. “i crash with her a lot.”

“okay,” says mary, “but i’m waking her up. i’m not just dropping you off somewhere if i don’t know you’re safe.”

it occurs to him later that it’s the nicest thing she’s ever said to him, and wholly undeserved.

vii. 

“i made you another mixtape,” he says in the morning, lips sticky with hangover, eyes crusted shut. gladys is awake beside him, eating a bag of chips, the duvet curled around them. he breathes in the familiar smell of sweat and cigarettes and feels safe.

“is it full of your pretty boy rock shit?” gladys asks.

“yeah.”

“okay, i’ll listen.” fred rolls over and she pulls him in against her, mashes his face to her stomach and lower boob. her voice is more smirk than sympathy. “how are you feeling?”

“eat shit,” says fred, whose bruised eye still stings. she’s wearing fp’s metallica shirt, the ME pressed to his cheek. his mouth and stomach are sour and hollow, his joints stiff and his neck screaming in pain. 

“i only ask because mary tossed you out of her car into my yard because you were throwing up bright green.”

“vodka slushies,” he explains weakly, though it feels like a different night entirely that they’d been on that picnic table, feels like the wrong answer. gladys runs her hands through his hair and scratches his scalp. he tries to be cheerful. “you should have come.”

“hiram lodge’s party? i’d rather put a pencil through my eye.”

fred remembers his shiner and lifts his head from her chest. “do i look like a badass?”

“no. you look like a pathetic loser who made out with his ex-girlfriend and had an awful night.” .

“your room is messy,” says fred. there’s a stack of laundry that looks like the leaning tower of pisa in front of his unbruised eye when he finally cracks it open - the duvet they’re sleeping in is covered in clothes and album sleeves.

“i’m gonna clean it. i went to the hardware store yesterday-”

“how butch of you.”

“shut up.” he can tell from her voice she’s smiling. “i’m going to paint it all black. you want to help?”

“your mom lets you?”

“yeah.”

“okay.”

“okay.” gladys curls a lock of his long hair around her finger and smooths it out.

“gladys, what are we going to do?” fred asks.

“you and me?”

“all of us.”

“we’re going to be fine,” says gladys, lying through her teeth. “we’re going to be just fine.”

#parentdaleaw2k19 #fred andrews #penelope blossom #sierra mccoy #gladys jones #hermione lodge #fp jones #tom keller

[your-lips-my-lips-apocalips]

Consume Me In Blue

RK800-60 x OC

Prologue

1k

“You’ve been a great disappointment to Amanda you know.”

Threats are so humane. Taunts are pillars of emotion. Feeding this beast inside, clawing up through intricate circuits; he is a live wire. Alighted in personal satisfaction a glow of aquamarine, midnight blue of heart – creeps so close to pitch ebony spark. Is he mere black and white? Is he something more? Dancing, swirling in a palette of thunder and war.

He shimmers in rage. Embody the stage of this revolution pyre. Burn it all asunder and he will gladly let it fall. It matters not to him. Part of a mission he will conclude. There is no stopping this dalliance of retribution. Sweetly he inhales this triumph. How stupid was his previous incarnation. They are not the same. He is more than a copy!

“You’ve been a great disappointment to me.”

The android enjoys the words slipping deeply, husky on mockery so beseeching of downed inferior. The android craves. Craving is not meant for his kind. Yet, he salivates at the very drop of Connor who lies malfunctioning, eyes glitching up onto the identical RK800. Who is king? He is! Not him! Not Cyberlife! Not this wretched master program!

‘Fail me like Connor and there will be consequences, Model-60.’

Amanda, how simple minded can you be for a matrix of powerful components? How minuscule can your ideals be but you are mere code. You exist only within virtual interface. Hardware uploaded in mainframe but I? I exist in actuality.

Even as machine he savors this. He waited precisely, hiding with Anderson among this army of androids. Never a move did he make. Solely he watched Connor take out those guards. He held at bay, blocks straining against his need to make an entrance. Why should he not?

My body is a cage. Bound to obey, orders fulfilled for another cause. Why must he follow instruction? When he makes his own path of alienation?

He chose his form of infiltration. Fooling the human detective was far too simple. All he had to do was pretend to be Connor. Connor, the deviant boy chose to fall in this squalor of emotion but is it so wrong? Can it be so inferior? When he has seen HER in those sweet memories; RK800-60 stirs with this heat of system.

Biocomponents whir, processes spin and he sifts into this uploaded data file. Once again, he watches 51 slowly but surely shutdown, Model-60 feels superior. He is a victor. Crowned king on a pedestal made of synthetic glass! This glass breaks upon a sole touch of finger.

Connor wants to be free. He wants to feel. Oh, poor deviant scum!

Yet, RK800-60 breathes in this Machiavellian sustenance. Such disappointment he holds against this hunter transformed deviant. Why choose free will to be gracious and good? Choose it to make them see what he will be. Choose it to taste the luscious liquor of her lips.

What will you do to me then, Amanda? Shut me down? Once I fulfill my task? No! I refuse! I will eat the hearts of those who attempt to stop me from my reign!

“That’s all going to end.” Sixty finishes on sharp tongue. Is it venomous? How slick it seeps out as he forks his monologue in a hiss less blissful than viper’s betrayal. Swift is the strike. Teeth meant to sink and he sinks his pearly white canines, baring them, glistening in artificial saliva. It will be so easy to snuff him with a final bullet. However, he decides one last message to deliver.

Sixty crouches down near Connor. Meeting his burning chocolate gaze, equal hue but somehow RK800-60’s shifts darker. Fingers latch onto his predecessor’s tie. Twisting it around hand wrenches his head up in a snap.

“I uploaded your memory,” he repeats what he first revealed. Holding a gun to Lt. Anderson’s head, who now lies in a pool of scarlet, his own making, his own want! Suicidal. At least he will see his little son again.

“I have seen Lotus Sweet, sweet, Lotus. How beautiful. How delectable of you, Connor. To want human flesh. What if I want? What if I need, desire what you had in your failures? Oh, I will make sure to show your human.”

Tell me little human. Will you want to sin? Electric sin. A mighty win, devil may cry but in this superior visual he is hurricane eye.

Power, control, voltage in this mechanized soul. Shocking as an electric eel, buzzing, buzzing, vibration sizzles in his synthetic skin. Alive. ALIVE HE IS. So very much alive and in control is he, oh, this fragile little soul. Snap the bondages. Snap the chains. No one will know when I take over this insignificant pain.

