#When the lyrics line up...

[wurmpz]

short animatic

talk - beabadoobee / quincy centric

"this is what I get for interacting with poor people.”

post icybridge. something quick,,

[chiropteracupola]

My body is God’s and my bones are for crows / My words are of record, now everyone knows / Many thousands will sail on your cups’ overflow / To come and see a fisherman...

[the fisher king and lancelot, for @mortiscausa's 'march to camelot,' for the prompt 'ruin']

[kittycatfite]

Stobotnik fic! It's called "People Throw Rocks At Things That Shine"

I don't have an archive account yet (I am working on figuring out how to) so here you go! I wrote out the tags I plan to put (if people have suggestions for more I will gladly add). Dr Eggman | Dr Robotnik/Agent Stone, Dr Eggman | Dr Robotnik, Agent Stone, Male OC who was created to be a jerk for Agent Stone to kill, Commander Walters, People talking shit about Robotnik, Badass Agent Stone!!, Maybe a little OOC but I am trying my best (God damn is it hard to write Robotnik), Robotnik is an asshole but hey Stone's going to stay, Latte with steamed Austrian Goat Milk, Stone centric (It's from his pov), Agent Stone is in love with Dr Eggman | Dr Robotnik, Dr Eggman | Dr Robotnik has no idea what love is but he's trying, Protective Agent Stone, Possessive Dr Eggman | Dr Robotnik, Title is a lyric from Ours by Taylor Swift, Swears! I put swears in here!, I will get better at tagging this when its actually on Archive, First Fic! Whoop!,

This is somehow 3,600ish words so it is below the cut:)

fic time!

“Don't you worry your pretty little mind

People throw rocks at things that shine

And life makes love look hard

The stakes are high, the water's rough

But this love is ours"

And it's not theirs to speculate if it's wrong and

Your hands are tough, but they are where mine belong and

I'll fight their doubt and give you faith with this song for you”

-Ours by Taylor Swift

Every person who had ever worked for or met Dr. Ivo Robotnik agreed the man was insane. He was a genius, of course, but that genius came with a level of cruelty and brutality that was so extreme it was considered a punishment position to be assigned as an assistant to the doctor. No agent lasted longer than a week before either quitting, being fired, or experiencing an injury so badly that they were unable to continue working. (The best record for being fired the quickest was 13 minutes and 37 seconds) Sometimes an agent would come along, someone slightly smarter than the rest, that had quick reflexes, or knew how to keep their mouth shut. Those agents would last longer, but even then it was only a month or two before they were sent packing. The other government agents would watch the poor souls as they ran out crying, yelling profanities, vowing revenge, or just dead inside. Robotnik did not tolerate anything below perfection and no human could ever be held to his sky-high standards. There were rumors and betting games about how long each assistant would last. No one who valued their money bet over a week. 

Or at least that was what Agent Stone had heard.  

“-You’re the greatest G.U.N has ever had, Agent Stone. Which is why we need to assign you to Dr. Robotnik.” Commander Walters said “Of course, working so closely with the Doctor will come with higher pay because the hours he demands are irregular and the level of attention this job will require is high.”

“I am happy to accept the position.”

“Wait, really? I usually have to promise everything under the sun to even get someone to consider working for the doctor. Are you sure, Agent?”

“Quite sure, Commander.”

“I...Thank you, Stone. This is a last shot since he has pretty much fired or permanently injured any agent that would be willing to work for him and scared off any other potential candidates. I wish I could say keep your head down and don’t do anything stupid but this is Robotnik so just, be careful. This will be a temporary position, but try to last longer than a week until we can come up with a more permanent situation.”

Stone grimaced as he exited the office. He would start today since Robotnik’s previous agent had met an explosive termination of position just that morning. He had heard the rumors, hell he had seen the man in person a few times (it was four but it wasn’t like he was actively counting or anything) during meetings when the Doctor would show off his incredible creations to the higher ups but nothing could have ever prepared for actually meeting the hurricane of a man the was Dr. Robotnik.

“Oh GREAT. Another Agent Babysitter here to disrupt my work by not being able to follow simple instructions or take insults without whining like a child. Be better than Agent What-his-name and you can leave with your hands intact.” The genius was standing now.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. I have heard interesting things about your employment strategies, and I am excited to begin my new position.” Stone was smiling. Most agents showed up begrudgingly or with misplaced optimism. No one had ever shown up excited or eager to work for Robotnik.

