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dovakiinwitcher · 2 months

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Roy's Little Experiment

It had been a loooong day. Then again, that could be said for every day in Gotham. Robberies, muggings, drug deals-- Jason had seen everything short of murder.

Perhaps that made it a successful day.

Even so, he was exhausted. It was such a relief when the bunker he currently shared with Roy came into view. (Technically, they also shared it with Kori, but she was off-planet at the moment.) Either way, Jason was just happy to be home, however temporary or empty it may be.

The lights were mostly off, which was likely for the best; he could feel a headache coming on. The moment he was inside, he pulled off his helmet, shaking out his hair and running a hand through it. He tossed the helmet and his jacket onto the old couch they'd fished from the dump, before making his way towards the only room emitting a faint glow.

It was relatively small, with a single frosted-glass window high up in the wall, leading out into an alleyway above. The bunker was underground; better to remain undetected. The walls themselves were solid concrete, though riddled with cracks. The ceiling leaked when it rained, so there were a few buckets or bowls scattered beneath the heavy stains. Everything in the room had to be strategically placed in order to remain dry.

Despite the rundown, ramshackle foundation, this was their work room. Tools and spare parts were carelessly left about; finished and half-finished projects were stored in stacked boxes away from the leaks; everything was disorganized in an orderly fashion.

And there in the middle of everything, sitting at a long table and tinkering with some kind of gadget, was the reason Jason had gone to that room in the first place.

Roy was hunched over, his brow furrowed in concentration. His eyes shined as he worked, fascination and determination emanating from him.

Jason rested against the doorframe for a moment, affectionately watching him deep in his current fixation. A small smile slipped onto his face; he's so beautiful, he thought to himself.

Roy finally caught notice of him out of the corner of his eye. Turning in his swivel chair, he grinned brightly at the man in the doorway.

"Heya, Jaybird," he greeted, setting down a screwdriver. Upon taking in Jason's visible exhaustion, he opened his arms invitingly. "C'mere, you."

Gratefully, Jason wandered over and sat by Roy's feet, laying his head on his lap. His thighs were warm and soft, comfortable like the best pillow Jason had ever rested on in his life. Although, that wasn't the only part he was looking forward to.

As Roy resumed working, one of his hands played with Jason's hair, gently carressing his scalp. Jason sighed contentedly, relaxing into his soft touch. Roy's nails lightly scratched behind his ears, chasing away that initial headache.

This was one of the few moments when Jason could let his guard down. His mind fogged over, devoid of any stressful thought, focused only on the gentle tingles awarded to him by Roy's hands. It was bliss; free, unburdened bliss.

Jason wrapped his arms around Roy's torso, pulling himself slightly closer, melting into him. His warmth sent a wave of calm over the undead outlaw, the strong scent of whiskey and motor oil filling his nose. He felt light as air right here, like putty in Roy's hands; nothing could ever harm him again, so long as he remained.

A low, contented rumble in his throat prompted an affectionate laugh from the archer.

"Did you just purr?" He chuckled, running his thumb over Jason's jaw.

"Mmph," he grunted in response, too bleary to form words. Roy laughed again, an angelic melody to Jason's ears.

"Someone had a long day, huh," he teased. He lightly traced his nails over Jason's neck, inducing a shiver through his spine. "At least this means you'll have no trouble sleeping tonight."

"...'s alright, now that 'm with you."

Pink dusted Roy's cheeks as he registered the uncharacteristically sweet words; he really was tired. A fond smile tugged at his lips as he gazed at the dark-haired man in his lap. He's so beautiful, Roy thought.

As he dragged his fingers slowly back up Jason's neck, he felt a light trembling. It took him a second to realize that it was not the ground shaking, but Jason. A twinge of concern sparked in his mind, though the shaking stopped once his fingers reached Jason's hair again.

That was... interesting.

Peering at what he could see of Jason's face, he repeated the motion. Jason's shoulders tensed ever so slightly, shaking beneath his touch. His ears burned red, and a reluctant smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.

Out of curiosity, Roy continued to trace his neck, watching his reactions closely. When he'd stop, so would Jason's trembling shoulders. Conversely, when he continued...

A puff of laughter escaped the typically-stoic man, his shoulders hunching to protect his sensitive skin.

Aha. A slow grin overtook Roy's face, gleeful at this realization. He's ticklish.

Somehow, for as long as the red-head had known Jason, he'd never once considered it, much less tested or asked. Even while at the manor, none of his several siblings had ever tickled Jason in Roy's presence.

That didn't matter at the moment; no, for the moment, Roy had him right where he wanted him.

"Jason~" His voice had a sing-songy cadence to it. The man tensed as Roy freed up his other hand, then started gently kneading into the knots in his shoulders. "Are you hiding something from me?"

To his amusement, Jason squirmed a little, though didn't move away. With just the tips of his fingers, Roy traced shapes into his back. Lightly, he clawed his nails up Jason's spine, watching in satisfaction as he started shaking again, cracking a rare smile.

"Gosh, you're so tense," Roy teased, now gently tapping his fingers one at a time out towards Jason's shoulder blades. The latter tightened his grip around Roy's waist, hiding his face deeper into the mechanic's thighs. "You should really relax a little."

Roy experimentally skittered his fingers under Jason's arms. They immediately clamped down, pinning his hands there. A small smirk spread across the red-head's face as he continued to lightly wriggle his fingers in the space.

This time, he got another breath of laughter as Jason tensed against him. He squirmed up, away from Roy's lingering hands, but they only fell to tweak his ribs.

Finally, Jason had to pull back, letting go of Roy and leaning away. "Quit beheing a dihick," he warned, nervous giggles slipping into his words.

Roy only moved out of his chair to push Jason in response, making him lose his balance. The second his back hit the floor, Roy straddled his pelvis, a devious grin adorning his features.

"You haven’t seen me be a dick, yet," he replied, hovering his fingers over Jason's stomach. The red-faced man below hugged himself protectively, more nervous giggles spilling over his lips. Roy cocked his head. "I'm not even touching you."

"Shuhut up," Jason retorted, hiding his face in his hands. That unintentionally left his torso open and defenseless. Roy took advantage of the opportunity, fluttering his fingers over his stomach.

Jason's hands shot down to grab Roy's wrists, though it did little to halt the fingers from digging into his hips.

Roy couldn't help but laugh along as Jason threw his head back and arched his spine. His cheeks puffed, and he squeezed his eyes shut to keep in his own laughter. The blush had spread over his ears too, now, only making him cuter in Roy's humble opinion.

"I can't believe you would hide this from me, Jaybird," he teased, pinching his way up Jason's sides. Clearly, the grip on his wrists tried to hold him at bay, but every little poke drained the strength from Jason's arms. "I mean, look at your face! You're so cute~"

"Stohohohop thahat!" Jason protested, shaking his head defiantly. "Ihihi am nohohohot!!"

"Aw, don't say that about yourself, Jay." Roy tugged his shirt loose from where it was tucked into his pants, slipping his fingers beneath the cloth. A startled yelp escaped Jason as he tried to push his wrists away (unsuccessfully). "You're absolutely adorable."

His fingers traced over Jason's defined abs, drawing out those giggles from before. He enjoyed how Jason jerked and trembled when he continuously poked up and down his sides.

"Ahahack!!" Jason squeaked, hunching his shoulders. "Quihihit being so mehehean!"

"I can't believe how ticklish you are, seriously." Roy ignored his plea, dancing his fingers over Jason's belly button and hips. "You're almost as red as your helmet right now! Oh my gosh, this is amazing."

With a sudden burst of strength, Jason surged forward. He bucked his hips to throw Roy off balance before grabbing his shoulders and rolling him over, switching their positions. Pinning Roy's wrists on either side of his head, he grinned devilishly down at the startled red-head.

"What about you, huh?" Jason's husky voice sent a shudder through Roy's body, and he stared wide-eyed up into his determined grey irises.

"U-uhm, I- what a-about me?" Roy swallowed hard, breaking away from Jason's intense gaze.

The dark-haired man's grin widened, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. "How ticklish are you, Speedy? Why don’t we find out, hm?"

"Wahait, wait, I'm sorr-EEEEE!!!" Roy screeched as Jason's hands darted down to his underarms, digging into the soft skin. "Jahahay, plehehehease!!"

"What's the problem?" Jason teased, leaning his face closer to the squirming mechanic beneath him. "Can't take what you dish out?"

"Nohoho!!" Roy shook his head frantically, trying to wriggle out from under Jason's weight to no avail. "St-*hic*- stohohohop ihihit!!"

"Aww," Jason cooed, moving his hands down to Roy's hips. His thumbs kneaded into the crevices of his pelvis, eliciting a squeal quickly followed by hiccup-riddled giggles. "Who's red now, you little shit? Huh? Who's red now?"

"I haHAte yohohou!!" Roy's voice cracked as he pathetically batted at Jason's hands, which were now quickly traveling up his sides.

"Feeling's mutual, punk." There was a new glint in Jason's eyes as he plunged his fingers back into Roy's underarms. The red-head squirmed and thrashed beneath him, desperately kicking his legs. He threw his head back against the floor, gritting his teeth as he tried to retain some semblance of dignity.

With his neck now exposed, Jason seized the opportunity. He took a deep breath, then buried his face in the crook of Roy's neck, blowing a loud rasberry into it. The volume of that was nothing compared to the volume of Roy's shriek, which reverberated off of the exposed water pipe attached to the ceiling.

"NAHAhahoho!!" He writhed under Jason's touch, nuzzling against his cheek to try and push his head away. Jason didn't budge, peppering little kisses over his neck and jaw before once again blowing into the crook of his neck. "Dihick!! Yohohou're such a dihihihick!!"

"You started it," Jason retorted against his skin, now nibbling at his ear. His hands slipped out of Roy's underarms and down his ribs, dancing in the little crevices between each bone. "I'm simply returning the favor."

"Jahahay, plehehehease!!" He begged, pushing against his chest. "Cahan’t breheheheathe!!"

"Alright, alright," Jason sighed, sitting back and crossing his arms. Roy hugged himself, still giggling uncontrollably. "Now, what have we learned?"

Roy regained his breath, the giggles slowly puttering out. "Fuck around and find out?"

Jason planted a kiss on his forehead before unstraddling him and rising to his feet. "Pretty much," he shrugged, offering a hand. Roy took it, pulling himself up. Jason tugged him closer, wrapping a hand around his waist.

Roy rested his hand behind Jason's neck, tipping his head to lean his forehead again his own. "You're cute," he teased.

Jason slipped Roy's hand out from behind his neck and kissed the palm, closing his eyes. "And you're a little fucker who doesn't know when to quit."

The red-head laughed, rolling his eyes. "Right, the stubborn one here is me."

"What's this, an attitude?" Jason taunted, opening his eyes to peer at Roy. "Try me, Speedy; see where it gets you; I can go for round two."

He tweaked his hip, and Roy jumped away. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry," he grinned, catching Jason's wrist.

"Uhuh, I'm sure.”

#DC #batman #batfamily #jason todd #roy harper #jayroy #red hood #arsenal #sfw tickling community #tickle content #tickle fluff #tickle fic #tickle fight #t word community #t word #t word content

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starqueensthings · 7 months

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The Influx

Summary: Wrecker is down bad for the fisherman’s daughter, though he hasn’t been able to summon the bravery to approach her… until tonight.

Rating/WC/POV: Teen because of kissing, I guess? 5700ish, 2nd.

A/N: not proof reading before posting because it’ll take me 726 years until I’m happy. Damn my perfectionism.

Divider by the lovely and talented @saradika

The din of Kamino’s waves crashing against the towering spindles of Tipoca city had always managed to mollify him. The rhythmic lullaby of that treacherous tide licking the belly of the building was amplified even further if the ever-shifting cold front overhead had crafted a storm; that booming thunder providing a near-perfect percussion for the music of the sea, and it was a song that saw him snoring within minutes of tucking his toes into bed. Yet the stillness of the ocean here on Pabu somehow also commanded the power to soothe his soul, and it was a calm that he hadn’t initially recognized; the lingering repose that dichotomously accompanied the constant ebb and flow of the Pabuan sea was as foreign to him as the warm embrace and unconditional welcome from the island’s citizens.

If you asked him what it was that kept him returning to the pier every morning, he’d hitch a quirky smile to that scarred face, and toss his hand in a wave of casual dismissal before launching into a myriad of superficial reasons: the smell of the salt in the air, and the way the sun baked the taste into his lips so that every word spoken between departing the dock and stepping into the refresher tasted like the remnants of a pleasant day. He’d remark that the radiant warmth of the beaming sun never had him itching against the unwanted beads of sweat that had a tendency form in the center of his back, the breeze off the water mercifully preventing the heat from becoming all-consuming and rendering him uncomfortable like so many of his previous missions on desert planets. He’d point upward to the sky where the flock of gulls swooping overhead never abeyed their cries of delight as the salty spray tickled their webbed toes. He would tell you that the hobby of fishing had anchored him in a way that nothing else ever had, as his years of enlisted service had never awarded him the luxury of leisure time, the chance for a hobby, or the opportunity for quiet, reflective solitude. And it was all so foreign… so foreign and so wonderful, and he’d happily spend eternity dangling his feet over the end of that old, sunburnt pier if the universe would allow it.