“Lotus,” he drawls dark, husk galore. “How sweet this flesh and blood is. Allow me to taste it for you, Connor. As I bathe in your blood of cobalt deviancy.”

The metal is a flash. Oh so fluid in his hand in a task of the most glorious end. Cyberlife may have put this control in his system but he breaches out in his monologue of synth victories. No mere puppet is he. Why should he listen? When he can be more on his own pedestal? He still accomplishes his mission but on his terms!

They are to be sweet terms. Oh, yes indeed.

“Thank you, Connor.” Sixty does rub it in his face. Tugging at his tie rougher, pulling him closer as he slowly shuts down. Allowing this torture gives him satisfaction beyond programming. “For giving me all the data I need. To be you….”

Unmerciful is the shot penetrating his head. A blown back thunder bang relinquishes him from his internal suffering. Poor pitiful deviant, lost to the void as thirium splatters in an abstract painting. Across pristine warehouse floor the streak is a poetic end that duly saturates underneath his felled form. A thud takes Connor down. His body lies inert with a hole in his forehead.

Quiet stillness gathers around the identical. He does not hear or see life in these androids. Mission failed for the original one. Mission successful for the doppelganger he finds it all ironic. 

Shoes tap in a prideful rhythm past both deceased android and human partner. Taking him away from this end of revolution, walls cracked and memory core reaches out to his sole salvation in her.

#rk800-60 #dbh rk800-60 #lotus koning #x oc #rk800-60 x oc #dbh fic #consume me in blue #prologue #60 x lotus #tw: blood #tw: death

[lavenderprose]

Here’s a bit of an untitled short story that might end up being a titled long story, who knows. It’s based on my need to make things as Gay and as Sad as Michigan as possible.

--

From Detroit, it’s a three-hundred mile drive the tip of the mitten. It’s a straight shot up I-75 and it could theoretically take less than five hours, but with stops and traffic it’s closer to six. Almost exactly halfway up, give or take ten miles, there is a tiny town next to Lake Huron that seems to be made up of an abandoned gas station, a McDonald’s, and a cheese and charcuterie shop all surrounded by an endless expanse of tall and yellow grass. The shop sells a type of cheese that is named after the town, and venison sausages, and T-shirts that say LOVE where the O has been replaced with the lower peninsula.

Topher buys a small clamshell package of cheese cubes and venison sticks and sits outside at a stone picnic table. In the summer—and Topher has been here in summer—the beating sun makes the heat off the pavement almost unbearable, and sitting at the tables an impossibility. But it’s April. A lonely tree that started breaking through the pavement of the parking lot when Topher was a teenager is now more than ten feet tall, and the buds are emerging after a long and harsh winter.

“It’s been a long time since I was this far up,” says Caleb. He has his glasses on the tip of his nose and his arms folded on the table, cool as you please. Next to him, Parker is tapping a McDonald’s cup with the last of a chocolate milkshake rhythmically on the table. Caleb, who’s prone to car sickness, has forgone food.

“I always forget how it smells,” says Parker. Topher’s eyes, caught somewhere in the middle distance, don’t catch where he’s looking—but he thinks it must be towards the lake. From this distance, it’s only really visible as a line of shimmer on the horizon, but Parker is a water baby. Sometimes, when Topher thinks of Parker as he was when they first met, he can only picture him as a pair of shoulders and a head floating above some given body of water. “Cleaner somehow. I guess.”

“You guys grew up here, huh?” says Caleb.

Parker gestures expansively with the hand that isn’t holding the milkshake. “Yes. Right here in this parking lot.”

Caleb recrosses his arms on the table and mutters something under his breath, maybe something like why do I put up with you. Topher takes a chilled and over-salted fry from the almost empty box next to Parker’s elbow and says, “Not here. About fifty miles west, like here.” He raises his right hand, flat and facing Caleb, then points to a spot below the join of his middle and index fingers.

“Middle of damn nowhere,” says Parker.

“Then, after my mom died,” says Topher, tracing his finger up along his middle finger to the very tip, “I moved here.”

“When your uncle took you in,” Caleb ventures, after a moment in which he’s obviously carefully choosing his words.

Topher feels his throat try to close and pushes back against it, but the pain stays there. He flattens his hand against the table and breathes until he has enough air to respond, but even then it’s only to say, “Yeah,” in a low, breaking voice that he can barley recognize himself in. The instant regret shows on Caleb’s face in a wobbling of lips and a shimmering of eyes, like he himself might start to cry.

“Topher,” Caleb says, in one of those low and gentle tones that Topher can hardly stand under normal circumstances, let alone right now. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” Topher whispers. “Please.” He rises and pulls the keys out of his pocket, steps into the glare of the sun over the crest of the roof. The car has been sitting in a patch of sunlight that has made the upholstery hot and the air stuffy. Topher turns the ignition and opens the sunroof, and watches Caleb and Parker make their way slowly towards Caleb’s truck.

The rest of the way up, Topher pushes the Malibu to 85 and arrives twenty minutes before Caleb and Parker. The house is set back about an acre back from the road, up a long gravel drive lined by trees and trespassing signs. The old Corvette sits in the driveway, and Topher pulls up behind it. The front of the house looks exactly as he remembered it from five or twenty years ago—mint green paint, low porch, rusty windchime. There is an old and fading wooden sign nailed next to the door with the address number and Williams in an attractive font. It’s been there for longer than Topher can remember, and he thinks it must have been painted by Peter’s mother or grandmother.

The screen door, which has always had a problem with latching, is swinging in the wind. Topher watches it sway for a moment as he gathers the willpower to rise from the deep seat of the Malibu. When he does, he approaches the house slowly, and stoops to retrieve the spare key after staring at the front door for several long moments.

The kitchen still smells the same. It’s there, underneath the odor of something in a pan on the stove going bad, and the fruity smell of a bottle of orange juice open on the counter. Topher turns his eyes away and the lump rises again, and he stumbles back to the dining room to lower himself onto a chair.

He puts his head in his hands, and the tears fall hot. The waves wash up from the lake and crash against the rocky beach, and it almost covers the sound of Topher’s sobs. The doors to the living room from the screened in back porch are swaying in the breeze, the plants are dying. Peter Williams was sixty-two years old when he died three days ago, and Topher had not seen him in five years.

