#Infernal is Sirrah

[technicalchaotic]

How about, your Clown ocs, HoM, distracting eachother? :)

[I started this literal years ago and found it in my drafts yesterday. Warnings for: parental death, references to intoxication, references to clowns doing weird things with bones, death and grief.

This takes place maybe a sweep before the start of Hope of Morning, about a sweep after Gamzee was captured. Istmun and Kalton are fantrolls. You can see more of them in Lost and Found by me, and Ain't There, by @kravkalackin ]

I’ve been sitting on this prompt for a month I don’t even fucking know at this point (and you’re deactivated??? noooo) and this is probably not remotely what you were asking for but~ 

You’re focusing on paperwork today. It’s past noon, the numbers swirl in front of you and you have to start the calculations over again, these are supply orders, you have family depending on these. You need to focus. It's important you get this right.

Kalton comes in, of course. 

He looks like shit. Face painted with an unadorned mask for mourning. He’s got something in his hands that makes him shuffle his feet like a scolded wriggler. 

“Kalton.” you sigh, “Brother, I got shit to do, so-” he holds his hands out to you, and you go still. You know what they are, you’ve seen him using those cuffs, or letting them be used on him, the rare times you get yourself to a festival. You know what he likes, he’s not the least bit shy on it, but he knows you too, and he knows better than to ask this of you. “Kalton you know I ain’t-”

“Not like that.” he says, real quiet. “I know, ‘m not gonna ask that shit of you,” he takes a breath that shudders in his throat, “don’t want it like that right now. just.” he’s not looking you in the eye and his fronds tremble where they grip the worn leather of the cuffs. “Make me forget? Just for little?” 

Your heart hurts for the pity of him. Gone is the headstrong smartass that guards the hive like a rabid barkbeast. Gone’s the eternal flirt, and all that’s left is a barely-adult troll who just lost the closest thing he ever had to a lusus. You take his hand and pull the cuffs away from him. 

You set them on the desk and leave them there, pull yourself to your feet. “Not here,” you tell him when he goes to protest. You still have some standards when it comes to what you let your asshole idiot best friend talk you into. “Come on, my block’s not that far.” you tap his hand reprovingly when he reaches for the cuffs again. “nah, bro, leave’m.” His face twists, bitter under the paint, but you know him, and you know his limits, and he needs something more than that, and if you’re being real honest, so do you. 

Your little set of blocks ain’t far from the office you share with Shatterd, (Lord, you ain’t even thought much on Shatterd, and her moirail gone like that and— you’re not thinking on it. Kalton needs you right now, you’re focused on him. You have to focus on him and not anything else.) 

You pull him through the door, past your pile of soft things, holding firm to him when he makes like to stop there. “Trust me, you fucking wreck.” your voice comes out softer than you mean, and woven with pity. 

You don’t use your ablutions block much. Mostly you shower off in the subadult dorms when you’re done training a class, or in the exertion clinic when Kalton drags you out to spar, but you got yourself a nice trap, and the hot water reservoir feeds in here as well as anywhere else, and it’s private, which is the only way you can think you’d ever be undoing your best friend’s armor and letting it slide off like you are, shooshing at him when he makes confused noises. “Trust me?” You ask.

He stares at you wordlessly, eyes wide and terrified, and it almost makes you laugh in the worst way. You’ve seen him tied up, letting one of the Inquisition sisters take a knife to him, but this scares him. This makes him pause. You don’t push. You never push, you don’t dare, but after a long, silent moment, he nods. You give him the best smile you can manage, which isn’t real good, and squeeze his hand before you let go and set the tub to filling as hot as you can stand. you allow yourself a full minute of fussing with scents and oils, gifts you hardly touch mostly, before you make yourself pick something that smells green and alive, and not at all of smoke. 

You set a cloth on the edge of the trap, and a bottle of the light cleansing oil for your face. You pretend you don’t hear the silence behind you. 

You’re not armored. You hardly leave your office, let alone the hive, but you take the time to fold your clothes instead of captchalogging them. By the time everything is ready, the trap is full, and you turn back to Kalton, who is standing, still wide-eyed and staring at you. You hold your hand out. “You can say no.” you tell him, even if you don’t need to. “You can get dressed, and we can go sit in the pile, if you need to.” 