And while all of the aforementioned reasons were undoubtedly true, and while Pabu’s casual ethos had offered him a sense of comfort that Kamino’s oppressive rigidity never had, the true reason behind his continued return was something he would continue to keep close to his chest.

It was you.

The sight of you. The thought of you. The ringing music of your laughter and how it relentlessly raised the hair on his arms despite the breeze having carried it several dozen feet down the pier. How the dazzling sunlight danced across the surface of the water and set your eyes aglimmer. The way you never failed to lose your footing and stumble as you stepped into the hull of your father’s boat, the goading churn of the water momentarily robbing you of the innate poise that had Wrecker nearly certain you were an angel. The way your brows furrowed in exertion as you unwrapped that weather-worn rope from its elegant coil around the wooden post anchoring your vessel to the dock and looped it carefully over the intriguing slope of your shoulder. The sound of that elated sigh pouring from your lips as you departed the pier for the solace of open water, arms thrown wide to embrace the wind as your father engaged the throttle…

But mostly it was the way his chest seemed to hollow and ache as your figure retreated toward the horizon. That unexplainable feeling of missing you despite hardly knowing you. The longing that lingered beside his heart in the wake of your departure. The potent elation that ignited like a fire in his gut as the bow of your boat reappeared amongst the orange glow of the setting sun, and the twitter of anticipation in his gut that simply refused to subside until your features were near enough to exude the pleasant exhaustion mirrored by your father.

Today, however, had brought an unprecedented and unwelcome deviation to Wrecker’s routine, and something near a debilitating disappointment sat heavily in his chest as the sun neared the apex of its journey across the sky. Despite the spotless curtain of blue overhead intensifying the enamouring hue of the water, there was no sign of you. Every gentle swell of the sea below the solemn swings of his feet saw your empty boat knocking rhythmically against the legs of the pier like a tantalizing reminder of your absence. The bountiful schools of exotic fish drifting merrily in the current below his perch only intensified his disdain as they refused to offer even a moment of consideration for the sparkling lure he’d lowered into their depths some hours earlier.

It wasn’t until the perseverant pangs of hunger swelled to waves of nausea did he finally concede to that sad sense of defeat and pull his bait from the water, shouldering his rod and retreating to the familiar cool, ionized air of the Marauder.

“What’s up with you?” Hunter probed upon his arrival, cocking an eyebrow at the chagrin ghosting behind his brother’s heavily scarred features.

“Nuthin’,” Wrecker fibbed with a halfhearted shrug. “Just overdue for some grub.”

His teeth sunk eagerly into the tangy flesh of the meiloorun Lyanna had tossed him from behind a stall at the market yesterday, but the sweet nectar pooling around his lips and dribbling down his chin only managed to only partially lift his sodden, dour spirits despite placating the emptiness of his stomach.

“No sign of your girlfriend at the pier today?” the sergeant jeered, leaning casually against the backrest of the navicomputer chair, folding his arms across his broad chest and surveying his brother with a knowing smirk.

“She’s not my g— wait, how’d you know?” Wrecker wiped the stray juices from his lips with the back of his hand before tossing the pit of the fruit out the open door of the ship, and into the seemingly waiting beak of a white gull.

“We bore witness to her participation in a tree planting ceremony this morning, down in the lower hills,” Tech offered from the cockpit, his interjection muffled by the abrasive whirring of the condenser perched precariously on his knees, his beloved spanner clutched tightly in a hand smeared with dark, oily coolant.

“Looked awful purdy too,” Hunter added with an infuriating wink, jestingly punching his brother's elbow before clunking down the ramp and into the last of the afternoon sunshine. “Woulda chatted her up myself if I didn’t think you’d knock me out for it…”

Wrecker’s lips had barely parted to confirm that violent notion when the sound of a sharp gasp sent his shoulders jerking in alarm, and a tiny hand immediately encircled the crook of his elbow, drawing his attention downward to the blonde bundle of joy bouncing up and down on her toes.

“Wrecker!” Omega shrieked, her free hand balled into a fist of glee and hovering in front of the radiant smile that had crinkled her big, brown eyes. “You have a girlfriend?! Who? Where? Can I meet her? Let’s go!”

“I would surmise that based on Wrecker’s continued, futile attempts at secrecy and the lack of colloquial interaction between parties, the female in question is not yet aware of his affection.”

As if the strenuous task of prying the cover plate from its position over the condenser's maze of copper tubing hadn’t rendered his features utterly demented by the duress of his efforts, Tech spoke characteristically passively. “And Wrecker,” he continued as the cover plate clattered to the floor at his feet, “You may be interested to know: Pabu’s current obtuse positioning in relation to its moon, combined with the planet’s 11 degree axial tilt, is due to largely shift the dynamic of the sea’s undercurrents. It is an anomaly known as ‘The Influx’ and it only occurs once every 12.63 years. While the effects of this deviation are negligible on land, the change in current will present a paramount opportunity for—”

“Ugghhh,” Wrecker groaned audibly, growing increasingly embarrassed that he hadn’t managed to conceal his crush as well as he’d intended. “Tell me later, Tech. I’m hittin’ the refresher.”

Ten minutes in the cool sonic and a mouth-wateringly fresh seafood dinner saw Wrecker nearly returned to the typical genial demeanor that had Pabu’s youth constantly prodding at his back. The intrinsic robbery of your absence that had simmered in his gut throughout the morning and mid-afternoon continued to dissipate the with diminishing daylight; the saturated hues of pink and orange sweeping across the sky as the sun began its nightly kiss atop the horizon felt like a divine reassurance that everything was precisely as it should be.

Barely an hour after their squad arrived in the courtyard for a much-discussed night of music and dancing, Shep and a handful of his closest friends emerged from behind the Tree of Life; their broad shoulders slumped under the weight of various musical instruments, and the smiles on their sun-kissed faces promised a evening of good tunes and wholesome merriment. A particularly mellow opening number saw Omega scooped into Wrecker’s large arms, her tiny hand enveloped in his as he waltzed them theatrically around in a circle, her giggles lost amid the obnoxious, off-key croon pouring shamelessly from his mouth.

“Wreck! 8 o’clock!”

Detecting the familiar urgency in his sergeant’s voice, Wrecker ceased his boisterous serenade and craned to peer over his left shoulder.

A tingle erupted underneath his skin upon seeing your figure retreat behind the tall, stone handrail of the grand staircase, and the serenity of which the sunset had endowed him was instantly swallowed by the ineffable desire to join you on whatever adventure had you bypassing a party and disappearing into the increasing darkness.

“Wrecker,” Omega whined, sending a sharp poke to his shoulder. “Why’d you stop?”

He shook the desire from his head and wrenched his unfocussed gaze away from the stone landing, and the contemplative hum pouring mindlessly from his lips as he hurried to redirect his thoughts into an excuse was, according to the blond bundle still perched on his arm, an inadequate replacement for his egregious singing.

“Because it’s my turn for a dance,” Hunter interposed, correctly recognizing the flummoxed expression on his brother’s features. “You can stand on my boots like last time. Wreck, why don’t you go down to the pier for a stroll?”

The implications of the wide-eyed, knowing glance that Hunter sent his way as he reached for Omega’s hands was not lost on the love-sick soldier, and Wrecker offered nothing more than an appreciative nod and a casual salute before lowering her to the ground and turning toward the stairs.

The pounding of his heart in his ears deafened him to the repeated clunks of his boots atop the stone, and the smattering of applause that succeeded the final ringing chord of the same song that had him unknowingly waltzing around the courtyard in front of your very eyes, offered a perfect distraction to slip, unseen, into the darkness.

But you were moving with intention, your purposeful strides hardly faltering in their cadence as you hopped down from the last step and headed along the same sandy pathway that Wrecker’s heavy boots traversed every morning. He stumbled slightly in his haste to catch you, adrenaline surging heavily through his veins as he recovered his footing and relaxed his grip on the handrail. “Cool it, Wreck,” he told himself, swallowing the lump in his throat and resuming his descent.

He, of course, knew your name, but he didn’t dare call for you; he wasn’t entirely sure what he would say if you acknowledged his summon and turned your beautiful eyes expectedly in his direction. Instead, he simply followed quietly in your wake, admiring the way the blossoming light of the full moon danced across your skin, and frantically trying to funnel the myriad of conversation starters whirling about his mind into one coherent salutation that he could offer when the time came.

“I thought that was you behind me, Wrecker.”

You spoke before he even had the chance, turning unexpectedly to face him when he’d reached a proximity near enough to hear you; the smile doming your freckled cheeks was a little too knowing to be effortless, though its unexpected emergence banished all hints of suspicion from his mind.

“Oh… uh…” he stammered, lifting to run a calloused hand along the back of his neck, his eyes darting away from yours and coming to rest upon the waistband of the cargo pants that hung just a little too nicely around your hips. “Yeah… I— I missed you this mornin’, and I saw you head down the stairs so I—”

“You missed me?” you interrupted.

He swallowed heavily again. Was it that tiny, innocent tip of your ear toward your shoulder that had his fingers fidgeting anxiously at his side? Or was it the gentle purse of those lips as you fought to repress that refulgent grin?

“Well… I didn’t miss you, miss you,” he digressed feebly, certain that the heat sending his cheeks aflame was also threatening to spout funnels of steam from his ears. “Well I did… but I didn’t see you this mornin’ is what I meant. I was here fishin’… and… and you were there… treein’.”

‘Way to be cool,’ he grumbled inwardly, only barely repressing a roll of his dark eyes as the music of your soft chuckle raised the hairs on his arms.

“Well, you’re not wrong,” you assured him with a shrug. “My father’s back was giving him grief this morning. I was hoping a little rest might get him back to normal for the influx tonight, but he’s still pretty sore so I’m just going to have to put on my Captain’s hat and hope for the best.”

“The influx?” Wrecker repeated curiously, watching you step clumsily down into the hull of your teetering boat.

“Yeah,” you agreed once you’d regained your balance, jabbing a thumb over your shoulder toward the open water. “The undercurrent’s shifted south for the first time in years. Apparently it’s going to bring in some big fish from beyond the bay, and if I can wrangle at least a couple of them, it’ll give my dad the break that he needs.”

The ghost of Tech’s image flitted across Wrecker’s memory; his brows furrowed behind his goggles while he simultaneously snipped a copper cooling line and launched into a seemingly unimportant info-dump about an anomaly brought on by Pabu’s moon, and Wrecker was flooded with the irksome notion that maybe he should pay better attention to his brother’s verbose rambling.

“Well I’m not doin’ anything,” Wrecker offered with what he hoped was a casual shrug. “I can give you a hand, if ya want?”

His breath hitched in his chest as you paused, slender hand poised halfway toward the rope wrapped expertly around the post on the dock, eyes alight and twinkling as if impervious to the deepening nightfall.

“I would love that, Wrecker,” you finally admitted with an encouraging smile that sent his heart somersaulting into his belly. “Hop in.”

The moment he left the security of the dock and stepped carefully onto the rolling floor of the boat, his hands darted outward to steady himself. The addition of his weight in the vessel sent a cascading series of large ripples atop the surface of the water, and that moment saw him eternally grateful that none of his brothers were there to guffaw behind their hands at the way his knees wobbled with every step.

“Actually, would you mind driving?” you proposed as he turned and headed for the stern of the boat. “It’ll be faster if I unload the perimeter rods and fill the Livewell, as long as you’re comfortable behind the wheel?”

“Uhhhh, I don't know if you want me drivin’ to be honest,” Wrecker chuckled through an apologetic grimace. “My brothers are always tellin’ me I’ve got the spatial awareness of a blind bantha.”

The laugh that stole through your chest as you ignited a small lantern and placed it on the Skipper’s seat damn-near hypnotized him; that small shimmy of your shoulders under the exertion of your joy, the way your eyes crinkled shut to permit the expanse of your smile to dominate your features, and that absentminded little slap of the knee that gave away the authenticity of your mirth.

“Never heard that one before,” you chortled, sticking the Captain's key into the ignition and kicking the engine into life. “But I think you’ll be alright. Inside the bay is a zero wake zone anyway, so we can’t do anything more than glide until we’re out on open water. Just make sure to avoid the Narrows and we’ll be fine.”

Wrecker followed your subtle gesture toward the horizon, his eyes quickly falling upon the mentioned pairing of dark, jagged rock walls only visible by their stark contrast to the beaming reflection of the moon atop the placid stillness of the water.