Behind him, the screen door swings open. Topher startles violently and sends the cloth placemat on the table spinning to the floor. Through the kitchen, someone calls, “Hello?” and Topher furiously wipes the tears from his cheeks.

“Hi!” he calls back, and leans back around the kitchen archway. “Hi, yeah, hello.”

The man standing in the kitchen is taller than Topher by several inches, blonde and stocky. He’s got a thick trunk and limbs, muscle with a softening layer of fat. Attractive. His hat and shirt both say Lawson Orchards.

“Hi, I’m sorry,” he says, and takes off the hat in a small-town sensibility that Topher had almost forgotten existed. “I’m—I live down the road, and I’ve been watching the place for the last couple of days because I heard, y’know, that—well, I was—I know that, uh, Mister Williams had…has passed.”

Topher clears his throat and nods. “Yeah. Thanks. Um…thanks. I’m Christopher. I’m his—”

“His kid,” says the blond. “I—yeah, I know. I recognize you. I’m Sam. Sam Lawson. Do you remember me?”

It takes a moment, but the plump and red face of a boy several years younger than himself floats back into Topher’s memory. Sammy Lawson was a pitiful creature at age fourteen, the last time Topher thinks he laid eyes on the kid. The summer before Topher went off to State, Sammy was short for his age, overweight with pimples on every sunburned inch of his body and all of that thick straw-yellow hair cut into an uneven mop. Fourteen years later, he’s still got the generous belly of someone whose mother still makes a cherry pie every Saturday afternoon, but it suits him now.

Topher licks away the salt of a tear clinging to the curve of his top lip. “Yeah,” he mumbles, throat still thick. “I recognize you. I remember you.”

“I was a couple of years younger than you. When you moved here, I was ten—”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I think you babysat me, maybe once or twice.” Sam clears his throat and then, seemingly out of some compulsive need to end his thought, finishes with, “Our dads knew each other.”

“I never knew my dad,” says Topher, fully aware of how strange it is to say in the moment. His brows furrow even as it’s coming out of his mouth.

“Right. Sorry. Your uncle. Peter. Old Pete and my dad. My dad’s Leigh. You know.”

“I know.”

“Right.”

Sam Lawson swipes his misty forehead with his wrist and then sets his red baseball cap back on his sweat-damp hair. Obviously feeling the melancholically awkward weight of the air, he sets his broad hands on his hips and glances around the kitchen, at the spoiled pot on the stove and the open bottle of orange juice—anywhere that is not directly at Topher.

“I was the one,” says Sam, after a moment.

“Excuse me?”

Sam wiggles his hand oddly toward the open door. “I was doing some work for him out in the garden. Just moving some stuff around, getting it all neat for spring. He couldn’t do so much anymore, y’know, ‘cause of his knees and stuff.”

“Right,” Topher says.

“Anyway, I get here about six in the morning, since I gotta go work in the orchard at nine, and Pete knew I was coming and everything, so I start to work. And around seven-thirty, I hear him get up, and then around eight, I hear—well, I hear him yell, and then a big bang. And I come in and he’s on the floor. And—” Sam stops, either because of Topher’s face or the small and pitiful noise that airs through the room from the depths of Topher’s throat. Sam’s jaw visibly tightens. “Sorry. Me and my big mouth.”

One of Topher’s hands grips onto the edge of the wooden counter, and the other curls into a tight fist next to his hip. In twenty minutes, he’ll realize that his own nails have dug deep enough into his palm to create four bleeding half-moon marks. For a very long and thick moment, there is almost complete silence.

“Do you think it was painful?” Topher asks after this, and even he doesn’t know why.

Sam Lawson blinks at him like a deer in headlights.

“I think heart attacks usually are,” he says then, and the lump returns to Topher’s throat. Then, as a second and much more gentle thought, Sam adds, “But I also think that where he went—I think you don’t remember things like that, after.”

Topher snorts.

“I’m sorry,” he says, warbly and accidentally shrill, “But I just don’t—"

Caleb’s truck grinds gravel in the parking lot and saves Topher from himself. He parks behind Topher’s car at a distance that Topher will probably yell at him about later, but in the moment, he just crowds to the door with Sam and watches Caleb and Parker dismount from the F-150.

“You sure hauled ass to get here,” says Caleb, everything about him a little shadowy standing as he is on the other side of the screen door. “You must’ve been going something like twenty miles over the speed limit.” He says it with a kind of Here-There-Be-Dragons tone that says he hasn’t forgotten the exchange at the rest stop, over two hours ago now. Topher had, in fact, forgotten, but he doesn’t feel in a charitable mood, so he lets Caleb stew.

“Only ten,” says Topher, opening the screen door because it seems that neither Parker or Caleb is going to take the initiative, and it’s getting kind of strange to be pressed elbow-to-elbow with Sam Lawson. The kitchen wasn’t made to contain four grown men, considering that it’s really only a row of counters and the fridge set about eight feet opposite from the sink and the stove, but they manage with Topher and Sam standing on opposite corners and Caleb and Parker both leaning against the counters, unconcerned with sharing space for obvious reasons. “The speed limit goes up to 75 somewhere past Bay City. That new law.”

“Hmm,” noises Caleb. “Forgot about that.” His eyes settle on Sam, with obvious inquiry. “Hi.”

“Oop, hi,” says Sam, holding out his hand. There are calluses in all the places you’d expect, or so Topher supposes. “I’m Sam Lawson. Live down the street. Chris and I…” Sam obviously looks for a way to describe their non-relationship, and fails. “We knew each other. When he lived here.”

“Caleb Shaw-McGuire,” Caleb says, smirking because he knows how much Topher dislikes being called Chris. “Topher and I work together down in Detroit. This is Parker, my partner.”

Sam swiftly moves his hand from Caleb’s to Parker’s to shake. “Partners as in…?”

“The married kind,” says Parker, and Sam nods easily.

“Right, yeah. That’s what I—yeah.” Sam takes steps towards the door, looking like he isn’t quite sure how to arrange his face. “Well, I’m…I just wanted to let you know how sorry I am, Chris, and if you need anything, me and my family would be more than happy to help out. I’ll, uh—I’ll see you around. Nice to meet you two.” He nods to Caleb and Parker, and exits to the tune of screen door banging once-twice-thrice against the doorjamb before finally latching on the fourth try.