He hesitates, which is almost enough to make you call it off. You almost reach out to wrap him in a towel, go wrap yourself around him in the pile. It would be nice. He would feel better for a little while. But it wouldn't make him forget, and he asked for forgetting.

He takes your hand and steps down into the water.

The scented oils leave a rainbow shine on the surface, below the haze of steam. It's silent in here, other than the water against the lip of the trap. He sinks into the water up to his chin. Your trap is sized for the behemoth you will be someday, if you live long enough, with room for a partner besides. With the two of you just out your first adult molt, there's space enough to stretch your limbs out and not touch the sides if you were so inclined. You sit on the edge and ease Kalton back against your legs.

You start by working your fingers through his hair. He doesn't want to talk, you think. So you go in hard and fast. Your thumbs dig into the flesh of his hornbeds firm and smooth, and he goes limp against you with a noise that makes you blush to hear.

You slip into the water behind him, holding him up so he don't slide in and drown. You keep on his horns, pressing hard enough to ride the edge of pain. You take a breath, letting the heat of the water soak into your bones, and the scent of tree resin and citrus fill your head. There's something extra in that particular oil, you think. Family always trying to get you to relax some.

His body is limp and trusting in your hold, but the physical part of this isn't what has his pan trembling as you relax and let yourself expand beyond the tight-bound knot you keep yourself tied into. You hold him against your chest, hardly minding the nakedness anymore.

Not many trolls take the time to learn this. It's something Shatterd taught you back when she figured you were as best a regular palemate as Kalton was ever gonna get, and you all were sure that he took after Infernal in temperament. Most clowns work in fear only. Few have your delicate touch. You hold him in the jaws of your chucklevoodoo, press him all down into a tight little ball of grief and rage and terror. Fear about what comes next. Anxiety about the war. Terror on how someone so solid and eternal and ageless could just be gone. You twine around the roiling storm of his own power, and you bite. Precise as a scalpel. The part of his pan that holds his fear and grief shudders and writhes for a breath, then goes quiet. You reach for fear with a funny little mental twist, and grasp pleasure, and bless Kalton for being the kind of troll where pleasure and fear live ass-to-cheekbone.

The pleasure you tug to the fore. Kalton whimpers in your arms, a sound not quite unhappy. He's clinging to you, hands wrapped around your elbow, and you let him cling, claws rhythmically gripping and releasing. You pull at his pan again, catching the wispy floating feeling of the something extra that the oil put in the water. You weave it around with pleasure, wrap it with a sharp thrill of fear, and let it go.

You hold him up as he goes limp and floats out into the water. His breathing is shallow and fast, and you can feel the fear seeping through his limbs, but his eyes are open and vacant, and his face is slack and peaceful for the first time since he came home this morning.

You float with him for a while. Until the water begins to cool and you have to decide if you want the heaters on or not. You wash his hair, careful of his face. When the water has taken on enough of a chill to be annoying you herd him out. You can't puppet him in the same crude way as the lower blues, but you can herd him with little shocks and mental nips out of your trap and into a thick towel.

You bundle him into your pile and settle his head in your lap. He comes back while you are carefully squeezing the damp from his hair. It lies in heavy coils around his shoulders now, and you're wondering if you should twist it for him while you're at it. He hasn't had time since you lost Gamzee's whole squad, and you haven't missed he's been less polished since you lost your third yearmate. He blames himself for a whole lot of things as ain't his fault.

"Lv't." He mumbles, batting your fronds away. Loose it is. He comes back slow, and words come nearly last, the few times you've done this for him.

You wait until he blinks. Until pupils contract and expand and focus on your face where you lean over him. Not until he's aware enough to stop you do you catch his chin in gentle fingers, and pour a little cleansing oil on the rag. He doesn't stop you when you press the cool rag to his face. His paint was fresh enough, you could have left it. But he needs to be laid bare and taken down to his core, you think. So piece by piece, with a rag worn old and soft and thin by generations of trolls using it for just this purpose, you strip his face from him.