“I trust you,” you added with a smile and an encouraging nod. “Come here. I’ll give you the low-down on how it all works.”

Inflated by your seemingly unwavering confidence in him, he returned your smile and trod carefully toward your position behind the wheel. It was a simple set up really, nothing like the vast array of intimidating controls distributed across the entire cockpit of the Marauder, and your gratifying gaze felt drastically less oppressive than the burn of Tech’s narrowed eyes every time someone other than Echo reached for the copilot wheel.

The Captain’s seat perched behind you appeared both squashy and weathered, the leather seat cracking and peeling in several places as its integrity failed to match the powerful union of saltwater and hot sun. The steering wheel near-perfectly matched its seat counterpart, worn in the two places where your father’s practiced hands had undoubtedly spent decades navigating the vessel. Perched on the dashboard was a small, primitive compass, its needle timidly reorienting as every churn of the sea below them shifted the vessel. On the left was the throttle lever, and immediately adjacent to that, a sonar screen of-sorts was already depicting various subaquatic movements of which Wrecker could make very little sense.

“Give me your hand,” you requested kindly, reaching for his palm without even a breath of hesitation.

Your touch was mystifying; as mesmerizing and powerful as a bolt of Kaminoan lightning, setting his very nerves aprickle as if waves of electricity were coursing under his skin from the place your fingers had touched his.

“Right now we’re in idle—”

He could barely discern your words over the pounding in his ears, yet he hung on every syllable as you gently draped his palm over the handle on the throttle.

“—first gear is one notch down, second is down one more, and then reverse at the bottom—”

Surely you could hear his heart pumping so thunderously against his chest? And if that beaming moonlight wasn’t exposing just how flushed his cheeks had become, he’d eat his own boots. Yet you looked upward at him with that same adoring smile, as if there wasn’t a force anywhere on the planet that could deter you from keeping your hand atop his.

“—stay in first while we’re in the bay—”

Was his touch sending your stomach aflutter too? Were you as enamored with his eyes as he was with yours?

“—once we get past the rocks, change to second and we’ll head a few klicks west to get to where the rock shelf drops off—”

Was it painfully obvious just how much he was struggling to focus?

“—I’ll give you a thumbs up from the stern when we’re in the right spot. Sound good?”

“Glide while we’re in the bay,” he somehow repeated, his self confidence failing to reach the same degree of your implicit trust in him. “Second gear once we pass through the rocks, and then go until you give me the signal. Got it.”

With a level of concentration typically reserved for manning the tailgun amid a firefight, Wrecker furrowed his brow and steered the boat from the dock as you stumbled toward the starboard side of the boat and began unlatching several compartments.

Gliding across the still waters of the bay, where his reflection shone as clearly atop the surface of the water as it would in the refresher mirror, offered him a sense of glorious insignificance. The expanse of the sea felt nothing like the immensity of the sky where the utter lack of organic life often felt suffocating and restrictive. Below the tipping hull of this old boat was a world of its own, teeming with action and eternally unaffected by the ruination of war and destruction; a self-sustaining paradise for every ecosystem that resided amongst the currents, and he knew instantly this was a sensation that would have brought all of his brothers to their knees.

Yet nothing commanded his admiration quite like you did. He watched in pure adulation as you pulled half a dozen rods from a hidden storage container and laid them carefully on the floor. Horrified that whatever pitiful remnants of his composure might simply abandon him, he enthusiastically averted his eyes as you bent forward and disengaged the latch in the Livewell tank, filling it with the cool water needed to keep your bounty fresh and preserved until your return to shore. Once certain that your rear end was no longer pointed high in the sky, he risked another glance in your direction, only to have that devastating sense of longing surge through his chest. Framed by the dark outcrops of rock now flanking you on either side, your posture nearly stole his breath; arms thrown wide, head tipped back, and hair blowing wildly off your shoulders.

He stifled a grin and dropped his gaze to the throttle lever still casually anchoring his left hand. A little downward pressure had second gear activated, the engine roaring into life, and a genuine chuckle pouring from his salty lips.

The innocuous licks of the water tickling the sides of the vessel quickly turned deafening as each rolling wave saw the floor beneath his feet heaving and crashing onto the surface.

His arms were soon drenched in sea spray, yet he refused to shudder at the sensation as being on the open water, away from the shelter of shore and the stability of land was a feeling unlike anything else he’d ever experienced. It wasn’t isolating as he’d expected… he felt wonderfully small and truly free.

“You good back there?” you called to him, your voice almost entirely lost amid the power of the wind dancing across his ears and around his neck.

“I’m great!” he shouted back, savouring the way you beamed at him.

He’d never know if it was minutes or hours until he caught sight of your promised signal, the roar of the engine subsiding to nothing but a quiet hum as he returned the engine to idle.

“I think we’re in the right spot,” you sang, excitement triggering you to rub your palms together. “Can you help me toss the lines out?”

“Now that I can do,” he chuckled, cracking his knuckles before scooping the lantern from the skippers seat and departing the wheel.

“As far as you can,” you encouraged, taking the lantern from him and exchanging it with the nearest rod. “There’s holders every couple feet. We’ll cast out and then cross our fingers.”

The praise that you bestowed upon him after every broad toss of the line into the water swelled his chest and widened his shoulders. It wasn’t until each rod had been situated carefully in a holder, and the lantern placed delicately on the ground between your feet and his, did Wrecker’s gut begin to simmer with nerves once again.

“Where are you from?” you asked through the ringing quiet, the only discernible noises above the rhythmic licks of the water were the tiny clicks of each reel unspooling more and more line as the turbulent waves pulled the lures deeper below the surface. “I see you every morning at the pier but we don’t ever get to talk much.”

“I’m uh… from Kamino.” He tore his eyes from the nearest rod and glanced bashfully in your direction.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it,” you admitted with a snort, hands reaching delicately for the nearest rod and slowly cranking the reel to recoil the line. “But my father and I landed on the island when I was a little kid and we haven't left since, so… I’m a little bit sheltered. What’s Kamino like?”

Wrecker let a contemplative hum issue from his nose, his mind whirring as he tried to find words to properly describe the insufferable sterility of Tipoca City, and the complicated relationship he’d had with it before its obliteration. “It’s… Kamino,” he finally replied. “And most of it’s destroyed now. It used to storm almost every day. If we got even a splinter of sun, we’d all fight to get to the windows so we could look outside. It was a water planet, so the cities were built up on tall towers in the middle of the ocean. But it's weird… the sea there isn’t like here. It was rough and dangerous, and so cold that every time you got splashed, it felt like you were getting stung by somethin’...”

“Was there no land?” you asked incredulously, those enticing lips parting just enough to distract him. “How did you get your hands dirty as a kid?”

“Well… we found ways,” Wrecker shrugged, looking downward at his palms. “Me and my brothers were always gettin’ into somethin’ we shouldn’t have been. I’ll never forget the time Tech asked me to hang him upside down by the ankles so he could crawl into the garbage chute. He… uh… he likes researchin’ things, and there’s not much else to research on Kamino. I could hear him gibberin’ on about compost while he was hangin’ there, but Nala Se snuck up behind me and scared me so bad that I let go.”

“Let go?” you snorted, eyes wide and sparkling. “You dropped him into the trash?!”

“Not on purpose,” Wrecker defended with a reminiscent smirk. “But yeah. It’s alrigh’ though. He was only mad for a few hours, then he paid me back by lecturing me about fruit flies and their ‘growth cycles’ for a week.”

“I like him already,” you grinned, turning your attention back to the spool in your hands. “He sounds kinda… different.”

“He is,” Wrecker affirmed with a nod, failing to stop that smile that always peeled across his face when he spoke of his family. “All of us are in our own ways.”

“Well, can I meet them?” you queried, glancing back at him with your eyebrows raised.

“You— you want to?” he stammered back.

“I’d love to… if that’s alright with yo–?”

A loud gasp fractured your sentence, the rod in your hand having lurched nearly entirely from your clutches as something below the rippling surface of the water bit down on the lure and took off. Your body leaped into almost masterful action, your hands intensifying their grip around that graphite pole while your left leg lifted to brace yourself against the powerful tug toward the water. Wrecker froze in place, his mind still twirling happily with the notion of you wanting to meet the people he loved most, and it wasn’t until you muttered a string of undignified curse words did he reawaken to the challenge at hand.

“Maker,” you gasped as you lost your balance, your foot slipping from its position perched on the side of the boat and sending your hip crashing into the wall. “Wreck! Can— can you grab the net?”

Wrecker swallowed at the sight of the rod in your hands bent nearly in half under the duress of the unseen prize still desperately fighting for its freedom in the depths of the dark water. “Wrecker! Net!” you urged as you stumbled again.

“Net…” he repeated frantically. “Right.”

It must have only been seconds… fractions of seconds since he stooped to snatch the tool from the floor, but by the time he’d straightened up, the entirety of your torso had disappeared over the side of the boat, the muscles in your legs still seizing in an effort to keep you upright despite that unrelenting pull downward.

“This— this fish is… huge,” you managed to choke out.

The next several seconds played out in half time; each moment lasting two, each movement lagging as if the events were truly happening in slow motion. Your feet departed the floor, the soles of your shoes rising to waist height… then higher… as your body teetered over the edge of the boat, anchored in place only by the bend at your waist, and even that feeble grip began to diminish as the struggle to subdue your monstrous catch continued. Wrecker acted without coherent thought, darting forward and wrapping his arms around your waist to secure you, lest you tip any farther forward and disappear into that surging sea.

Your addition of your weight was nothing to him, even combined with the efforts of the still unseen aquatic beast, but now free of the risk of toppling overboard you seemed to funnel every ounce of energy into rigorously cranking the line back onto the reel. He took a step backward and away from the water, determined to keep you safe and dry, but a foreign object had found its way into the path of his retreating boots, and his heel knocked heavily against something before his ears were met with a deafening shatter. The boat was thrown into darkness, and the pair of you toppled with a thunderous crash to the floor.

There wasn’t the time or the wherewithal to relish in the feeling of your body against his. He saw his hands clutching tightly at your hips before he even felt them under his fingers. He could smell the pleasant aroma of your hair in his nose before he’d even realized he was sprawled onto the damp floor with your body perched awkwardly atop of his, and that musical laughter began pouring from your smiling lips before any semblance of understanding returned to him.

And when it finally did? Panic… erupting inside of him like a volcano. He was holding you. You were on top of him. He could feel every swell in your body, every subtle shake of your laughing shoulders. He could count the freckles on your back. He could feel your hand placed gently atop his. The rear end that he’d deliberately avoided ogling at was now nestled securely in his lap and it threatened to utterly destabilize him.

“Maker, we botched that one didn’t we?” you chortled as you shifted your hips and tumbled off of him, rolling onto your back beside him and nudging the now shattered lantern out of your space. “I think I lost the whole rod.”

He attempted to clear the shock from his throat, yet his lungs seemed to be completely void of the breath required to complete the task and nothing but a strangled choke left his lips. His skin was on fire. Spiked adrenaline was threatening to set his hands atremble. Surely this is how he would die… lovesick to the point of suffocation. Not falling from a towering height like his nightmares had always imbued him with, but laying side by side with someone who he cared for so deeply that even breathing felt like a challenge.

“Thanks for saving my ass, Wrecker,” you spoke, nestling your head against his arm.

You shifted your gaze to look upward at him, that beguiling twinkle in your eyes somehow even brighter now that the lantern had been extinguished; those stunning glassy orbs sending his mind spinning near-painfully as he fought to find the cognition to answer you.

“You’re… you’re ass—” he stammered, feeling his face burn red hot. “I mean, you’re welcome!”

A delicate snort was your knee jerk response, and the silence that ensued afterward was so stifling… so insufferable… that Wrecker was half a heartbeat away from clambering to his feet and pitching himself headfirst into the water to escape the embarrassment.

“Wrecker…” you mumbled suddenly, breaking into his panicked thoughts. “Why did you come find me tonight?”

“Because…” he started quietly after swallowing heavily. “Well because I— I wanted to see you.”

“Do you maybe want to see me more often?”

He snapped his head in your direction, brows furrowed together as the implications of your questions flitted into his brain. “I want to see you all the time,” he answered, his gaze betraying him by darting back and forth between your eyes and your smiling lips.

“Me too.”

His lips fell open as those freckled cheeks drew nearer, your sparkling eyes disappearing as your lids fluttered closed. He froze, his own sight disappearing as your hand reached forward and cupped around his jaw, your lips descending slowly and tenderly onto his. An explosion unlike anything he’d ever crafted went off in deep in the part of his stomach where only the deepest and most intense feelings emerged; euphoria had him utterly floating. There was simply nothing else. No one else. No fish in the sea. No stars in the sky. Nothing but the warmth of your hands on his skin, and the gentle swipe of your tongue along his lip. His hand found the curves of your body without coherent thought, pausing to linger at the curve of your hip for only a moment before trailing softly up your back until his fingers wove themselves into your hair.