The doctor threw back his head and laughed. It was loud, it was cruel, and Stone found it strangely appealing. “We both know that working for me will not be a PLEASURE, Agent.” Robotnik had crossed the room in seconds and was now so close to Stone that he took a step back not really out of fear, but more respect. He had heard the doctor didn’t like physical contact. His back found the wall and it made his heart start beating harder. Every time he had been previously threatened on a field mission he had stood his ground, but he wanted to please the doctor for some strange reason as a feeling kept tugging at his chest. “You are not here for a good time or a long time. You will keep quiet, do as I say, and don’t question anything. Or you will be out on your ass within the hour.”

Agent Stone nodded, making sure to keep it a small moment so as to not knock his head into the doctor or against the wall. He didn’t dare speak, the doctor had told him to keep quiet. 

“Hmph.” The doctor stalked off back to his chair. “Make me a latte. Figure out how to do it right and you might get to stay longer than the rest.”

____________

Five months had passed and so far Stone had been threatened with position termination 76 times, physical termination 42 times, and pinned to a wall more times than he could count. Robotnik had stuck gloved fingers in his mouth, electrocuted him, and used him as training practice for the badniks. But Stone was still working by his side. So what if Stone felt a little (Ok, A lot) of pride being Dr. Robotnik’s longest lasting assistant? He was just good at his job as an assistant/bodyguard/warm body that could offer praise at every genius thing the doctor said and agreement when the doctor complained about anything under the sun/personal latte maker. Sure it was more jobs than he had expected, but then again he had only expected to be in Robotnik’s employment for a week.

Stone spent every day of the week in Robotnik’s lab only leaving for coffee or food for the doctor or himself. He didn’t get to help on the machines; it was mostly paperwork or listening to the doctor talk about how smart he was. He was supposed to leave the lab at nine for eight hours every night, but he had started sleeping on the still couch in the breakroom after just the first week. It was important that he stayed close, especially since the doctor was constantly working and might need something from him at anypoint. Like a latte at 2am (His caffeine intake scared Stone, but he wasn’t about to say anything). The couch sucked at first for his back but Robotnik slept in his chair most nights so Stone decided he still had it better. At least he got eight hours of sleep over the doctor's occasional three. The doctor was the kind of person who slept where he crashed and Stone only moved him somewhere more comfortable when he was on the floor or actively holding a soldering iron (Stone had learned the hard way that Robotnik had few self preservation skills over the first month of his employment when the agent had discovered the doctor hadn’t anything besides half a granola bar in 72 hours). 

Monday had rolled around again and Stone stood in the break room as he prepared a breakfast burrito (the doctor didn’t have to eat, but Stone was sure as hell going to provide food) and brewing a morning latte for the doctor. He had been carefully experimenting to discover what exactly the doctor liked in his coffee based on his reaction to what was brought. So far he knew: 

Goat milk, steamed

Three spoonfuls of sugar dissolved into the milk

Hint of cinnamon 

Three fourths coffee to 1 fourth milk

Keep the foam

Likes latte foam art

Prefers his own face or logo

Smiles at badnik designs when he thinks no one is looking

Doesn’t comment on hearts or other simpler designs

Sometimes he will ask for a syrup flavor

Half a pump of vanilla 

Hates pumpkin, if he ever asks for that, stay out of his way or face his wrath (Stone would face his wrath any day of the week).

And the rare: Half a pump of caramel with drizzle on the sides of the glass. Stone had realised this was a latte that he ordered when something wasn’t going right.

Stone’s first job as a barista when he was barely sixteen had finally come in handy he supposed. This skill was never this useful in the military outside of having a steady hand when aiming a weapon.

It was calming to make the doctor his latte. A rare moment of serenity in the whirlwind that was working for Robotnik, not that he would give up this position for the world. He loved watching the genius work, he loved making him lattes, he loved watching him praise his badniks (Stone had even seen Robotnik kiss them on the ‘head’ before when he thought no one was looking), he loved to hear the doctor’s robot noises when he was feeling particularly relaxed, but what Stone really enjoyed was that he got to experience it all. He found what other people considered horrible, oddly enduring and it didn’t help that Robotnik was quite handsome in Stone’s personal opinion.