Beneath the paint he looks young. Afraid. His cheekbones are hollow and sharp from too much exercise and not enough food. You clean the paint from his thin lips. From the proud arch of his nose, the slight crookedness where more than one troll has tried to flatten it for him. You love his face, so you take your time. You press your fingers along the pressure points of his face as you work, and by the time you are done, he's gone again. This time his face is sweeter, eyes half-shut in relaxation. It's a gentler place you've sent him, now. When his face is clean of paint, you slide down and curl yourself around him, drag your heavy blanket over the both of you, the one weighted down with glass and steel beadwork so it presses you both into the pile like the lusus neither of you had. You settle against him, his face tucked against your throat, and pet his hair, and wait.

When you feel his chest hitch, and tears drip against your skin, you stroke the back of his neck and shoosh him softly. "I know, brother, I know."

He cries himself to dry, hiccupping sobs, and then to unconsciousness. When he wakes he looks better. His eyes are still raw and swollen from crying, the set of his mouth is still fragile. But he's not lost and shaken anymore.

"What are we gonna do?" He asks your collarbone.

"There's still wrigglers as need gathering," you say gently, like Shatterd didn't break the news by sending you the promotion paperwork. "I expect they'll need a troll on that as knows the work." You stroke your claws through his hair, careful not to snag his curls. "She wanted to go in the cathedral. New chandelier is what Shatterd said. Someone with good hands oughta shape her." That almost sets him off again, mouth trembling. "If you can't do it-"

"No!" He takes a deep, shuddering breath, "She always said she wanted me to do it. Joking, like. I want to. When the rendering is done. I-" he sets his jaw. "She deserves the best. But I'm all thats left of the lusus clade." He rubs an eye, makes a face. "Gimme paint. 'Nd a mirror." There's a new fire in his eye as you hand him the paintpots and hold your little hand mirror for him. Its not his usual hearts and spades paint. You see a little of Infernal in the inverted darts on his cheekbones, the painted fangs on his lips. He looks himself when he's painted again. Harder, more sure. You can still feel anxiety fluttering in him as you pull your voodoos back into their tidy little knot, but he's steadier now. He can do this.

You pull him down so you can press a kiss to his hair. "She's got the best, she knew that when she asked for you." The smile he gives you is shaky, but solid enough. He's ready. As long as the family sticks together, it'll come out right in the end.

[victorluvsalice]

AU Thursday: Londerland Bloodlines -- On The Stage

You know what? Reblogging Kitty Briars’s reaction to getting dragged out onto the stage in the Nocturne Theater (just trying to figure out what happened to what should have been a simple honeypot con) has inspired me to share another snippet of “Londerland Bloodlines” with you all! Namely, what it was like for Alice when she woke up on the Nocturne’s stage! Unlike Kitty, she wasn’t unstaked until LaCroix started talking (as per the canonical cutscene), so we start with one very confused Alice trying to figure out how the hell she’s not dead. . .

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"Good evening."

Alice blinked as, suddenly, the world came back into being around her. Twice in one night – who knew I could make a habit of dying? she thought, shaking her head slightly in an effort to clear it. Or, more accurately, who knew I could make a habit of coming back from the dead. Didn't he–

"He did," Cheshire confirmed, pressing a paw against her chest. Alice glanced down to see a large bloody hole in her chest, right above her heart. "You seem oddly immune to being slain in such a manner now, however. Perhaps Mr. Fish has given you a set of his own unique gills?"

Fish! Alice jerked her head around, gritting her teeth. That bastard! He'd gotten stabbed too, hadn't he? Had their mysterious assailants dragged him as well to the – the –

Dreary Lane Theater?

Alice raised an eyebrow, examining her surroundings. The old hulls of ships creaked above her, barely visible in the starlight filtering down through a watery sky. Glowing seahorses clung to whatever splinters they could find, little sparkles of light against the dim. Beside her, the great red curtains were tied up, nibbled here and there by eyefish. Around her bound and kneeling form stretched the wide stage, populated by her redheaded captor, his blond friend, a similarly-trussed and bored-looking Mr. Fish (Alice couldn't stop a hiss escaping her), another blond fellow in a smarter-looking suit, and – ah. I – didn't realize they made people that big, Alice thought, looking up the humongous creature that stepped up beside her. He looks as if someone made a lion walk on two legs!

"I know the Lion, and that is not him," Hatter proclaimed, gazing suspiciously at the giant as it crossed the stage. "Though he's certainly a wild beast of some description."