But it was over before it began. You pulled from him abruptly, head snapping around as three more rods suddenly began to whir and noisily unravel their tightly coiled spools of line. “Oh, Maker,” you sighed. “How about you reel them in this time, and I’ll net and tank them?” you proposed.

“Deal,” Wrecker answered, shaking his head in complete disbelief as you stood up and darted towards the farthest rod.

ragu list: @anxiouspineapple99 @sinfulsalutations @nobody-expects-the-inquisitorius @starrylothcat @secondaryrealm @dystopicjumpsuit @freesia-writes @sev-on-kamino @littlemissmanga @523rdrebel @wings-and-beskar @wolffegirlsunite @sunshinesdaydream @clonemedickix @echoqk @drafthorsemath @jediknightjana @moonlightwarriorqueen @starstofillmydream @trixie2023 @mooncommlink @multi-fan-dom-madness @wizardofrozz

#wrecker wednesday #except its Thursday and I suck #bad batch fanfic #Wrecker fanfic #Wrecker x reader #Wrecker x fem!reader #tbb fanfic #starqueenswrittenworks #queued

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the-90s-music-colosseum · 6 months

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Round 4 Match 8

propaganda below the cut!

Jeff Buckley:

"his vocals are the closest thing we have to angels"

"Fun fact: you can tell how long you are into a Jeff Buckley concert is by how many buttons of his shirt are still fastened. Also he has a nice shiny and pretty chest."

"he is the tear that hangs inside my soul forever"

"I tried to write something clever but he's so pretty that when I see him my brain just goes blank."

Fiona Apple:

"look at HER she is literally every fish in the sea"

"She feels like a criminal, I feel like I'm in love with her."

"everything about her is so beautiful to me. her voice is bewitching. her music has the very sexy quality of triggering feminine rage, and she did one of the sexiest things a musician can do: get blacklisted for saying something true at an awards ceremony <3"

#most attractive 90s musician #poll #polls #90s music #tournament #jeff buckley #fiona apple

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mrsreinhart · 1 year

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Lili Reinhart - Grazia Italia Interview

In the cult TV series Riverdale we met her as an always fearless heroine, often forced to confront others and with herself. But even in real life American actress Lili Reinhart, 26, has often found herself having to look within to overcome difficulties.

At 14, when she was already determined to pursue a career in acting, she was diagnosed with a form of depression. Very young, she went through anxiety attacks and various kinds of difficulties, not least that body dysmorphic disorder that leads her to see herself differently from others and to suffer from some physical characteristics that she perceives in a distorted way.

Reinhart has therefore become the champion of the battles for mental health and for the acceptance of different types of beauty. She didn't hesitate to expose herself even to a global celebrity like the queen of social networks Kim Kardashian: the actress found that losing so much weight and in a short time to get into a dress that belonged to Marilyn Monroe was not a good example for her women who have difficulty accepting their body.

At the Women in Film Gala 2022, Lili then received the Max Mara Face of the Future award, dedicated to emerging actresses. «My family», declared Maria Giulia Prezioso Maramotti, «has built a company that honors and celebrates women, above all in the arts. We wanted to award the prize to a young artist who embodies our values, but who is still evolving. What Lili is going in is an excellent direction to follow.

I meet Reinhart in Los Angeles, while she's curled up in the make-up artist's chair for Grazia's fashion shoot that you see in these pages. She remains seated for a long time with her legs pulled up to her chest, a position that evokes the tenderness of a little girl. But she talks to me about serious topics and does it with honesty and depth, even when it comes to revealing the most intimate aspects of her life. She became a global celebrity thanks to the character of Betty Cooper in the TV series Riverdale, which reached its seventh season.

Do vou ever think that the success of this role has somehow slowed down your career as an actress?

I am grateful to Riverdale for everything it has brought me. If I'm sitting here with her now, it's because of the success of the show. But at some point in life, it's time to move on."

Do you feel that you have something to prove to others or to yourself?

I've been acting since I was 12, l've come a long way since then, but I think I haven't yet fulfilled my potential. And this is a challenge for myself. I want the actors who inspire me to talk about me, I want to go far and deserve it. For the past seven years, I've been doing a teen show, Riverdale, with a style that isn't necessarily. what i prefer. But Riverdale it has been incredibly successful and takes up practically all my time, so it has been difficult for me to seize other opportunities

Have you had to make many job cuts?

Last spring I was offered a role that I wanted to play with all my heart, but unfortunately the dates did not reconcile with the filming of the show. It was devastating to say no.

What was she like as a child? Did you imagine that when you grew up?

| was an introvert, I lived in my own little world and I always felt a bit isolated. I think I have an old soul, with my peers I felt like a fish out of water and I didn't quite understand which was the right place for me. Just yesterday I was talking to my mother about when I enjoyed dressing up as a child. We had a box full of costumes we'd collected over the years, I even changed three times a day. I put on plays and plays for my family, I always wanted to perform. So, in the end, I moved on to the theater up to television and cinema.

Was performing a way of expressing yourself?

Some people are naturally outgoing, funny. I felt I could only be by performing. I was very insecure and acting gave me the opportunity to explore sides of my personality that I would not have known otherwise.

And i also brought out a very intimate and vulnerable side by writing a book of poems, Swimming Lessons: Poems ("Swimming lessons: poems").

Yes, it was a time in my life when I felt like I wanted to. to do something that came exclusively from me and over which I had total creative control. I was very nervous at first, because it was a bit like sharing a diary with people who were ready to judge it and judge me. As an actress I feel safe, as a writer I don't: hence the negative comments on mine. book strengthened my fears. I know that no one would have paid attention to my poems if Lili the actress hadn't signed them, but I never had the claim. to establish myself as a writer. I'm a romantic and I just wanted to share a different side of me.

Don't you think maybe you're too hard on yourself?

I internalize a lot, especially the criticisms. After all, poetry is the way I express my emotions. What I wanted to convey was not, "Look at me, I'm a writer." | wanted to tell the people who follow me that I am an absolutely normal human being: I have feelings, insecurities, I struggle and face life's challenges just like anyone else.

She has often spoken about her insecurities, especially physical ones, and is a spokesperson for the "body positivity" for the acceptance of all physicalities. Do you remember the first time dysmorphia, a disorder you suffer from,presented itself?

I have an average build and, when I began to get to know the world of fashion and clothes better, I met models with very different physiques from mine. There have been times when the clothes they offered just didn't fit me. So I said to myself: "Why don't I have a smaller physique?". When a dress designed for someone two sizes smaller than you doesn't fit, you start to think you're wrong and you have to do something to fit the clothes. But in a young woman these thoughts can hurt a lot.

I recently Today, however, she sees her photos everywhere. What does it feel? She likes herself?

I talked about this with my therapist. In fact, I feel like i live in a sort of perpetual comparison with other, more glamorous versions of myself. I started acting as a child and learned that my body is always changing. Today I accept myself more and judge myself less, however Hollywood doesn't want you to get old and puts pressure on you for it. Don't you think it's crazy that at 26 | worry about not having the same face as when I was 19? Of course I don't have it! Even the one in these photos is certainly a more beautiful version of me: I'm not like this every day. Constantly having to show a better image of ourselves can play tricks on us, because it can make us believe that our everyday version is not enough.

And how does she find a way to get everyone along these versions of itself?

I can't, they don't get along. There is my everyday self that reminds Lili of the glamor that looks like this only if she is surrounded by professionals who they make up and comb her hair. But I'm making peace with the fact that first I have to learn to be okay with each version of me. For example, I now have an acne breakout. Who sees them? Acne has always triggered severe mental and emotional distress in me. It makes me feel bad and makes it difficult for me to appear in public or take pictures without makeup because I know my skin would otherwise look different than everyone expects. Instead I should think that a rash doesn't take anything away from me, it doesn't define me. It's always me. Unfortunately it's a constant struggle: I live in a world that demands perfection and, at times, I think I've begun to demand it too. But then I think that everything happens for a reason and maybe the reason why acne always shows up on my face is because I have to learn to love every season my skin and my body go through because that's right. I'm a human being, not a mannequin.

I couldn't help but notice the tattoo on her right forearm: an arrow.

I did it around 18, 19. It represents my battle against depression: an arrow can only go forward if it is first pulled back. It's like saying that, once you hit rock bottom, you can only go back up.

In which direction is it pointing then?

Forward, always. My mental health has its ups and downs and this arrow reminds me that I always manage to get out of it, because I'm a tireless fighter.

But, during this fight, I hope she takes moments to appreciate what she has achieved.

I appreciate my battles, it is thanks to them that I am such a strong person. I wouldn't change anything about me. Having had the experience of depression leads me to experience moments of joy more intensely and makes me establish healthier and deeper relationships. The moments of discouragement have taught me so much about myself and it is right that I experience them and face them when they arise, rather than trying to escape.

She was cast as the Max Mara Face of the Future. How does this recognition make you feel?

It's a complicated feeling to explain. It's hard for me to accept that people see me this way. I almost feel like I have imposter syndrome, because I don't think I've shown my worth as an actress yet. I have exposed myself as an activist for body positivity and mental health, but in my work I think I haven't given my best yet. I'm waiting for that opportunity, which is on the horizon, but l'm waiting. So to receive the award before I've even been able to demonstrate what I think I can do as an actress is very encouraging. And I'm grateful because this recognition makes me understand that l'm already doing something good.

-Credit to lililovebots on Twitter for posting the interview.

#tried to translate the best I could #lili reinhart #grazia italy

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dasenergi · 9 months

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Do we call this the Friday Fifteen???

Are you named after anyone?

My father's name is Scott and his brother's name (my uncle) is David.

Do you have any kids?

Two! They are 21 and 24.

Do you use sarcasm a lot?

No. IMO: Being straightforward is more kind. There is less ambiguity, less confusion. Good communication is key in all aspects of life.

When was the last time you cried?

I think that was on Tuesday or Wednesday, watching the season 2 finale of "For All Mankind" on Apple TV+

What's the first thing you notice about people?

Are they smiling? Do they look kind?

Eye color?

Blue

What sports do you / have you played?

I played one season of Little League baseball because my parents were into baseball and we all want to make our parents happy. I was horrible at it. But I did manage one homerun because the other team kept making so many errors and I kept running.

Any special talent?

People. I can make you feel good. My hugs in particular. People crave them. They crave my touch. I am a reiki energy worker and healer. I transmute negative energy into positive.

Where were you born?

Born and raised in California

Scary movies or happy endings?

Happy endings

Do you have any pets?

At the moment just two fish and a snake.

How tall are you?

5' 11" just one inch short from six feet.

What are your hobbies?

Tumblr is a hobby, curating these spiritual memes. Also, watching classic movies. Reading. Swimming. Acting. Directing. Writing. Performance Art.

Favorite subject in school.

I took four years of Drama in high school. I was always cast as the lead in school plays (Like Danny Zucko in "Grease" and Ebeneezer Scrooge in "A Christmas Carol") and I also wrote/directed my own plays. I also enjoyed English and took creative writing classes at college while still in high school. (I even took a Creative Writing correspondence course before the internet was a thing. I mentored with a writer of children's books and a presidential speech writer.)

Dream job?

I think I've already accomplished all of my dream jobs. I'm a published author of six books. I'm an award winning director and actor. For over 20 years I've been working in the software industry. For eleven years I was a librarian. I've been the Creative Director of a theater. I'm a Performance Artist in the queer Los Angeles Performance Art scene. I guess all that's left is retiring and either being a hermit or a shaman.

*insert "why not both" meme here*

HEY YOU!! I like reading these. Will you do it too? Feel welcome to tag me so I don't miss it. I really do enjoy getting to know you better.

(With thanks to @notapennymore15)

#asks

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thecrimsondandelion · 1 year

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Richie is basically climbing the fucking walls. He’s got half his wardrobe pulled out and scattered over his bed, a mountain of florals, tacky t-shirts, and the few new suits he’s collected thanks to a certain Miss. Beverly Marsh.

He’s never had this much trouble trying to pick an outfit in his entire life. Not at prom, or at any award show he somehow managed to get an invite to. He’s gone on talk shows with a ‘MILF: Man I Love Fishing.’ t-shirt he found at Goodwill.

“I just don’t see what the big deal is.”

“Did you not hear me before? That me and Eddie are going on a date? Edward fucking Kaspbrak, love of my life since we were kids, know him?”

“How many times have you guys gone out together since he moved in with you? If I have to see another Instagram post where you both argue in the comment section like some weird mix of horny teens and an old married couple, I’m going to go crazy.”