Past agents (or anyone who had ever met him, really) called Robotnik an asshole, egotistical, a mad man, a labrat, a physiological tyre fire, or even down right evil. Stone kept his true feelings of the doctor a secret to them, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to defend the doctor every time someone sidled up to him with a “So sorry you have to work with him,” or “It's gotta suck being his agent”. They were trying to be chummy, and Stone would usually put on a customer service voice and disengage. He hated them all, but he wasn’t about to say that. Telling the world how much it sucked was Robotnik’s job.

Well that was usually. But today? Oh, today he was fucking done with it all. 

“Hey, I’m making a new bet that you can’t last a year with that freak show.” 

“Don’t call him that.”

“Hah! You don’t have to defend the stubborn bastard. He's not here and those drones of his won’t bother to listen in for him.” (oh they would, they really, really, would. Stone knew they were. SC-918 was always following the agent around.) The man reached over to grab at something in front of Stone when the agent's hand shot out and forcibly wrapped around his wrist. The man had his hand poised over Robotnik’s half finished coffee.

“Hey, now, man you don’t have to act like that hah-hah. Let me go. I wasn’t gonna touch his damn coffee.” The man’s words were strained as he struggled to get free of the agent’s grasp. Stone had already reached for his weapon from its holder that was flush against his chest.

“Do you think I am so stupid, that I can’t recognize an assassination attempt right in fucking front of me?” His voice was low, almost a whisper. A dangerous whisper.

Stone had pressed the man to the counter with the arm he had grabbed pinned so far behind his back it threatened to snap in two. Stone’s gun now pointed at the back of the man’s head. “Especially such a poorly planned and executed attempt? There are very few agents that use this break room since it is only for people who work under the doctor and so few of them actually use it regularly in fear that they will be fired if they ever see him. I have their faces memorized. You are not one of them.” The barrel of the gun was pressed into the man's head so hard it caused the man to squirm and try to free himself. “And they know better than to insult the doctor to my face.”

“I'M doing the world A FUCKING FAVO-” The bang that followed sounded through the whole lab. In the moment Stone decided two things, one he was going to ask the doctor for a personal kitchen within the lab or at least a coffee machine for safety reasons and two he was going to keep a spare change of clothes in his locker. Sure his black on black ensemble would hide the deep maroon splattered across his chest and legs but he really didn’t want to deal with the crunch of dried blood all day and the doctor always complained about the metallic smell.

As Stone cleaned up the blood splatter on the floor and prepared a new cup of coffee since the last one had not only been poisoned, but also had some idiot’s blood in it. The burrito was a little cold now, but it would have sat on the desk for an hour before Robotnik finally ate it anyway. When he returned to the doctor’s side with the fresh cup, the man actually seemed to have slight concern underneath the anger at Stone’s tardiness. 

“Sorry that took so long, sir. There was an assassination attempt on you. It has been handled and cleaned accordingly.”

“I heard the shot. And you're wrong as always, agent, you are still covered in the imbecile’s blood. Go change or wash up or whatever. There's a spare suit in the box by your locker - yes, it's your size. I don’t appreciate the smell of blood so be through but quick since there's paperwork for you to do. More now that there's a dead body in the kitchen.”

“Oh, he’s not in the kitchen anymore, and no one will ever find him. So I think I can escape the government's paperwork this time since you and I were the only witnesses, if that’s ok with you.” He said with a wink at the doctor, one hundred percent sure that the older man had seen it reflected in his holo screens. The adrenaline was making him brave. 

The agent spoke so nonchalantly as he turned to follow the doctor’s orders that he almost missed the doctor visibly tense as he looked up at him from where he had slumped down in his chair to drink his latte. They never did find the bodies when Stone or the badnik foiled an assassination attempt on the doctor and noone at the government really knew the extent of who or how many Stone had killed for Robotnik. Half the time Robotnik himself didn’t even know when another potential killer had been taken down by his agent.

Robotnik didn’t respond to Stone’s wink so the agent took that as his que to leave and change. Proud to see the doctor grab the cold burrito before staring at his computer screens.

Stone had pulled his shirt off and was scrubbing at the blood that had seeped through onto his chest with a towel when he heard someone enter the room. He immediately tensed and whirled around hand itching toward his waist where his gun sat against his hip, visible without his suit jacket.