"Never mind him – who is this interloper who has taken over my stage?!" Carpenter demanded, stalking up to the blond man in the good suit. "Do you have no shamosity, my good sir? Do you have no respect for the dramatical arts?!"

Obviously the man did not, continuing on with his speech while Carpenter blustered. "My fellow Kindred – my apologies for disrupting any business, or interfering with prior engagements you may have had this evening," he addressed his audience, looking through the fishy faces gaping up at him. "It is unfortunate that the affair that gathers us together tonight is a troubling one. We are here because the laws that bind our society – the laws that are the fabric of our existence – have been broken."

A fishwoman gasped, fanning herself rapidly with her fin. Beside her, a strange black man whispered in the ear of his Hispanic companion, who was regarding the stage with steely eyes. Alice scanned the crowd, curious. Most of its make was familiar – the usual couples who brought themselves to Carpenter's stage, content in the knowledge that his and Walrus's more murderous impulses had been curbed with the destruction of the Infernal Train. But speckled throughout, breathing the water like the cleanest air, were humans – or, at least, Alice assumed they were humans. They looked the part – a prim blonde businesswoman sitting with legs crossed in the front row, a lingerie-clad lady blowing a scarlet kiss to a bald black man in the balcony, a rough-looking biker type smoking a cigar by the door. But at the same time, there was something – off about them. Something – other. Something – Queenly?

"I am the only monarch here," the Queen of Hearts growled, a tentacle curling over her shoulder. "What lurks in them is far more – bestial. The Jabberwock to my crown, perhaps."

Lovely, just what I need – more people capable of setting me on fire from the air. Alice sighed, and winced as she heard the air whoosh through the hole in her chest. The hole that, by all rights, should have killed her. If it was even truly there, of course. Damn it, I wish I had a better handle on what was real and what wasn't right now. . .

"As prince, I am within my rights to grant or deny the Kindred of this city the privilege of siring," the smart-suited man went on, oblivious to the fact that he was baffling Alice more with each word. "Many of you have come to me seeking permission, and I have endorsed some of these requests." The prince paced the stage, regarding each attendee in turn. "However – the accused that sits before you tonight was not refused permission." His voice darkened. "Indeed – my permission was never sought at all."

"Oh, come off it, LaCroix," Fish drawled out, rolling his eyes. His guard gave him a look, but said nothing. "As if anyone takes you and your 'rule' seriously. I did what I knew was right, so can we finish up here and go?"

LaCroix shot Fish a glare. "As you wish," he replied, before turning back to the audience. "As you can see, he was caught shortly after the Embrace of this childe." He clasped his hands before him. "It pains me to announce the sentence, as up to tonight, I considered the accused a loyal and upstanding member of our organization."

There were a few snorts from the human-shaped members of the audience, and even the fishly attendees looked rather dubious. "'Loyal and upstanding member?' I'd trust a dodo over him!" Hatter declared, his hat bouncing. "And I do! Regularly!"

Fish, meanwhile, didn't seem to notice, too busy preening. "Finally, someone recognizes that I'm just doing my best for our world. Now, can we get rid of these ropes, or–"

"But as some of you know," LaCroix continued a little louder, doing his best to ignore Fish, "the penalty for this transgression – is death." He spread his arms wide, encompassing the mass of not-quite-humanity before him. "Know that I am no more a judicator than I am a servant to the law that governs us all. Let tonight's proceedings serve as a reminder to our community that we must adhere to the code that binds our society, lest we endanger all of our blood." He knelt, cupping Fish's chin with his hand, the falsest pity Alice had ever seen in his eyes. "Forgive me."

"Oh, for – you just have to drag it out, don't you?" Fish said, letting out a huff. "All right, all right, I'm sorry. I should have asked for your precious permission first."

A smile tugged at LaCroix's lips, vicious and cold. "Too late, I'm afraid." He stood up again, nodding to his lion. "Let the penalty commence."