“That’s different!” Richie whines, throwing himself back onto the heap of clothes on his bed, “Those weren’t dates, not like, officially.” They’d decided to take it slow and date first after a semi-heated kiss at the Benverly’s (as Richie lovingly called them, like the teen girl he was put into the body of a hairy middle-aged man) cabin, after a tipsy love confession. A love confession that Richie absolutely did not reply to with ‘That is so fucking neat.’ They’d gone out together plenty, but they both agreed to date like normal people would, like they might have done when they were younger if their lives hadn't been fucked up by the killer-clown-from-Outerspace.

“You sound so lame right now. I hope you know that.” Despite the comment, the layer of fondness was clear in Stan’s tone.

Richie pouts, mumbles a petty little, “No, you.” back.

“Anyway, back to the point. What the fuck am I going to wear?”

“You’re talking to the wrong Loser.”

“You’re so right, I don’t wanna turn up dressed like you, Grandpa. I’ll call Bev.” He pauses, pulls at a piece of skin on his lip with his teeth, trying to soothe his racing heart.

“Hey. You’re gonna be fine, Rich. And if Eddie breaks your heart, I’ll break his entire body, okay?” And fuck does that make Richie tear up a little, after all these years, even 27 of them apart, Stan was still particularly protective of him. Even against another of his best friends. His low self esteem appreciated the safety net of knowing that when if Eddie ever just got fed up with him, Stan would be there on his side. “Not that he’s going to. He’s just as stupid and in love as you are.”

“Aw, Staniel. You big ole softie... Thanks, man. Tell Pats I’m asking for her, yeah?” With that he hangs up.

For a moment Richie feels calm again. Until he looks at the mountain of clothes dumped out onto his bed. Fuck.

Bev answers on the second ring, “Hey, Honey! How’re-”

“Eddie and I are going on a date, what the fuck do I wear, Bev?”

She vetoes most of his wardrobe, Ben shows up for moral support too, like the angel sent from Heaven that he is. The thing is though, Richie feels pretty fucking awful leaving the house without his garish shirts – they're his armour. He can wear something fucking horrendous and it distracts away from everything that is him.

Miss Beverly Marsh knows this, and she simply won’t stand for it.

In the end he’s wearing a nice pair of black jeans, cuffed to show off the bright pink Monty Python socks that had been Okay'd so he could have at least one comfort item. And another compromise, a navy shirt with a subtle floral print. It doesn’t scream ‘Weird Al meets the Muppets.’ but it’s enough that it doesn’t make Richie feel stuffy and unlike himself.

“Lookin’ sharp, Richie!” Fucking Ben, so earnest and nice, Beverly coos at his side in agreement, giving a whistle as he’s forced to give them a turn. He’s not used to that kind of attention; he can feel his face heat up and the way his too-tall body wants to shrink in on itself.

“Have a good night, Sweetie! Remember to use protect-”

Richie cuts her off with a shout, suddenly feeling like a teenager being embarrassed by their parents before a first date, “Oh my god, Bev. Shut up.” She cackles good-naturedly at him, while Ben holds back a smirk.

The call ends and he feels sort of bad that Bill and Mike were left out of his crisis, so he shoots them a text: ‘Got a date with Eddie, literally going to die. See you in hell Billiam. I’ll miss you when you’re chilling up in heaven Mikey.’

He can only let himself be distracted by the other Losers for so long, and how fun it was to have his battle with Bill. But it’s creeping closer and closer to 6pm, he knows that he and Eddie will have to leave soon to make it to their reservation. So, he rubs his sweaty palms against the thighs of his jeans, sniffs his pits to make sure he still smells good, and pushes himself out to go knock on Eddie’s bedroom door – which he couldn’t help but achingly hope would become the guest bedroom again in the nearby future.

And isn’t Eddie just a fucking sight for sore eyes, his hair isn’t gelled back to oblivion, so it looks so soft, it curls around his face prettily. Makes Eddie look younger. He’s dressed up in clothes that cost more than Richie has ever spent on anything for himself, fucking Gucci loafers and everything. He looks hot as fuck, and he smells sweet and earthy.

Eddie also has the most shit-eating grin. “I hear you were having some trouble.”

“What? Which one of those assholes told you?” Richie would, in future, deny how whiny he sounded whenever Eddie brings it up to the Losers, when he brings it up at their wedding.

“Rich.” Eddie has the cutest, most devious fucking look on his face. Richie’s cheeks burn as his face is gently held between Eddie’s hands, he can feel the callouses from Eddie’s car endeavors, he can smell the cologne on Eddie’s wrist. “I could hear you, I’m across the fucking hall and you speak like you have a built in megaphone.” And Jesus God Damn Christ, Eddie says it like it’s a compliment, like it's something he adores about him.

Richie turns his face to hide it in the palm of one of Eddie’s hands and, again, whines. The part of him that overthinks, that hates every move he makes, tells him that he’s already fucked up. That Eddie is going to realize that he’s an idiot, that he’s a dork and completely and utterly out of Eddie’s league. As if Eddie isn’t the type to say, ‘See you later alligator.’ or ‘Okay-dokey.’ in a serious conversation.

“C’mon, we’ve got reservations and I’m starving my ass off.”

Richie makes a great effort Not to make a comment on how much of a tragedy that would be, because he really does love that little fucker’s ass.

He does let himself show a little vulnerability, “You still wanna go?”

Eddie cocks his head to the side and gives him the sweetest little smile, catches one of Richie’s hands in his own and gives it a squeeze, “Fuck yeah. You look too good not to, Trashmouth.”

#I wrote this from 2:30-3am forgive me #reddie #it 2019 #it fix it #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #richie x eddie #losers club #my stuff

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spnfanficpond · 3 months

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January 2024 Angel Fish Awards

(Angel Fish design by @slytherkins!!)

Every month all of you fantastic writers work your asses off to post some truly incredible stories. Our Angel Fish Awards are the way for all of us, as a community of writers and readers, to lift each other up and give praise to those who have captured our attention and deserve a few kind words. (Click here to learn more about how to nominate a fic for an award!)

Nominated by @heavenssexiestangel

The Unconventional Meet-Cute by @schizonephilim

I wanted to read something different from my usual go-to, and I had this story in my To Be Read 'pile' for a while, so I read chapter 1! I can't wait to read chapter 2. It's really well-written and the sexy times are awesome.

~*~*~

Nominated by @spn-fanfic-reblog-writes

Full of Grace by ilovehowyouletmefall (AO3)

I love this fic. I have read this thing so many times. I love the intimacy and how they develop organically. How Cas just takes why Dean gives and it’s how it should be in my head. It’s sweet and fluffy. I wish Dean would stop calling Cas “pal” as if he’s fucking Mickey Mouse and Pluto but it’s amazing. I return to it a lot. It’s a comforting story that deals with mental health and I’m glad it’s set in heaven.

Cuddle Deprivation by @destielshipper4cas

This is sooo good. It’s an incubus that feeds off affection and emotions through touch. It is so good. So fluff, Castiel and Dean confused about the different cultures, which I think is a great element because it's a common problem with relationships from people of different countries or even skin color at times. Must read.

Cuddlibus by @destielshipper4cas

It’s an incubus that feeds off affection and emotions through touch. It is so good. So fluff, Castiel and Dean confused about the different cultures, which I think is a great element because it's a common problem with relationships from people of different countries or even skin color at times.

Heartstring Promenade by @winchester-reload

This is the ending to the series I wanted.

Destiel's 1st Time by @chaoticmotherofall

Holy shit. Wow, primal. Rawr. Must read smut. I think it’s the scene most of the fandom would want to see if they could. Sorry, not sorry.

Dean's Delights by Redamber79 (AO3)

Destiel. Baker Dean. Can smell each other through blockers. Insecure Cas. Love it! He just wants to eat Dean up and kind of does! True mates are delicious, don’t ya think?

The Company by CasCase (AO3)

You’re gonna get intimidated by the language of ballet vocab but don’t worry, it isn’t important. It’s such an amazing love story and so well written. Wow. There is even artwork of the seriously important emotional scenes that just make it so much better. Omg! I wish this was a fucking movie because it’d be gorgeous!

Room for Two (The Mattress AU) by @almassi

Schmoopy fluffiness. I love it! I also love that Cas actually gets everything but doesn’t show it. Lol. He got the references.

truly there's nobody for you but me by Abi_in_the_Cosmos (AO3)

Omfg, hotness. Cas so teasing Dean. The shorts are used. The shorts in the BTS on the show of Jensen wearing denim short shorts, which of course Dean says they exist for an in-story reason. I don’t care. It’s great.

this heart and flesh shall fail by ValandraWrites (AO3)

Monsterfucker story, technically. Great story. Dean is not technically underaged despite what it says. Twist ending. Beautiful story with a sexy but sad twist.

The Biological Ways by @sitruunavohveli

Three words: Accidental office romance Destiel! A/b/o! Love it. Love that it’s Charlie too. Yay! I also am a huge fan of this author’s works. I’ve had the pleasure of working with them and they’re just amazing to work with. Please check them out.

Weighted by amireal, tiamatv (AO3)

I absolutely love this fic because I actually sleep with a weighted blanket and when my kids are sick, they love their own. I even have one in the car. It’s light but enough to feel it. This is just so fluffy and romantic all thanks to our favorite redhead introducing weighted blankets which helps so much. It’s been shown to even help babies but blankets aren’t great for them. Anyway, they’re so cute and that scene where Dean opens his eyes all slow and gentle with “hey”, just broke me. My husband and I do that periodically and it just means more snuggles and sleep. lol. Poor Castiel thinking he couldn’t have Dean which I understand since Dean has said so much he is straight or implied it rather often. Ugh. This was done so well. Thank you both!

~*~*~

Nominated by @deeranger

When There's Only You by AnOddSock (AO3)

It's such a visceral and extremely well-written story, dark and full of intense angst but at the same time it highlights that profound tenderness and affection between Sam and Dean. The whole "there is no me if there is no you". I was on the edge of my seat all the way through, my heart breaking for the brothers in such a delightful way. This fic is a great rollercoaster ride, like a dark porn with a substantial amount of well-thought-out plot. Heed the tags though... Your feels might not come out intact.

~*~*~

Nominated by @spnexploration

She Thought She Was Normal (series) by @aylacavebear

This is @Aylacavebear's first fic she's putting out into the wild and it's going to be a long multi-chapter journey. What a way to start! This first chapter takes us to poor Maria as a child, who has just lost her mother to a yellow-eyed demon, and Bobby sets her and her Dad up with Sam and Dean. Can't wait to see the whole journey!

Cuddle Deprivation by @destielshipper4cas

This was adorable!! The whole concept of cuddlibus was so cute and I loved when both Dean and Cas were trying to get more out of the relationship but thinking the other didn't want it. And including Sam's cuddlibus daughter was also adorable

Power Grows out of the Barrel of a Gun by Alaisabel (AO3)

I absolutely loved this AU. There are so many twists and turns and I had such a fun time working out what was going on. Dean is so anti-authority and he ends up in a relationship with Cas, a cop.

~*~*~

Nominated by @mrswhozeewhatsis

Fluffy Faerie Tales (series) by @ladylilithprime

This universe and the characters in it are so fascinating! Sam and Dean are half-fae, and Jimmy and Cas have a backstory that is wildly different than anything else I've ever read! (No spoilers!) Sam/Cas/Jimmy is a threesome I've never read before, I don't think, and I'm loving it. So far, all of these stories are filled with plenty of fluff, and the perfect way to end my day. Sweet dreams of faeries and friends are always welcome!

Cuddle Deprivation and Cuddlibus by @destielshipper4cas

I am now OBSESSED with the idea of cuddlibi!!! Like those who have nominated this story above, I find this idea adorable and sweet. And Cas is just SO SWEET! And there's so much delicious pining in both of these stories!! I now want to read ALL the cuddlibus stories!!

THANK YOU ALL, KEEP UP THE AMAZING WORK, AND AS ALWAYS, HAPPY WRITING!

- From your Admins and Manta Rays, @manawhaat, @mrswhozeewhatsis, @mariekoukie6661, @thoughtslikeaminefield, @spencereliotwinchester, and @heavenssexiestangel!

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spn-fanfic-reblog-writes · 4 months

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[ID: I absolutely love this fic because I actually sleep with a weighted blanket and when my kids are sick, they love their own. I even have one in the car. It’s light but enough to feel it.

This is just so fluffy and romantic all thanks to our favorite redhead introducing weighted blankets which helps so much. It’s been shown to even help babies but blankets aren’t great for them.

Anyway, they’re so cute and that scene where Dean opens his eyes all slow and gentle with “hey”, just broke me. My husband and I do that periodically and it just means more snuggles and sleep. lol.

Poor Castiel thinking he couldn’t have Dean which I understand since Dean has said so much he is straight or implied it rather often. Ugh.

This was done so well. Thank you both!