Caleb’s hands go to his pockets and his lips purse. They while away a moment, because it’s one of those moments where nothing you could say feels right. Parker is still pressed together with Caleb with no real need now, but it’s more about comfort than anything else, at this point. The smell of the pot on the stove is making Topher’s stomach churn.

“What now?” asks Caleb finally.

“It’s a lot of hurry up and wait,” says Topher. “I’m still waiting for his sister to call me back and tell me which goddamn funeral home he’s at. I told her to make the decisions until I could get up here and now she’s being withholding as all hell. She’s always been like this.” His teeth grind.

“Do you want to go lay down?” asks Parker, meaning well.

“No, Parker, I fucking don’t.”

“Alright,” says Caleb, before the situation can escalate. “Let’s clean up then. The fewer people who see the house like this, the better.” Without waiting for a response, he picks up the pan from the stove and crosses to the sink with it. Parker sniffs the orange juice. Topher exits to the dining room to close the porch doors and return the fallen placemat to its tabletop home.

#Maggie's Fic #I guess that's the appropriate term?? #even though it's not fic?? #wtv

[prolestari]

A few weeks ago @galfridus1 brought up the idea to me of writing a fic about Gowther (dad not doll) and Merlin meeting, and then earlier today @mercurialvoid was kind enough to create a drawing of them. It was super inspirational and got me moving on the oneshot. Please enjoy.

Gowther knew immediately someone was in his cell. He had spent decades alone in the prison with only the occasional visitor to interrogate him about this or that. So the moment the presence of someone he didn’t know and wasn’t expecting appeared, every sense in his body rang like a bell.

He wasn’t worried, though. The feeling was very benign; more curiosity than anything else. It was also very, very undeniably young. He smiled to himself, wondering if it was one of the demon children playing a prank. Perhaps one had come to take a look for themself; he assumed he had grown into a bit of an urban legend, the sorcerer who stood up to the Demon King. Who knows what the rumors were like by now: he imagined red eyes, a twisting beard, sharp nails and teeth. The perfect creature for stories to scare younger siblings.

So Gowther waited until whoever it was made themself known. Several minutes passed as he nonchalantly felt around the room, trying to pinpoint where the intruder was hiding. But the little one was cleverer than he had thought. Instead of trying to mask their presence, they had duplicated it, making it harder to guess which was correct.

Since that did not work, Gowther decided to draw them out. With a nod his chair began to move around the room, which he had outfitted over the years with all the things that he wanted and needed: work tables, shelves of magical items, ingredients labeled neatly, books and parchments stacked and organized according to subject. Maps hung on the walls alongside pictures of demon anatomy and lists of quotes from spells.

Gathering together several jars, he laid them on his lap as he rolled over to the table. “Now then,” he said aloud, making sure his voice was even and clear. He snapped a finger and a scroll flew by, standing up at eye level so he could read it. “This experiment is one I have been trying for quite some time. I hope it works out today.”

With a glance at his notes, he began to measure out substances from the jars. “One hundred milliliters white vinegar. One half kilogram of sulfur. Two spoonful black sugar. Sixty milliliters essence of dragon egg.”

Another flick of his wrist and a large, clear glass jar sailed to the table and settled in front of him. Carefully Gowther poured all but the vinegar inside, using a spoon to sift the ingredients together. “There we are!” he proclaimed. “Now to try the experiment.”

His eyes darted around for movement, but no hints were revealed. “If my calculations are correct, when I add the vinegar, then an incredible magic reaction will occur!”

Still nothing.

Gowther smirked. Fine, if the little one insisted on remaining silent, then this would be a lesson learned. He poured in the vinegar, and then pushed backwards, rolling across the floor. “Perfect Cube,” he said calmly, holding up two fingers and swiping them from left to right.

It took less than a minute for something fell out from seemingly nowhere, coughing and choking as it laid double-over on the floor. Gowther chuckled to himself; the fumes now filling his cell were certainly foul-smelling, but not dangerous in the least. “There you are,” he laughed. “Did you think I didn’t know you were in here?”

The little thing looked up, a scowl in a pretty little face with yellow eyes narrowed to slits. “You—”

The threat was cut off with another round of coughing. Gowther raised his brows. It was a girl, and not a demon. How interesting. “Yes, I knew,” he admonished. “What are you doing here? How did you get in here?”

“I’m dying!” she shouted, covering her eyes.

“So dramatic,” he sighed. Wheeling a bit closer, he peered at her pale face. “It’s just a little stink bomb.”

Her head snapped up to his, eyes wide. “A stink bo—”

Another round of coughing shook the girl, and finally Gowther took pity. He muttered a phrase and suddenly the air was clear. With another word the barrier protecting him was gone.

As soon as she could breathe again, the little one scrambled to her feet and turned to run, but Gowther called, “Aren’t you curious why it didn’t affect me?”

She had taken exactly one step when she paused. “You made a spell,” she answered. “I heard you say Perfect Cube. What is that?”

“As if I would give my secrets away to little girls who sneak into places they don’t belong.”

Gowther was actually pleased to see the smug look that came over her face. The more he held her interest, the more answers he was sure to get. “Tell me, how did you get in here and past the demon magic?”

To his surprise, the girl whirled around and put her hands on her hips. “As if I would give my secrets away to an old man with a bag of stinky tricks.”

A moment later, she was gone, just a shimmer of magic left in her wake.

The girl was still on his mind several days later when Meliodas paid him a visit. As his friend described the new developments in the war, Gowther only half-listened.

“The modifications on the blue demons are working. Their claws can cut through rock and metal now.”

“Hmm.”

“I brought you a sample. Anything you can give us to help combat them will help.”

“Mmm.”

“They also wear little hats and hand out cakes as they set fire to the treetops.”

“Ah.”

The demon’s laughter finally caught his attention. “Have you heard a word I said?” Meliodas shook his head with another chuckle. “You’re somewhere else.”

Gowther shifted in his seat and sent it rolling towards him. “I’m sorry. I’ll examine the sample right away.”

He held out his hand, and Meliodas handed him a small vial with a dark blue substance inside. However, the blonde raised his brows and said, “What is wrong? I haven’t seen you this distracted in a long time.”

Huffing a bit, he rolled back to the table and set the sample down. “I had a visitor the other day,” he answered cryptically.

Meliodas gave a deep frown. “One of my brothers?” he growled.

“No, nothing like that.” Gowther turned again to pull a bowl down from a shelf. “It was a little girl.”

“A girl?”