The lion nodded back, then reached behind him and unsheathed the absolute biggest sword Alice had ever seen. Fish blinked as he raised it above his head. "Wait," he blurted, the first note of panic creeping into his voice. "You're not really – you're – you can't – I – wait! Wait wait wa–"

Sching! A good foot of metal broadways sliced through Fish's neck like it was air. Fish's head fell to the stage, splattering blood everywhere (Alice's stomach – growled?) – then, abruptly, dissolved into a pile of orangey ash. The rest of him soon followed, leaving nothing behind but a dirty coat, hat, and glasses. Alice and the Wonderlanders gaped at the scene. What – did he – did that actually – happen?

"Alice – I sincerely wish I could tell you otherwise," Cheshire replied, ears flat against his head and back arched.

LaCroix nodded, satisfied in a job well done – then his gaze slid to Alice. Alice stared back. Was he – she didn't even know what was happening, how could he – "Which leads to the fate of the ill-begotten progeny," he said at last, turning back to the watchers.

"Sir! Sirrah! Have I told you that you shine most utmostomously on this stage?!" Carpenter cried, darting in front of LaCroix with a wide, terrified smile. "Why, we should have you on every night!"

"Without a sire, most childer are doomed to walk the earth never knowing their place, their responsibility, and – most importantly – the laws they must obey."

"All the tea you could ever drink!" Hatter shouted, leaping up and down and making his leg springs squeal. "Sugar! Milk! Everything! All provided if you just let us go!"

"They are potentially dangerous – and a definite liability. Therefore, I have decided–"

"You can't behead her! That's my royal right!" the Queen screamed, pounding a tentacle against the stage. "This is madness! This is treason! This is–"

"This is bullshit!"

All heads, including Alice's and LaCroix's, jerked to the source of the interruption. The Hispanic man from earlier had more or less exploded out of his seat, and looked ready to storm the stage. His friends – the black man from before, and a young redheaded woman in a beret sitting in front of him – leapt up to restrain him. Around them, the other human members of the audience stirred, whispering and muttering amongst themselves. "Oh, I'm glad we left Nemo at home," a fishwife said to her fish husband. "This is far too much excitement for his blood!"

I wish it was too much for mine, Alice thought, looking between LaCroix and his protester. The way they were glaring at each other – oh, there was history there. And she was right in the middle of it. Please, please. . .

The tension stretched itself thin – then snapped, as LaCroix seemed to come to a decision. "If Mr. Rodriguez would let me finish," he continued coldly, folding his arms. He glanced back at Alice, lip curled, then schooled his features into calm once more. "I have decided to let this Kindred – live."

The whispering grew louder, crackling with intrigue. Hatter and Carpenter fell on each other in relief, while Cheshire rubbed up against her. "Seems you are worth more to this LaCroix alive." He eyed the hole. "So to speak."

Seems I am. Alice thought about jazz music, and a brief, dim glimpse of a pub. I'm – not sure if I'm relieved or not.

"If we're relieved, you're relieved," the Queen lectured, settling back on her tentacles. "Simpleton."

Hey, I've had a bad night.

Her redheaded captor shot his blond friend a look of intense surprise. "Seriously?" he murmured. "Fish's childe?"

"I guess she technically hasn't done anything wrong," the blond admitted, squinting at Alice. "Still – that's practically bowing his head to the Anarchs. How's the Camarilla supposed to keep power if he's giving up so much ground?"

"I know, I know – but as Mr. Rodriguez would like us to be aware, a sireless childe need not be a drain on us all," LaCroix said, raising his voice above the rabble. "We will give our new member a chance to prove herself. She shall be instructed in the ways of our kind and granted the same rights." He shot Rodriguez a look. "Let no one say that I am not sympathetic to the plights and causes of this community."

Rodriguez looked very much like he wanted to say just that. He settled for a glare and a nod before turning and stalking toward the nearest exit, his two friends trailing behind. LaCroix huffed, then turned to his remaining audience. "I thank you all for attending these proceedings." He hit them all with a hairy eyeball. "And I hope their significance is not lost." He waved a hand. "Good evening."

Recognizing the entertainment of the night was over, everyone promptly got to feet or fins and started filing out. The lingerie-clad woman caught Alice's eye as she passed the stage and gave her a wave, mouthing "Good luck!" before continuing onward. "Making friends already – fortunate," Cheshire commented, tail swishing.

Not the word I'd use, Alice thought, tugging at her wrists. At least not in my current position.