Followed by 27 red hearts emojis and one lip 😘 emoji]

#weighted #Angel fish award nomination #Tiamatv #amireal #ao3 #must read #weighted blanket #two author fic #fishing for treasure #destiel #human Castiel #charlie bradbury #dean winchester #recommended reading

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frodothefair · 3 months

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Expats. [Ch 1/?]

An Elijah Wood real person fanfiction.

Pairing: Elijah Wood x OC (Marina) Disclaimer: I have no affiliation with Elijah Wood, no offense or defamation is meant, and Marina is not real. Tags: @konjugaltdien @konartiste @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras @bumblingbriars @invisiblewashboard Summary: Elijah Wood gets romantically involved with a fan, and to escape some unexpected Hollywood drama, the two of them move to Ukraine, the country where she was born, and where she lived as a child. A/n: I went a little nuts. That is all. This could turn into a longfic... or into a post I delete the next morning. A scorpion bowl of the mind may have been involved.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that every fan dreams of being with their idol, and it is a truth equally well-acknowledged that it hardly ever happens.

And yet, for nearly ten years, Marina Kotchoubey (1) was living that reality.

As far as biographies went, Marina’s was perfectly ordinary, except for the fact that at nine years old she had moved to LA from Ukraine. She was also fairly unremarkable, as far as Ukranian girls went – for she had dark-blonde hair and vaguely pretty features, she had grown tall and lean in middle-school, she had done ballet, and she excelled at school – for nothing short of A’s was accepted by her mother, herself a tall and lean academe, who had also done ballet.

In fact, the only feature that distinguished Marina from her mother was that Marina, in spite of every maternal reproach, could not help but slouch.

But that aside, she was quiet, and she loved music and movies.

She had seen Lord of the Rings when she was a junior in high school, on a Tuesday night when the movie tickets were cheap, and she had fallen deeply and hopelessly in love with a man who had the face of an angel and bitten-down, stubby fingernails.

When she was a freshman at UCLA, she had begged, borrowed and stolen to get a ticket to the Lord of the Rings Oscars Party, an event geared toward fans. It was the year that that The Return of the King had swept the awards, and Marina, quite inebriated, found herself being admitted by the imperious bouncer, and entering the large, dimly lit venue, wearing an outfit cobbled from bits and pieces from her friends’ closets, and somehow – she had no idea how – she ended up speaking to the man whose likeness had decorated her notebooks for years, and was the screensaver on her computer.

And when Marina was inebriated, she had a habit of fancying herself a poet, and saying terrifyingly stupid, regrettable things.

At first, she lost no time in confessing that she had watched The Ice Storm no less than thirty times to soften the horrors of the college application process. Then, she gave a treatise on why she thought Elijah’s character in that film had autism. (2)

And then, at some point, they spoke of the Gypsy punk-rock band Gogol Bordello, and how Elijah was fascinated by their music even though he could not understand a word, and his plans to film Everything is Illuminated in Ukraine. Marina (of course) had shared that she was Ukrainian, and Elijah commented politely on her having no accent – as everyone did – and then she told him that if he happened to be Kyiv, he should go to her favorite restaurant – the one she always frequented with her father whenever she was back – and that the fish in that restaurant tasted like it had leapt right out of the river, high on life because it survived cancer.

She did not remember much after that, but she could not shake how awkward she felt. Why on earth did I just tell Elijah Wood to eat cancerous fish? And, Why must I be so cloying and so zealous? He’ll think I’m one of those deranged stalkers! And she remembered thinking that she had taken up far too much of his time – for it was his night, after all. But the complimentary drinks had been deceptively sweet, and blush-colored, and little plastic scorpions and crabs lay across the bottoms of the glasses… And she was drunk, far too drunk to remember how to end a conversation.

And so it was, in a few minutes’ time, that Billy Boyd appeared at Elijah’s elbow, his smile going not to Marina, but through her, and with remarkable tact, he had intoned that there was someone he thought her idol should meet. And she knew, right then and there, that she had overcrowded her welcome, in a sense, and she gave a small, frozen half-smile as he said his good evenings and was gone. And then she felt awful, and rued every word after “Hello,” and every drink after the first. So she stood in line and got herself another. And in a corner, feeling nonsensical and overdressed, she ruminated.

She had ruined his night so much that he had needed a friend to spirit him away. And that – that made her feel like Gollum. In the corner, in her borrowed dress and borrowed heels, she began to weep. But the weeping turned into a senseless, foolish laughter – until Billy Boyd, who had all but air-lifted Elijah away from her, tapped her on the shoulder from behind.

She cursed the screen-printed cocktail napkin for refusing to absorb her tears, but courtesy demanded that she turn around, so she did. And Billy, whose face and shoulders looked older than they had done when he was Pippin, said very little – though his eyes were kind. He only handed her a small white napkin, folded diagonally, like a triangle, and said, puzzlingly, “Elijah wanted me to give this to you.”

Bumbling thanks was all she could give in reply, and Billy Boyd bid her good evening, turned on his heel, and melted into the crowded night.

Feeling poorly and baffled, she stood like a statue for a long time before opening the napkin. Inside it were ten digits and a couple of dashes. A phone number.

She did not believe it was real. The scorpion bowl drinks were full of alcohol and fiction.

For a week, she agonized over whether to open the napkin again. The necklace, heels, dress and perfume all returned to their rightful owners, the only things she had left of the Awards party were her creased ticket of admission (General Admission: Admit One) and the triangular napkin. They sat like orphans on the painted-over radiator.

She was certain that if she opened it again, she would call. And she was certain that if she called, she would find that it was not his number, but some anonymous digits, or the rejection hotline, or the police.

But in the end, she called. Of course she did. And it did turn out to be his number, and they met in a hole-in-the-wall restaurant in Venice Beach that very same weekend, drank Last Words served by an unscrupulous bartender who checked neither of their IDs, and talked for hours. He then took her home to her college apartment in his modest BMW 3-series – modest for a movie star, anyway, and there were crumbs all over the interior – and they continued to meet, frequenting live concerts, and arthouse movie matinees with five other people in the audience, and karaoke bars in Japan and Korea-town.

Elijah was surprisingly easy to be with – as unassuming, kind, and humble as his public image suggested, and far quirkier and more cheerfully irreverent than any camera could capture. Before long, they had all but invented their own language – a bubbly vernacular of cockeyed misquotations, and twisted references that only they understood (3). By her 23rd birthday, he had proposed, and they married quietly, wearing their rings on their right hands in the Ukrainian way so that nobody would guess. (4)

In the years that followed, Elijah made film after film, became a DJ, and started a record label and a production company, while Marina had gone to law school and joined a firm, her angular student awkwardness blossoming into a chic, sublime femininity. They lived in Venice Beach, and tried to keep a quiet existence – and for the most part, they succeeded.

But in the end, it was as true a statement on Earth as it was in Middle-earth: the hearts of men, and women, were easily corrupted.

Kotchoubey is a noble family name that originated in Ukraine. After the revolution of 1917, however, few of its members remained in the Soviet Union. The fictional Marina’s ancestors were among the ones who stayed behind and did not flee, as she herself is a Ukrainian immigrant who came to the US in the early 90’s.

Based on the fact that yours truly has watched The Oxford Murders repeatedly for the last month. I watch it at least three times a week, on weekdays, as I eat and relax.

Mr. Nisile and I have such a language. So thick is it that military code-breakers would pull out their hair.

In parts of Eastern Europe, wedding rings are worn on the right hand, while in Western Europe and the US, they are worn on the left. In real life, Elijah is also often seen wearing a plain silver band on his right hand, though I doubt he was ever secretly married to a Ukrainian beauty.

Bonus: What do you think Elijah calls Marina in private? Answer: Mari. ;)

#elijah wood #real person fanfiction #fanfiction #lotr #lord of the rings #writing #fanfic #lotr fanfic #lord of the rings fanfiction

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dingleshartbeaufoy · 6 months

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— 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐞

[masterlist]

henri clément x augustin lambert

tags - reverse au, religious undertones, graphic depictions of violence, angst + fluff

rated m - 6.3k words

warnings - suicidal ideation, graphic depictions of violence, major character death

— augustin has trapped the beast in administration, and the road to freedom becomes considerably more obscured.

(Pls rb + read on ao3 if possible 🫀)

[banner by reveriesources]

The steady scratching at the door doesn’t cease until the first flush of morning.

Is man awarded his identifier as human only while he exists in his human state? Is it torn away from him should he devolve, should he revert to something more primal? If consciousness separates man from beast, then what is he who toes the line between real and symbolic?

The meager window of daylight above the compact rubble is all that allows Augustin to hazard a guess at the time; it gets colder at night, and if he wants to, he can bask in the sunlight when he’s afforded it. It should be near four in the morning when the desperate scraping and distressed roars from the other side of the wall slow and then are silenced. Augustin hears nothing. Not a claw raking against the stone, not a wardrobe or empty fuel canister being clumsily knocked over. Nothing, and he’s not brave enough to shine his flashlight under the door, or poke his head through the window beside it.

If he were a better man, a better husband, a better friend, he would be able to muster up an oddment of sympathy and extend it to his friend. But he cannot, and the sun is rising, and he’s exhausted beyond measure, and he’s left his bandages and medlars stowed in the storage box to make room for routine trips from the arsenal to the generator. Fuel was scarce. Darkness was a death sentence. Who could blame him?

He wonders, briefly, as he trudges down the stairs and into mission storage if Adam and Eve felt such melancholy at their eviction. If they felt sick as they tried and failed to claw their way back into paradise. If the bile rose in their throat, and if they swallowed it back down.

Augustin bangs helplessly against Henri’s locker. The beast does not stir, the lights do not flicker, and the rats do not skitter about in the walls and ceiling or around his sore feet. The world is taking a moment of silence for him. He pounds his fists into the firm metal door again and again before he collapses against it, as if, should he try hard enough, Henri may walk right out. As if he had been entombed in an iron prison the entire time.

He feels closer to this cold, dented locker than to the gnarled remnant of his friend several hundred feet away from him.

───

Henri never did like the harsh overhead lights of the bunker, or of any place, for that matter. They cursed him with throbbing migraines and for the rest of the day he would be nothing short of irritable.

Augustin sits beside him on the mushy loam just outside the entrance, watching Henri pack his cigarettes before he fishes one out with trembling, nervous hands. Long fingers, defined tendons. The air is crisp and smells of rain, moonlight acting as Henri’s spotlight. He looks angelic. Godless. Augustin compels himself to avert his eyes and suddenly becomes very interested in the ground.

His hair is slicked back today after he nabbed a tin of hair pomade from Sergeant Reynard, both for his own devices and as a jab at the officer. It’s refined, but stray hairs curl up in places. Very abruptly does Augustin feel his heart hammering against his ribcage, begging to be let out, to bleed onto the mud. He swallows subconsciously, watching Henri’s lips open and close around his cigarette. It’s frigid. Augustin’s skin burns despite.

“Chilly,” Henri remarks as if he read Augustin’s mind. Augustin hopes that he can, so that it would save him the words. God forgive him. A small smile spreads across Henri’s mouth. God have mercy. He had visited the priest enough times this week. “Think my balls might freeze off.”

Augustin laughs a little bit too loudly, and his courage curls up in his lap and stays there. Henri casts him a sidelong glance, shadows sharpening his features yet he retains his softness. His expression is suspicious and knowing. Augustin clenches and unclenches his hands into fists.

Henri’s eyes drift down to Augustin’s hand, resting on the ground between them. A gold band welded to the base of his finger twinkles in the moonlight. “You miss her, don’t you?”

Augustin’s breath hitches. “Yeah. A lot.”

Henri’s hand inches towards Augustin’s and rests comfortably upon it, fingers curling around his palm. He lets the flat of his thumb run over the bumps and ridges of Augustin’s knuckles, his skin equally scarred but paler, more flushed. Henri always compared him to Rudolph, his red nose, cheeks, lips. Henri, planted in the same spot, leans toward Augustin. Half-lidded eyes fixed on their hands joined amidst the mud and dirt and worms. They are not so different from the beasts of the Earth.

His world is ending. This is as close as he’s ever gotten, close as he’ll ever be– Henri leans closer still. Henri, his best friend, brother in arms. If he had known him sooner, he probably would have asked him to be his best man at his wedding. Would he accept? Would he laugh and wrap his arm around his shoulder, and they'd ignore anything else that could have been? Would it die there? Would they meet one another in dark rooms shrouded in shadow, illuminated only by the light seeping through the stained glass window? Would they rack up their sins far beyond the threshold within an evening?

Henri leans closer, and Augustin feels his breath against his face, warm and wet and smelling of tobacco. When their lips lock, Augustin’s reality crumbles and he wakes in Delisle’s blood-soaked cot. He can bear to remember no more, not if it won’t bring him back.

───

It’s nearly comforting to leave fate in the hands of a higher, more capable power. He understands how the Catholics feel a little bit more deeply. He repeats the same mantra as he wraps his makeshift bandages around a deep laceration in his calf: it will not get infected, it will not get infected, it will not get infected.