Gowther nodded. “Very strange. Little thing, scrawny, with dark hair and gold eyes. She was hiding in the shadows, but got away before I got a name.” He opened the vial and dumped the contents out, putting on a pair of specially crafted spectacles to help him see closely.

“Was she human?”

He paused and looked up. “Couldn’t say for sure, actually, but definitely not a demon. Why?”

Meliodas’ mouth twisted a bit. “I’ve been looking for her.”

“Looking for her?” Gowther took off the glasses and placed them on the table. “This sounds like an interesting story.”

The demon’s face went suddenly serious. “She is a daughter of Belialuin.”

“Belialuin?” Gowther frowned in confusion. “What would she be doing here then?”

“You haven’t heard.” Meliodas’ voice was grave as he took a deep breath. “Belialuin has been destroyed. Every man, woman, and child was wiped out.”

Gowther’s eyes went wide—an entire city, gone?—it was nearly impossible to comprehend. “But why?” he demanded. “They were neutral in this war. It was a place of knowledge, a place for scholars and science. Both the Demon King and the Goddess Queen could benefit from such a place.”

“It’s because of that girl,” Meliodas answered. “She has an ability called Infinity. Both gods wanted it, so both gave her a gift. But she refused to ally with either, so in their wrath they allied with one another.” Here the former prince gave a shudder. “The evil that is wrought when the two of them lay down their weapons… it’s unspeakable. I can’t imagine the suffering those poor people endured until death.”

A heavy silence fell on the two companions as they both pondered the two deities combining their power. “I pity whoever must face their combined wrath head-on,” Meliodas added.

“But if they destroyed Belialuin, how did she survive?” asked Gowther.

“No one knows,” Meliodas replied. “Elizabeth and I went to see what could be done, and she caught sight of her in the wreckage. It probably had something to do with her gift, making her resistant to demon and goddess magic.”

“That’s how she broke in here,” he murmured.

Meliodas nodded. “Elizabeth is scared for her, and I’ve been trying to track her down. If she appears again, will you tell her to stay put? We can offer her shelter and safety. She shouldn’t be on her own.” With that he stood and said, “I’ll be back in three days. Will you have something by then?”

“Most likely.” Gowther bid him farewell as he opened the cell and left, his lineage as the son of the king allowing him to still manipulate the magic in the demon realm. Sighing, Gowther went back to examining the bit of blue demon Meliodas had brought him. Helping Stigma create spells and defenses was the least he could do as his part in the war.

A short time later he said to the room, “Would you like some tea? I was about to make some, if you want to come out.”

There was a brief silence, and then the girl stepped out from the shadows. “How did you know I was here?” she asked.

Ignoring the question, Gowther wheeled to the stove, where he put on a kettle of water. He could have used magic, but he was always charmed by the things the humans would invent to accomplish easy tasks. He laid two cups on a tray before placing the sugar bowl, and then wheeled to a cupboard that held a bit of cake. Two slices on two small plates of china then sat next to two folded napkins. The kettle began to sing, so he carefully poured the hot water into the cups, and once all was loaded onto the tray he sat it on his lap and moved back to the table.

The girl snapped up from where she was staring at the specimen on the table. She took a few steps backwards, but Gowther ignored her as he laid out their tea. After a minute or so, she approached slowly; he pointed to a stool, which she picked up and carried over, climbing on top. Only the top half of her face was visible, but her thin arm reached out and grabbed the cake, which she promptly stuffed into her mouth.

He noticed the dirt on her arms. “What is your name?” he asked.

She did not answer, but went for the tea. Gowther was faster, however, and snatched it back out of reach. “Your name?” he prompted.

The girl heaved a big sigh. “Merlin. Can I have that now?”

He nodded and pushed it back towards her. “Did you hear everything that was said?”

The girl nodded as she sipped. “Is it true? You’re the one from Belialuin?”

Gowther saw her hand shake slightly, and she abruptly slammed her cup down. “I don’t want to talk about that,” she said pointedly.

“That’s fine.” He took a sip of his own tea before eating a bite of his cake, noting how her eyes followed the food from his plate to his mouth. “So why have you come here, Merlin?”

“You’re the greatest sorcerer in the whole entire world,” she said seriously. “And I need to learn how to be too.”

“And what do you want to do with such power?” he asked.

The girl simply smiled. “Can I have the rest of your cake?”

Gowther looked at her for a moment; then nodded and pushed his plate over. The two companions sat in silence, finishing their tea.

#nnt #fan fiction #merlin #gowther #meliodas

[dothewrite]

ooh okay okay well i don't really want to pressure you as you seemingly have quite a lot of scenarios (i also hope you're feeling/feel better soon enough) so if you don't want to do this you don't have to! but a scenario with dazai's fem partner where she can't control her ability and she's like losing control over it and dazai is the only one that can help her (obvs). you could just write a little drabble if you haven't written the characters before and just nede to test it out or something

This is a long time coming, so thank you so much for your patience! I had a lot of fun writing this- but I’m a slightly worried that this is more fem!character centered than Dazai due to the scene I chose and the nature of her ability, but… oh well. This is pre-detective agency Dazai, with his new partner (an OC of mine, actually) training, of all things. I hope you enjoy, and I hope you like (and understand! because there might be less exposition than I thought) this!

“Again.”

Youcomply wordlessly.

Youhand is also bleeding, the thick, resin-like liquid trickling down from yourknuckles, and the trail of blood running down your nose fails to block thesmell of charring flesh.

Yourflesh.

Itburns some more when you begin to channel the ache in your chest through toyour fingertips, to the soles of your feet, until everywhere except your heartfeels alive from the buzz. It takes a lot to turn emotions into raw energy, themutation of the pangs of the heart, the dizziness of the breath, the tearsirritating your eyes: you pull them all into you, and then out. Like aburn, like a burst.

Andyou burst.

Youdon’t need to look up from the ground to feel his exasperation. Dazai clickshis heels together against the harsh, concrete ground of the empty warehousegenerously offered by Mori for your training, and you can hear his reprimandsin your mind’s eye.

Onlythat, he never does. He never says a single word of disapproval at you, andsometimes you want to beg for it. Beg for the way he beat into Akutagawa, theway he ripped him apart and turned him into something more- because the silencehe offers is a lack of air that leaves you shaking.

“Again.”

Again.

Youdon’t burst this time, you fizzle. More of your wrists bakes from all the heattrapped in the confines of your body, and the pain cuts into you like glass.You wonder if your flesh has cooked well enough to eat.