“Jeez, Agent. It’s me.” Robotnik leaned against the doorframe frame. His eyes flicked over the agent's frame before settling on his latte, and Stone would have sworn his ears had turned pink.

“Oh, I’m so sorry sir, I am still feeling the effect of adrenaline, so-.”

“You're jumpy. It's fine, I will let it slide this time, Agent.” Still looking so intensely at the coffee, like he was trying to drink it with his eyes. “What did the assassin want to kill me for, this time? I still want a debrief, Stone, even if you don’t do the paperwork for G.U.N.”

“Ah, He never got a chance to say really. I believe he wanted to do the world a favor or something. He tried to poison your coffee while I was staring directly at it, so it wasn’t a very good plan. I have a suspicion that he was a disgruntled past agent, which implies G.U.N needs to up their security, honestly.” When Stone finally pulled on the clean shirt, Robotnik looked up, saw that it was still unbuttoned and promptly looked at the ceiling, ears turning from pink to red. Robotnik looked back down as Stone buttoned up his shirt.

“Hmm, they always leave so angry or broken. Not like you, Stone. You won’t leave, no matter what I do.”

“I plan to stay your agent, as long as you’ll have me.”

Robotnik gave a pleased hum. “You’re still here because you’re the only decent assistant I have been assigned, Stone and because you willingly stay by my side. You are MY agent, Stone. Never forget that.”

How could he forget? He loved being Robotnik’s agent. He adored everything about the genius. 

Suddenly, Robotnik was in his personal space. “MINE.”

This had put their interaction squarely in the realm of flirting which only made Robotnik’s blush spread down to his cheeks. Stone was sure he hadn’t meant that to sound romantic, but Stone felt like it was one of the most romantic things he had ever heard. “I am yours, Doctor.” 

“I really don’t like to share.”

“Only yours.”

There was no space between them. Roboniks chest was pressed against his. Stone was sure the older man could hear or at least feel the Agent’s heart beating with the proximity. 

“Really?” there was hesitancy in the doctor’s voice. Stone knew that he wasn’t used to having people stick around. He was the only person who had willingly stayed by Robotnik’s side for so long.

“I really do mean it when I say I will stay by your side forever, Sir.” Stone shifted forward to rest his chin against the doctor’s chest. He could be fired for this, but HR was never really a concern between them. Robotnik didn’t give two shits about boundaries but Stone had never set any up in the first place.

In the end, Stone was the one who moved first, slipping his hand into Robotnik’s gloved one and gently squeezing. The doctor’s breath audibly caught in his throat. 

“Never speak of this to anyone, Agent.”

“I would never share such a private moment. This is our’s alone to treasure, Sir.”

Stone would never grow tired of the sight of the doctor’s ears burning red.

__________

Stone knew it was going to be a bad day when the lab doors opened to reveal Dr. Robotnik shouting at the top of his lungs. After a year working with the doctor he knew his mood even before entering the door. He quickly discerned that Walters was the source of his frustration most likely since he was the target of his words.

As he walked closer

“We threw Agent Stone at you as a last resort. He wasn't supposed to last. A week or two and then he would be fired. We need him back in the field, Robotnik. He is the best shot we have at getting this information ba-”

“No! You assigned a half-way decent agent to ME. HE IS MY AGENT, AND I INTEND TO KEEP HIM UNTIL HE FUCKS UP. (Stone would have snickered at how much of a lie this was if they had been alone. He had fucked up.) Do you understand, Commander?” Robotnik had stalked over to Stone and thrown an arm around the agent's neck pulling him into more of a chokehold against his chest than an embrace. Stone held his arms still so as to not spill the coffee, but still allowed himself to be yanked around as the doctor continued his rage-filled rant. Possessive was one of the few words that floated around Stone’s brain. The proximity to Robotnik had shut everything else down.

Walters tried a different tactic and started to ask the agent what he wanted.

“If you ever try and reassign me, I will quit on the spot.” Stone was still aggressively pinned to Robotnik’s side, but he made sure his words sounded serious despite the less than serious predicament. When he glanced up he could see Robotnik was grinning almost manically. It was a grin that screamed ‘I won’. Stone treasured that grin, maybe a little bit more since everyone else seemed to fear it.