He tightens the tourniquet and ties it into a knot. He could see the pale tan of his under-flesh, the bumpy red of muscle. A plague of rats watch him from the mouth of a hole as if waiting for something that will never come. Augustin is waiting, too. He has always waited.

Walking is wobbly and labored for a few feet before he regains his control and can dig his nails into his palm to deal with the pain. There’s no time to rest, and even less to heal. He dreads the pillbox, dreads the chapel. Not for the danger lurking, of which there is no longer any, but for the knowledge that once his business is done in these places, he can never return. Eternally unable to reconcile. He retrieves the key from the reverend and one of Henri’s journal entries from the confessional. He ignores the altar. He must ignore the altar.

When he exits, he boards the door shut, freely slamming his hammer against the nails without caution for the racket he’s creating. He hopes to hear the growls of yore, the bell that tolls for him.

It never comes.

───

Horror. Hell, an eternity spent. Is this his punishment? Is this why he was spared? While he languished in a peaceful slumber, albeit plagued by visions of an ancient, endless desert, while his compatriots were slaughtered?

Idly, he holds his helmet up for the German sniper to shoot, retrieves it from across the room, holds it up again. It’s what Henri would have done, Augustin thinks. If that beast were Boisrond, the poor bastard, or Toussaint, and they were traversing this inferno together. If Henri could have been his Virgil, he would have offered they have some teasing fun, suggested they decorate administration for the holidays, despite it being July. Just to see him smile, just to help him relax. Henri generates morale. He always has.

Now, though, he only generates dust falling from the ceilings, and an impending sense of hopelessness.

───

It’s a while before Augustin timidly raps his knuckle against the door.

What did he expect? A response? What feared he more, the echo or the answer?

Nothing. Augustin kicks against the door in diligent ignorance of the shooting pain gripping his leg. He screams, wails, curses, shoots the lock with his last two revolver bullets. Not so much as a huff, a grumble, the dragging of loose skin against the raw ground.

Nothing. Always nothing, nothing at all, leaving him drowning in a sea of non-existence. Augustin feels he might die. It would serve him right.

───

No place to go but forward, for no salvation lies in waiting.

He’s still as the grave as he descends the stairs and into the prison. In life, he was never permitted to enter, none of the low-ranking soldats were. But that restriction wouldn’t stop the prisoners from begging for mercy, screaming in agony as their secrets were tortured out of them. They, the soldiers, were not fools. They knew that the army had ways of making somebody talk. Rumors roused despite, bored rumors, and they’d sit in the mess hall and convince one another the screams were vengeful Roman ghosts from the tunnels. It was the only explanation their fragile psyches would be able to accept.

Augustin wonders what Henri was up to while he was comatose. Selfishly, he wonders if anybody but him cared to worry on his behalf, or if they were only ever focused on watching their flanks, which would be justified. He vaguely remembers a strange, warm presence a few inches away, but never close enough to latch onto. Was Henri tortured like the others? Was Henri a saboteur at all? A mutineer?

“Hallo?” Calls the prisoner into the darkness when Augustin carefully removes the metal grate to the warden’s office from its bolts. The moment he sets it down on the floor, the prisoner howls, begging in a language Augustin cannot understand. He’s safe now, the beast cannot harm him. Why is he crying?

“I’ve trapped the monster in administration,” Augustin calls back, as if the German knows what administration is, as if he even speaks French. The prisoner falls silent for a moment. Augustin slips into the office and stares down the cell block hall, palms pressed against the control panel.

“…Monster?” The prisoner calls back timidly.

“Fuck— Ja, monster. Monster… nein. Monster ist nein.”

Henri would have cackled in Augustin’s face. Would have doubled over in his laughter. Whenever he’d hear them, he’d commit to learning and memorizing the meanings of any German word or phrase. That way, if ever he was in a sticky situation for which there was no salvation, he’d be in better shape. He taught Augustin a handful of simple verbs and articles and plenty of swears.

Augustin scoffs. Learning German would not have pulled him out of that crater. The prisoner is silent when he retrieves the bolt cutters from beside him and silent as he ambles back to administration. Perhaps he knows, too, and he’s salvaging the last of his fraying dignity.

He may not be an officer, he may not be a criminal, but he is a perpetrator of this conflict. He can die here like the rest of them.

───

Augustin curls up in front of the door, coat draped over himself. A bitter chill has seeped into the bunker, blanketing the very marrow of his bones. Maybe Henri is back. Maybe he’s transformed from whatever that thing is back into his usual self. Maybe he’s tired from exertion. Maybe something killed him. There’s always a bigger fish.

Augustin feels abandoned. Constantly hunted, never truly safe, at least he wasn’t alone— at least he had company. Now, the only person watching him is God in Heaven. Who would have him now? Not his wife, after what he’d seen, not his son, who would not be able to bear the sight of his disheveled, hollow father. Augustin is not the same man he was when he was conscripted and he never would be that man again. What came of the officers who left? Do they feel guilt, does it gnaw at them every waking hour?

They should. They should, for what they’ve done to him, to the garrison, to Henri. Augustin cannot handle not being seen.

───

“I brought you food,” he speaks against the metal, cheek pressed against the door. “You’re hungry, aren’t you? What have you been eating all this time? Rats? Corpses?”

Augustin chuckles weakly. “I wish you would eat some corpses. Or some rats. Or both. Would help me out a lot. Those bastards don’t bite shallow.”

Silence. Augustin has no audience. He holds a cut of rancid meat in his hand, and with all of his dwindling bravery, chucks it inside through the window, hanging on by its hinge. Hears it thud and then roll across the floor. He feels like he’s torn out his own heart and left it at the mercy of the beast.

Finally— God, finally— as relieving as when he found Henri in the depths of that crater, the beast scuffles, and then a grotesque imitation of digestion ensues. Tongue smacking, wet, grunting, hot breath wracking his body, and then a hard swallow. A heavy exhale.

Augustin draws his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them. “Are you cold?” He asks. “I could bring you a blanket. Are you thirsty? I could bring you some water. Some real water. Not that hell-broth in the spring.”

This is better, almost. Speaking as if the beast can hear him, and as if the beast is, in fact, Henri. Better for him to imagine things are calmer than they really are.

“If the meat is not enough, I’ll bring you a corpse. I’ll stuff it through the window for you. You liked brisket, didn’t you? I’ll manage you a brisket. Won’t be very nutritious, but…”

But what? What loyalty has Augustin to this monster, who slaughtered his unit? Then again, what dials or instruments can measure loyalty? What can weigh a heart?

“You can be close to them again,” Augustin says. “Eat your fallen victims, make them part of you. Isn’t that a fulfilling sentiment? Slice you open, fill you with soil. Give them a chance to make something better of themselves.”

Augustin weeps until he falls asleep. He feels as though the beast does, too. This all feels like they’re living out a metaphor. Men like them do not become angels. Men like them kill and kill and kill and it never gets easier.

Perhaps they were always beasts.

───

Plenty of animals would wander onto the battlefield, in dire search of better lands. Deer, rabbits. If they could, they’d catch them and then would have a marvelous dinner. If not, they’d be caught in the crossfire and die unceremoniously.

Sometimes stray dogs from the enemy K-9 unit would lose their masters, rendered untamable, and stumble into French trenches. But never, as a bottom line, would anything feline appear. That’s why the soldiers were so taken aback when they heard faint mewling coming from above the bunker, loud enough to wake a few of them. These walls were not thick.

“Lambert,” Henri grumbles tiredly, nearly rolling right off his bunk. “‘S tha’ you?”

“What the fuck?” Augustin murmurs, brows knitting. “Why would that be me?”

“Mm,” he mumbles noncommittally, and waves him away. “You hear that?”

They round up a few of their countrymen— Noyer, Toussaint, Cazal— to investigate, and they all shuffle out of the bunker, rifles in hand. The culprit of the disturbance is small enough to fit in your hands and gray with thick fur, knelt against the ground. The soldiers laugh among themselves. When the cat meows at them, they share chuckles and meow back in unison.

An ensuing song of call and response is enough to temporarily raise their spirits. All crouched down, repeating every noise the animal made. They all laugh at Toussaint, whose impression is especially accurate.

Henri looks at Augustin, a newfound light in his eyes. “Seems there’s hope yet,” he says, and Augustin feels rejuvenated.

───

Augustin might not know Henri’s birthplace or his mother’s name, but he knows his favorite food.

The officers— viz. Joubert— granted them a special opportunity: on a board in the mess hall was a tally. Good behavior would rack them up points, which could be spent on more novelty rations. It was small, but it served as something to work towards besides just surviving long enough to see the sunrise. Since Henri was the main contributor to this count, he often had the largest say in what they’d get.

Always, he decided on frozen fruit.

Raspberries, plums, mangoes, strawberries, cherries. He didn’t even wait for them to thaw, just dealt with the chill and the ache in his teeth. They were cheap on account of not being fresh, so he was the only one to indulge in them, while others requested tobacco or different grades of wine.

Every time, without fail, he’d share with Augustin. And Augustin does not like fruit, but he ate them anyway.

They’d sit on either Henri’s bunk or Augustin’s, chipped ceramic bowl in between them, usually with a tarp laid over the top bunk like children at a sleepover. Henri had a way of making something ridiculous out of a serious situation. They’d trade stories of war and fantasy, of family back home. How good things would be when this all ended. How much Henri would love Augustin’s wife, his son. How dearly Henri misses the bustling streets of Paris.

Henri’s favorite fruit was cherries. Augustin always saved them for him. If Henri fell asleep before he could finish them, Augustin would sneak all the way back to the pantry and re-freeze them, and then sneak all the way back, often dutifully accepting reprimands from the officers.

He preferred to be caught by Joubert. In a way, Joubert understood, even if Augustin didn’t, the confession Augustin would not dare to utter.

He walks through the soldiers’ quarters, not bothering to burn the corpses, shooting the lock off the door to the utility room. When Joubert finishes reading off the arsenal code, Augustin slams the radio against a wall. So easily, not unlike this machine, can trust be shattered. So easily can an enemy be made out of a friend.

He walks through the barracks, and they’re thick with the scent of cherries.

───

The garrison as a unit was prone to nightmares, it came with the war in a specialty package. Glossed over eyes, palpitating hearts. They all chose to ignore it, or weep in dark corners. When Augustin was victim to these terrors, the paralyzing, petrifying terror he’d feel when facing the reality of the lives he’d taken, he’d find Henri crawling into his bunk, lighting a cigarette as he stretches out and Augustin scoots away to accommodate him. Curled up into a ball, he’s silent. Internally, he can’t hear himself think.

“Hey, remember what you told me?” Henri whispers, voice so low, only audible to Augustin’s ears.

“I’ve told you a lot of things,” he replies with a grunt, “and I remember few of them.”

“Have you now?” Henri’s tone is heavy with fondness. “About that bakery in Marseille, the one you hold in such high esteem. Always so costly, right?”

He awaits a response. Augustin nods. The only distinct sound is his hair rubbing against his bare pillow.

“Right. Well, I heard from the grapevine that they’re going to compensate many of the French soldiers after this, on account of the shell-shock. Me and you, we’re going to go there.”

The statement is a matter of fact. No room for negotiation, for anything to stand in the way. Augustin’s brows furrow in that involuntary telltale manner, his lips pull themselves thin, face reddening and he’s grateful that tears make no sound. “Yeah?” He says shakily.

“Absolutely. You’re going to introduce me to the menu and we’ll make ourselves sick from coffee and bread and pastries.”

“…Okay,” Augustin breathes after a lapse in thought. “That sounds good.”

“Doesn’t it? So I need you to be strong, okay? We’ll be out of here. You’ll be with your wife and son, and we’ll go to that bakery, alright?”

Augustin hums in affirmation, and just as Henri makes to leave, he sits upright and seizes his friend by the wrist. Henri looks over his shoulder.

“Can you stay here?” He asks. “It’s— well—”

“You don’t need to explain yourself, you fool,” Henri snickers, and crawls back into their bunk. Wraps his arms around Augustin’s midsection, and buries his head into his shoulder. “Sleep well.”

For a long time thereafter, the terrors were quelled. Curled up outside of administration, Augustin clutches the remnants of a tattered uniform to his chest. The numbers 33 are embroidered onto the collar.

───

The metal keypad is pristine from lack of use. Henri never did touch his locker, only to stow or retrieve bullets or to stash away letters and photos. It’s cool against Augustin’s sweating flesh, and he leans against the door for a moment to gather himself.

He remembers the day the photo was taken, the one pinned to the back wall of the locker, half hidden away as if shameful. It was before they boarded the train to Ypres, en route to the Western Front. A fellow conscript had taken the photo. A soldier whose name Augustin cannot recall, who would not be documented in any record or index.