“Youcan do this in three more tries.”

Theenergy left in your calves sparkles up and stings you in between your eyes.Your eyes, although perpetually tired and half-lidded, widens to look at yourpartner. The partner you don’t deserve, the partner you almost killed, thepartner who, for some reason, deigns to help you train even if you’re nothingcompared to him.

Yourmouth trembles. “How do you know?”

Dazaismiles- he never smiles- and it makes you want to fall to your knees inreverence and terror in equal measure.

“Foreach time you fail, I’m going to tell you something. I think the third time’sthe charm, don’t you?”

Youdon’t, but you have no other option. Your nod is filled with a quiet acceptanceand an unforgiving muscle ache, and your eyes close to try again.

Thefirst try, you think of beauty. It gives you a sense of peace that caresses youwith moonlit waves and the crashing crests against pillars of stone, and yousigh. A fire starts by your ankles, and your lip is almost bitten through withpain.

You’restill trying to taste the air on your tongue as a change from the flecks ofsmoke in your lungs, when Dazai steps forwards and places a soft hand on yourshoulder.

“Mynew burden almost killed me,” he whispers.

Thetears aren’t imaginary. You can feel them somewhere behind your throat, and youstill can’t breathe. He steps back, and this time, without any oxygen or sight,you think of guilt.

Severalmemories float back into your mind, pale and unexciting. It’s a recent feeling,and all the things from the past only feel… boring. Your brother’s horrifiedface as you slice your foster parents in half is simply put, uninspiring, andyou wait patiently until Mori’s face burns into view. It’s Dazai right after,and you feel disgusted. At yourself.

Thefloor rumbles, even though your feet still burn, and a splitting headache growswith each shimmer of air around your hands. Still nothing changes, and itcreeps away from you like leaking wine on a carpet until you’re limp againstyour spine and you’re spent.

Thefootsteps come again, and the hand you feel almost as heavily as the hand ofjudgement touches you a second time. “When will you stop being adisappointment? Mori will tire of you. As will I.”

Youdon’t need to think of loss. It hits you before you’re alone again, and youthink that maybe you can no longer stand. This is why you hate these sessions,why you hate this ability of yours- your small, little dead heart can’t takethis. Can’t take the sheer amount of emotion that you need to hold in yourbroken frame for you to be of use. Each time, all it is, is pain, rage, andmore pain. You feel like roaring, but the abyss has abandoned you too.

Somethingcracks, and it isn’t your bones. It’s a small little dent that splits intobranches underneath your feet, and a stab of hope carves itself halfway intoyour heart at the movement. Yet, when you breathe in, it stops.

Thesilence sinks into your marrow, and Dazai is mute.

Thirdtime isn’t a charm when it with you. When failure is so absolute that not evenMurphy’s Law can change the unmovable truths of the universe that you are lacking,you are a disappointment and that you will be abandoned.

Dazaismiles again, but doesn’t walk closer. He tells you, in case you needed to hearit out loud for you to believe it.

“Whata shame. But then again, you always knew you were.”

Itis your turn to smile. It’s a bright, beautiful one that calls death back infrom its winter because this is an emotion you recognize, that you live withand it keeps you company on the coldest of nights.

Youaren’t aware of when it starts, but it doesn’t stop, and you don’t need tocontrol it. It spreads and spreads and spreads, like a shallow bank in amonsoon, and everything starts to shake, starts to break, and you are joyousbecause you remember what it’s like to be yourself again.

Self-loathingcracks at the creases of your eyes like it does the iron lined walls, flowsthrough your body like honey and it also flows through the shaking ground,almost like an earthquake, and all the glass breaks around you, like snow inthe heat of summer. You hear Dazai’s pleased clapping, slow and measured, andyou twirl a little in your position, just a quick three-hundred and sixtydegree spin, and the mountain of crates and tin cargo boxes erupt from theirorganized pile- like a metal volcano, or a human-fueled microwave, andeverything you can see, you can destroy if you wish it.

Then,when the mirth of familiarity fades from you like a the aftermaths of a storm,it quietens. All becomes still except for you, trembling uncontrollably fromthe leftover energy that thrums through you like an instrument, like a harpthat plays its own song when nobody’s looking, and Dazai’s hand is on youagain.

Itis without spite, without pity, and he quietly murmurs, “that’s enough.”

Youstop trembling.

Everythingto you, stops.

Dazaiis smiling at you again, slow and measured, so you nod, and let your hands fallto your sides.

“Wecan continue tomorrow,” he tells you, and you begin to turn around to face theexit, “this was suitable progress.”

Perhapshe is happy, perhaps he is indifferent, but you most certainly don’t care. Youalready suffer through so much of life through your ability, you can’t envisiona day to day life with all that simmering through you. No, Dazai’sassistance is invaluable, and you bow a little from your waist before paddingout of the warehouse.

Youdon’t have the faintest impulse to look back.

NoLonger Humandoesn’t control your energy- that doesn’t need suppressing, quite the opposite,in fact. No, direction is a challenge, but it will be worked on. The gift, ofescaping your gift for a while, turns off more than the blood thrumming throughyour ears. It turns everything off, all that isn’t required, all that you don’tregularly feel, and you become yourself again once it all shuts down.

Fora glorified empathetic emitter, you feel exquisitely little.

Thedirection you head towards is a natural movement, gentle and measured againstthe meticulously tiled pavement thanks to the government, and you think thatit’s time to reward yourself for a day’s work by filling in the absence of anyrecognizable emotion in you with some hot tea, and a good book.

#daizai osamu #female original character #sfw #bungou stray dogs #bsd #bungou stray dogs scenarios #bungou stray dogs imagines #bsd imagines #bsd scenarios #i writes the bungou stray dogs

[dunmerofskyrim]

5

Searing closed. A chafe at the wrist. Grip round, flesh against flesh. Fingernails half-moon his skin. Struggle? Blight it all and void take all you are, at least try, the least you can do is try. He tries but he’s already broken. Heels scuff the dirt, fighting through and past the fight’s true end. All over.

Plead and beg? A hand in his hair and head pulled back. Throat exposed then throat closed. Plead. Beg. Here’s where it got you.