Augustin does not want to, but he stains the ink with tears. If he places his thumb right over Henri’s face, he can pretend that he never existed, that he is alone in his Hell, that he mourns nothing, for he will be with his family soon. But a piece of his soul has been stolen from him, right from the center and he rots from the inside out. Maggots infest his organs and tear away at the tissue.

He tucks the photo into his collar. He cannot go back. He can never go back.

───

He gags at the enucleated eyes on the table, who appear to stare at him as if still attached to a socket. Notes and photos and overwhelming words and thoughts are strewn about, but there is a lantern, and he is grateful for the lantern, and he must be grateful even when he doesn’t want to be.

Ridiculous. This place was always such a point of interest to Noyer and Toussaint, whereas Augustin and the rest of the brutes viewed it only as a vessel for ambush. Those two viewed it for what it was; a scrap of history, a gleaming light.

This is what Augustin gets, what he deserves, the weight of all of man’s original sin heavy against his back. Wage shitty wars, win shitty prizes. If he scrubbed hard enough, could he be pure again? Could his family look less like shells to him and more like people?

The eerie blue glow displaces him as he begins his descent into the tunnels, and the sights that would have baffled him several days ago are now unsurprising. He has seen worse. He has seen man have their humanity revoked as if it were a privilege and stared into the hollow chassis that resulted. He has looked death in the eyes, and whatever lay beyond death which would make a sane man go mad.

Death is the least of it. Death, and petty wars.

Pebbles suspended in the air and a language Augustin knows not to be Latin. He hears chanting in his mind, distant, like from the other side of a locked door. He hears the wind, and through a square barred window, he sees the detonator handle.

Has he served his compatriots well?

───

He recognizes that voice.

It’s worn and scratchy and cuts out at times from overuse. Otherwise, it’s deep, booming. A time ago, it was not so. It’s a whirlwind of emotions as it sings the poem that had been recited to Augustin many a moon ago, and he had found it insightful, found it clever. Now it is like a death rattle, the horn that sounds before Ragnarok.

His heart beats in his throat. Monsters are frightening. Horrifying is the man who is not a monster, but is driven mad by information he was not meant to have access to.

Augustin jumps at the sudden firing of a shotgun as the bullet is buried in the tender flesh of a rat-beast. He’s sandwiched between a stack of boxes and an explosive barrel. He wouldn’t have to be hit directly to be eviscerated.

He cannot kill him. Even if he has to, he cannot. It would be better to die here. His wife is beautiful, she can marry again and provide the boy with a father. The beast who is not Henri could starve and die like God intended. He cannot kill Beaufoy.

Instinct trumps thought. A clean shot to the head renders this room eternally silent and Augustin is stumbling through the broken door, shoving the handle into his pocket bag, and clearing away the rubble from a tunnel— is this his freedom? Is this his solstice?

He emerges from the tunnel. He feels he wants to vomit, and vomit he does.

───

“What is to be done about this, my friend?” Augustin laughs, his voice raspy. “We are at a stalemate, no? I could leave here so easily. The detonator is hooked up to the dynamite. There is nothing left for me. I could leave now, right now.”

No response. “Do you think I would be believed? Do you think they’d think me a murderer? Would I be executed?”

A light stirring of indignation, but nothing more. “Would my wife have me? I could write a note. Would—”

He buries his head in his hands, covered in filth and soiled bandages.

“Henri. Oh, Henri. You know what it is I truly want.”

A click sounds from behind him. His heart stills, replaced with a revolving vortex of dread and terror. With his weight pressed against the door, it would not open lest the beast come plowing through. He does not, and Augustin is frozen.

Trembling, he stands. At death’s limen, faced with the wicked possibilities of a foregone world. Would he shy in fear? Would he face the reality of Henri’s eternity without a shred of empathy?

He pushes the door open. It’s dark, but not dark enough. An undefined mass of shadow lies in the furthest corner. Like an animal exposes its stomach, Augustin shuts the door behind him.

───

There is a word Augustin knows. He cannot say it, cannot think it, but he knows that Henri knows it too.

“For you.” Henri extends his hand and caged within his fingers is a stuffed toy rabbit.

Augustin snorts. “For me? Wow, I’ve always wanted this, you shouldn’t have, so on and so forth.” He waves his hand.

Augustin is always trying to draw a laugh out of his friend, and it always works, and it always warms Augustin when he’s cold. “I thought he looked like you. With the blue coat, and all. For your son, perhaps, because he thinks he’s so fast.”

Augustin accepts it and turns it over in his hand. It may be the cleanest thing he’s ever received during his time at war. His son does look like him. Round and rosy and sweet. Augustin promised to bring him something back.

It fell from his pocket in the crater when he slung Henri over his shoulder, and when he retrieved it from the crater after he emerged from the tunnels, he was filled with a profound sense of dread.

───

Cowardice prevails. Augustin screws his eyes shut as he lights the hanging lamp. Deep, dissatisfied grumbling echoes about the room, flesh chafing uncomfortably against flesh, a gnarled mess of limbs. Distantly, the all too familiar twang of a tripwire being triggered echoes through the halls, followed by an uproar of flame. Augustin feels as though the world is crumbling around him.

A confession is punched out of him. “I dream of death, you know.”

He feels the beast slither across the floor before its breath is upon his face, acrid and hot like gas.

Augustin takes a deep breath. “I dream… I dream that in my sleep, I’ll be granted mercy. That we will all die here. Me, you, and… and that thing in the tunnels. Already a third of the way there, right?”

Augustin forgets that the beast cannot understand him. That it knows only to stalk, hunt, kill. Perhaps it is not his fault. Perhaps he is only acting on instinct. Perhaps he knows no better.

Whenever has that been a sufficient justification?

The beast draws up what Augustin can only assume to be a claw, and wipes away a spot of blood on his cheek. Gently, cautiously. An unprecedented tenderness— what changed in the last few days? Was the beast, trapped in his prison, forced to listen? To understand? Did he hear the trumpets, too?

They’re loud. Deafening.

“Isn’t that funny?” Augustin laughs as if the beast had told a joke. “Isn’t that funny? All this work, all I have to live for, and selfishly I deny it.”

Augustin’s arms are glued to his side, posture uncomfortably straight. “Haven’t I always been selfish?” He reaches up to grab the claw before it can be pulled away. The sharp edges dig into his skin and draw more blood, slicing through the bandages. “Henri? Haven’t I?”

───

“Ah!” Henri exclaims. “Seems I’m fortune’s fool.”

He pushes out his chair and stands, collecting his rifle leaned against the wall. He throws his cards against the table in defeat. “Guess I’m on patrol, then. C’est la vie.”

He shrugs on his coat, and with a salute, he departs, and Augustin sleeps comfortably in his bunk after a round of drinks with his comrades. A lantern flickering dimly beside him. He never did like the dark.

───

A fuel canister clambers at his feet, the beast looming above him. He dares not look at his face. His teeth, his claws, are already too much. He hesitantly retrieves it; it’s heavy, filled to the brim.

“More fuel,” he observes. “You hate the light.”

The beast grunts in acknowledgment and saunters away, shoving his body into a tunnel, and scurrying away through the ceiling above. Why he didn’t take that route before, Augustin doesn’t know. It makes him wonder if he was ever trapped. If he was ever safe.

Augustin breathes a sigh of relief when he empties the canister into the nozzle and the lights come alive. Distantly, the beast groans.

He thinks about his visit at the Louvre with his family. He was particularly drawn to the exhibition dedicated to a rendition of a feudalist Japanese setting, shrines and cuisine and all different types of architecture and traditions. The samurai had a ritualistic execution called seppuku, where one would be disemboweled and then decapitated.

Augustin sits in the chair at the desk across the generator. He has already decided. He decided a long, long time ago.

───

The engineers who built the bunker knew what they were risking when they installed the daisy-chained lights. Henri kneels inside the utility room, undershirt discarded in favor of his coat, gloved hands working at the wires.

“So he fancies himself a handyman,” Joubert remarks, leaning against the wall, overseeing his work. A cigarette between his knuckles. “Aren’t we a talented bunch?”

Augustin snorts. “I wouldn’t call being able to piss completely silently a talent, Joubert.”

“Then you don’t understand talent, my friend. Here, go stand beside him,” he says and pulls out his camera. “A memory, for the monoliths soon to be erected in our honor.”

The photos of Augustin and Henri surmount quickly. Henri’s hand grasping his shoulder, a fond smile on his face. Best friends forever scribbled on the back in red ink, and blood staining the front.

───

The beast sleeps. In the chapel, folded next to the altar. Bodies strung up in prayer to a false Goddess of blood, a Goddess Henri was forced to worship. Augustin cannot ignore reality any longer. His friend, his dear friend. Who could do this to him?

He feels indignity boil his blood. No matter. He must act quickly.

He kneels beside the beast. Large, mangled. There is a beauty about him, if not just by association with who he was before. He was once human, and some part of him is human yet.

There is a darkness in his eyes, one so unlike Henri’s, but a reluctant one. He is only acting on inclination, which is all he knows. Augustin cannot blame him. He hopes that Henri will not blame him, either. He hopes that Joubert will tell his family lies about what came of him, that he died in honor. He hopes they will find the note he left.

Toussaint’s limp, cold body is propped up in a chair outside the infirmary. They will find him first. He carved Boisrond’s name into the wall behind his final resting place. They will find him second, and third, the prisoner who starved to death. He’s left all the doors unlocked and all traps disarmed, returned dog tags to their owners. This empress of darkness and blood will not have her execution, will not have her honor. That belongs to the soldiers, who are people before they are mercenaries.

He cradles the beast’s sleeping face, too large for his hand. He is not truly such a beast. Batesian mimicry, he thinks, how clever. He could have held Henri like this if he had more time. They could have gone to the bakery together.

German shells rain outside. He grabs the beast’s paw and it stirs, before falling still. It’s tired. They’re both tired.

One claw is longer than his entire forearm. He’s removed his coat and draped it over his friend so that he may be warm in the drafty chapel. He grips the appendage by the base. All the Gods, all the Heavens, all the Hells are within him.

His honor. His.

He plunges the claw into his stomach. Immediately, he retches as his organs are pierced. He splutters blood onto the floor, and blood seeps into his undershirt, and blood spills onto his hands, onto the beast’s one natural weapon. Perhaps Augustin was never at the advantage. The job isn’t finished. He grips the claw tighter and it tears himself open in a diagonal slide, from top to bottom, stomach acid coming loose and burning his lap. An unholy tincture of blood and other bodily fluids.

Traditionally, a shorter blade was used. He frowns, his muscles growing weak already. Henri valued tradition. He never would have had him, and Augustin was foolish to entertain thoughts opposing that.

He sees nothing, hears nothing except for panicked noises from the beast as the Earth tremors and shakes him into wakefulness, wrapping Augustin’s coat around the wound, but it does nothing, nothing, and he’s too big and awkward and Augustin was a dead man walking the second he entered the chapel.

The beast clutches him close to his chest, squeezing him, snapping his bones, releasing a mournful wail.

Augustin’s eyes drift close. It’s all he’s ever wanted. All he’s ever wanted.

───

I write this not as a resignation and not as a suicide letter, but rather as a victim impact statement, and more, a cautionary tale.

Several weeks ago, excavation began in this very bunker of a network of tunnels presumed to be of Roman origin: I tell you this now and I will tell you this once, and I urge you to listen to me, lest you meet my fate, lest we cross paths in the eternal void and I rip you apart. They are not Roman. They are something greater, more meaningful than any organized religion you could ever hope to erect. They are something I do not understand, and nor will you.

Following this, an estimated six men were involved in a mutiny to end the onslaught of nightmares and hallucinations caused by the tunnels. The mutineers were abandoned in pits and left to starve. This description is a blasphemy. We were betrayed and fed to the wolves, the lot of us.

I cannot trace the events back to an exact date or a catalyst which set this off, but at one point a beast did emerge from the fray to pick us off and offer our cadavers to its God of sadism and blood. This beast, once, was a man named Henri Clément, who lived in Paris, and was better than us all.

In the league of soldiers you will find Toussaint Beaufoy in the infirmary, driven mad for not heeding the warning they were too ignorant to give in the first place. Boisrond’s final resting place is in the pantry. A German prisoner is dead in the prison ward.

I offer you no consolation, nor forgiveness. But I offer you this— remove any salvageable corpses and return them to their families. I am in the chapel with the beast. I have rigged both the chapel and the surrounding area starting from the arsenal. You, with all of your men, could not get through, and even if you managed, this beast would kill you too. Tell my family what you will and pass all my earthly belongings unto my son.

There is nothing for you here. None of us will be remembered. When you’ve removed the corpses, blow this amended circle of Hell to bits.

— A. Lam

#if this flops I’m gonna die #amnesia game #amnesia the bunker #henri clement #augustin lambert #annewrites

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