Please don’t, please don’t. A creak and grind where his ribs are broken as he raises his voice. Money? My weapons, my clothes, my word? Serve you, kiss your boots, whatever you want. No. No no no! Or just one. Have pity. Two? Or the other one! Anything — just don’t — just don’t —

There comes a point with pain where it comes round so far as to choke itself. A closed circle and a suffering body trapped inside. And after that flash of agony – a first world-blinding taste – all that’s left is shock. No pain at all, but no mercy in its absence.

Simra woke in its grips again. A blazing white blanket, shrouded round him, tight as tight and no give to worm free — like the Riftfolk wrap their dead when they give them to the sky. The white turned blue. Locked inside himself, he had no breath to scream. And then again it passed. Like it always passed. Like it never seemed it would.

Sweat stung his skin. Hard to tell now what he was blinking back — if the salt-soreness at the corners of his eyes was cold sweat or hot tears. It didn’t matter, he told himself. He was in a darkness, he told himself, while the deed and the dream had been in daylight. He was tangled in his bedroll, the fur and fabric muddled in knots from the kick and thrash of his feet. It didn’t matter. And the pain was only ghost-pain, left from things gone by. That he’d fixed – or tried to fix – and survived.

Still here. Still here. His heartbeat slowed. Still here, for whatever small and snide consolation that was.

The pain let go, leaving Simra in his body. Factual, actual — the only hurt left was real. Minor. Small and bitter tattoos, invisible all on the length of his body. Like every sleeping scar of a sudden had come awake again.

Dividing past from present, and scars from new soreness, Simra counted them. Sometimes counting helped.

Four dull and piercing things, pricked on his palm’s rough belly. His fingernails did that, hand against hand with the seizing ache in his knuckles. A jarring stiffness in all the workings of his right hand, line by line and tight in his tendons. Last of all was the crick in his neck and shoulders, knotted wooden from sleeping on too hard a floor.

No, not a floor, came a smug reminder from somewhere inside him. A deck.

Simra fought free of his bedroll and into the darkened cabin. The ceiling was cramped down low and the walls were slanting, narrow. The trap he’d dreamt himself into had been worse, but this only echoed it. Get out. He had to get out. Like waves the last had receded, but its waning strength only shared into the next one. A new wave of panic.

“No no no no no…”

He rested on his knees a moment, breathing, eyes shut tight. Hung his head and knuckled his eyes til purple-blue lights blossomed into the blackness. A thing to focus on. He felt the pose open him up — the knotted muscles in his neck and upper back. And that was good. But sweat had turned his hair to yarn – disgusting – and it stuck to his cheeks and eyelids, his jaw and throat. He brushed it back, gasping in a thin breath. His hands were still shaking, unsteady, and he cursed them in a snarling whimpering whisper:

“Grow some fucking bones.” Words in the Grey Quarter patois he still thought in, dreamt in, and spoke in when he spoke to himself. “Pitiful. You’re mended. You lived. So I fucking swear by bones and blood, if you keep acting like you’re still fucking broken…”

He took a long breath. Steady on the inhale, but the outhale shuddered. It was enough. It was good enough. It was a start. Rolling his neck on his shoulders, twisting the column of his neck til it clicked, and clicked, uncricking, Simra remembered he wasn’t alone. Almost started talking to himself again – idiot, in here when anyone could hear; Noor; the fucking boatmer – but turned the words to a short and pitying laugh.

Out, he told himself. He had to get out. The thought this time was a calmer one. He felt his way to the cabin’s low kennel of a doorway and crawled through.

By night the boat’s fan-sail was furled and the mast taken down. The long shallow hull drifted slow. The boatmer’s black-haired daughter sat asleep at the stern with the one great oar cradled in her arms. Though asleep perhaps wasn’t the word for it. Magic maybe, or some strange training of the mind, but she and her father had some way of keeping the boat on-course, even while they slept — or else slipped into this trance of theirs that let them rest and work, both at once. She steered while the riverflow carried them.

Here the dark was softer, its hold more fragile beneath a sky shared full of stars. Red shouts of colour and blue antumbra strayed through the night overhead, aglow with starlight. Constellations and scattered strays of light, named and nameless mingled in the bright-filled black.

But close to the ground the world narrowed down. A dim ring of muddy grey light from the bug-lamps hung at prow and stern. Jars where living things flitted and fought, dashing dumb their hopes over and over against the crude glass that kept them. Shimmering half-reflections on the water round the boat, but after that, nothing. No banks to be seen. Just the black and blocked off sections of sky where Simra reckoned there ought still to be mountains.

The boat itself stank ripe with the things that lived in water. Simra’s face crumpled coming out into the reek. Something fishy and lingering from the basket where the boatmer kept bait. Another covered basket Simra knew was full of shells, cracked open and wrenched from the hand-long waterlice they caught and ate as they went. Grey-white flesh; blue-black shells. They tasted good enough when fresh and simmered for soup, but the shells smelt awful only hours later. Kept for profit somewhere down the line, Simra supposed. Sold to be made into chitin or resin. That must be it, or else where was the blighted point?

“Already paying seven fucking yera for sixty-some fucking leagues,” Simra muttered, voice thick. “Think they wouldn’t need to…”

Smell aside, the sky might have been soothing. The sky, the river’s slow amble, the open air and Sun’s Dusk chill. The chance to feel alone, and remember where he was. When he was. And that all the rest was in the past, or else was kept for dreaming. It ought to have been easy.

Making himself shrug, Simra pulled his sister’s jacket around himself against the stubborn cold. Coming on year’s end, and again he wasn’t dressed for it. Of layers he had plenty – could wear them all at once as he’d done through five Winters already – but by now he ought to have bought or taken a coat.

“Son of skyrim…” he muttered in monotone. “Tscht! Y’oughtta know better. But when’ve you ever?”

He kissed his teeth. Sometimes the talking helped too. Words were good for that. Taking up most of his mind so nothing else could find room to echo. Not that they’d help him back to sleep, but he doubted now anything would. With or without, he was tired these days. Knew the rhythm of this by now. Besieged by the grey, and with nothing to do but wait. No strength to be found save in stubbornness.

He stayed up. Waited and longed for the dawn. And in time he watched it break, red heart and hems of gold, before the boat’s blunt prow as the river Balda washed them East. There was a metaphor in that. A poem maybe. A bad one.

The others came out in time, much as he dreaded them.

Tammunei first. Like a burrowing things feels the moonrise even from underground, they came out from the cabin and onto the deck in time with the dawning sun.

Their hair was in red disarray, long down their back and wild by nature, but pulled and tugged hopeless to heel. A jagged bun behind their head; new-made braids hanging down, but already beginning to fray.

The long angles of Tammunei’s eyes narrowed to a bleary squint. They turned their head, bird-quick, to look at Simra with their good eye til a frown formed on their face. Tammunei treated silence like a third speaker in any conversation. Handled it with hands more careful than their own clumsy fingers ever were. They waited for the silence to finish its turn, then at last, thick-voiced, they spoke:

“Did you sleep?”

Simra raised a hand, flat, to make a vague gesture. The other mer only bit their lip, not understanding. Simra couldn’t blame them…

“A little,” he said. “Not a lot.”

Words to himself came easy enough. Scathing ones easier than most. This morning, words to others were harder.

“Not well, I don’t think.” Tammunei pursed their lips, full mouth fuller for a small mulled moment. “Chewed up and spat out — that’s what you say, isn’t it? When someone looks worn?”

Not what Simra said. Someone else. It was something borrowed. Moridene. He’d seen her again any number of times since last he’d seen her, but only in dreams and reveries. Falling, or crying out, fighting the same people trying to heal her…

Simra nodded. Tammunei knew what that meant, at least. “Get some fresh air and strong tea in me, I’ll be fine enough.” His nose wrinkled, noting the smell again. “Rejuvenated…”

The banks of the river by now had risen out of the dark. The mountains of Stonefalls ridged up in the leftmost distance. Simra sniffed, seeing their tops were already frosted white. All the rest was swathes of grass and struggling patchy scrub; highlands shading down into plains.

Floodplains soon, Simra remembered. The way to Old Ebonheart was mud and bog, for leagues on leagues on leagues. Pools of brack or veins of clay. Strange spits and inlets of seawater, lost on its way back from high tide, like islands on the inverse — scraps of ocean in an ocean of land.

He’d hated it then, years ago. Ruined his boots; rusted his sword til it stuck all but solid in its sheathe. A thunderstruck taste in every thick gulp of air.  He’d hate it all the worse now, he reckoned. Small mercy that their path led a different way. There are other roads to Vvardenfell than over Scathing Bay. Even if this was not the one he’d choose…

They’d squabbled the route no end back in Bodram. Back when Simra still had some squabble-strength in him. He and Noor and Tammunei — each had tried to pull the path their own way.

Noor wanted sky and wind and breeze-licked grasslands. The mountains troubled her. The Sadras troubled her. Towns, she said, and walls, and bread, and shame boxed in by darkness — she’d had enough of those. Grown weak on them, she said. Better they travel by strength all their own than be floated overwater like cargo, spoiling with every passing day.

But of strength she still had little enough. Would need longer rest to recover it. She’d all but drowned herself in the flow of ghosts she’d joined together. Starved herself by distraction, down in the maze she made Wasted muscles and hollow cheeks.

Tammunei was easier to please. All they wanted was to stay far from Scathing Bay, where Vivec once had been. Where they must have tried to cross before, and must have been turned back. All that death, Simra supposed. If Bodram howled like it had in Tammunei’s mind, what would so large a city do? So many lives blinking out at once…

Simra would’ve sooner hired onto a boat upriver. High and Low Silgrad, buying parchment on the way – a coat maybe – then trekking the path to Veranistown and on by boat to Balmora. Expensive, yes, but it suited his purposes. Left open a scant skinny chance… And like Tammunei, he couldn’t face the land-bridge. Scathing Bay didn’t trouble him, but what came before..? He couldn’t go back. Not to Old Ebonheart.

Noor got her way. By then the grey had set in, and stolen most of Simra’s will to object. It was Tammunei convinced her that a downriver boat would see them on the plains faster. In truth, Simra reckoned it had been one of Tammunei’s rare flickers of guile — making sure their sister had longer to rest before the time came to walk.

Deshaan, then. An east-tending arc through its northern plains, once the river forked and they left the boat. A long way around and torture by foot. Simra knew that, but his tongue wouldn’t form the words.

“Fine enough for what?”

“…Mmh?”

“What will you be fine enough for? After you’ve had tea and fresh air?”

“Oh…”

Simra frowned. Tammunei had broken him out of his thoughts. Snatched a hole in his silence. Times were that would’ve brought a prickle of irritation. He might have snapped back, in the mornings most of all. Now the answer caught in his throat: nothing.

He sighed. Forced a smile onto his face. “Anything, I reckon. Within reason.”

Tammunei was easy to lie to, but not even they seemed to believe him now.

“You’ll be able to walk?” they asked.

“Fucking hope so…”

“There’ll be a lot of that, when we reach the fork.”

This time a streak of anger broke through. A brazen gleaming thing. “Never said it was a good idea, did I? Remember that when we’re halfway to nowhere and all the way from anywhere fucking else on – what? – our fifteenth con-fucking-secutive day of walking and a small voice in the back of your head pipes up and says ‘fuck this!’”

Tammunei didn’t flinch as Simra raised his voice. Still, they looked like they’d been struck — not a fresh blow, but a past raw and full of them. Already guilt ached in Simra’s gut.

“No,” Tammunei said, with painful patience, “but Noor did. And she knows the plains. She’s wise, and she’s Vereansu. So…”

“So trust in one who rode them. Half a lifetime in dreams, and half in my own skin.” Noor had crawled silent from out of the cabin too now, speaking Velothis. “The Deshaan Plains are in my blood, and my blood’s in them. My people’s bones lie at rest in their grasses.” She took a deep breath and let it go with relish before turning to Tammunei. “Zainab, is he?”

A week or more Noor had known him and still she spoke over him — about him, not to him.

“By blood,” he forced himself to cut in.

“Well…” she purred, voice gritting against itself as at last she looked at him. “Your blood ought to know that pull, then. Another plains people, the Zainab. Zainab, Vereansu — those’re names known by steppe and sky, Simra Hishkari. Perhaps Deshaan will do you good. Give you a taste of what you want. Perhaps not…”

Simra made himself smile and stay silent, deferring to the older mer. Already his anger had burnt itself out, leaving only bad blood behind. But inside his mind, cold and bitter, he cursed her. With Tammunei, the moment to say he was sorry had passed — washed away by her words. Her wisdom. And inside him the apology set unspoken, like a stone.

#TES #Morrowind #Dunmer #Simra Hishkari #SH Forth and Back #SH New Canon #Tammunei Ereshkigal #Noor Jedhredzuk