“Go find a new Agent to boss around, Walters,” The doctor’s voice was a viciously sing-song tone now that Stone had stated his own opinion on the matter. “This is my loyal sycophant.”

Robotnik’s eyes were flashing with what Stone knew to be amusement and a twisted sense of adoration when he looked at Stone but he also knew the rest of the world saw it as something evil. Maybe it did have a few malicious undertones, but so did the agent's own grin as he stared back. It was enough for Walters to give up.

They watched Walters' retreating form leave the lab, he knew better than to fight a losing war.

“Your latte, sir,” Stone handed him the cup with the steaming drink after the door slammed shut behind the commander.

The doctor took a sip, “I really do love the way you make them, Agent. Now come on, there is work to be done. Walters will be back in an hour to propose the idea that we do this recon mission together and we should prepare my babies.” Robotnik let go of the agent and disappeared into the rows of badnik along one side of the lab.

Stone was left reeling for a second with the sudden loss of the limbs that were partially obscuring his airway before taking up his place next to the doctor.

[grandtreeangel]

Wow. Patrick saying the most heartbreaking things about the writing process on save rock and roll, how he had to submit to outside ideas and he felt like he got his keys taken away after what happened with soul punk and he was being watched more closely by producers and how after that album he felt that he was writing for other people and what he thought they wanted from him

And then saying,

"Stardust was letting myself put me in there"

[shepscapades]

how do you find songs for your character playlists? is it generally just songs you like to listen to or do you have a process to choose specific songs for each storyline? how do you find/choose them? I’ve really been enjoying listening to the playlists lately!

Omg thank you so much!! Honestly, I very very rarely seek out songs for specific moments for each characters' playlists. More often than not, I will be listening to a batch of new music (my brain can be very picky as to when it's ready to consume new media and new music especially), and I usually just have my ears open for 'which character does this remind me of,' and if a character kinda clicks, 'what moment does this best represent?' and if it's not a perfect match I'll usually try to think of other characters to see if there's a better fit. Sometimes if a song is reaally close to a moment or feeling but not quite perfect, I'll try to re-imagine the events to more closely match the song more, to see if i vibe more with what the song could imply for character relationships, plot-points, etc if i were to keep and use it on the playlist. Sometimes it works and creates a plot point that matches a song like, perfectly, and sometimes I'll just keep a song because it means something verrry specific to me that others wouldn't pick up on without me explaining haha

As far as what new music i listen to, sometimes i'll rely on Spotify's smart shuffle to give me similar-sounding songs for a playlist, other times stuff will hit me while i'm listening to an artists' discography or a random album, or hell a couple of weeks ago i was re-listening to musical albums and got punched in the throat by a couple of songs that ended up being perfect fits for bdubs and 24.

It's not a super reliable system, and it leaves playlists with some big empty chunks (such as, for example, Docs playlist, which has the beginning of s8 and a large chunk of s9 pretty thoroughly covered, but a lot of the meat of s8 is missing, which bothers me because all of that i think is important for his character), but i listen to new music often enough that i'm slotting new songs across my playlists at least a couple of times a week! It's a system that works for me, and i end up putting a good variety of songs onto each playlist since i'm not searching for anything specific for each moment. Hopefully that's helpful!! :D

[morrigan-sims]

And I forget sometimes I'm just flesh and bone.

As he stands in the ruined bathroom, all Rook can think is, At least now I can breathe.

[ecoustsaintmein]

ghosts (part i of ????)

part two here

pairing: paddy x eoin; rating: M. slow burn.

this was the first time they'd had this conversation as eric and killian. but it was as if they'd had this conversation, many years ago, many times before.

(or, paddy mayne and eoin mcgonigal, reincarnated as eric love from 'starred up' and killian from 'angel'. they meet again, during the heights of the pandemic -- but they don't remember - until much, much, much later).

the next quack he saw after oliver was dr wilson, who was a no-nonsense scottish lady who struck fear more than deputy governor haynes ever did. she was young but wise for her years, with curly dark hair and spectacles and a soft dundonian accent. turned out she knew oliver baumer from some forensic psychiatry conference but it wasn't like eric to show that he's interested to know more. no, he didn't miss oliver, he said to her in their one-to-one session. he missed his dad, though.

--

seven years later, eric is allowed parole on the grounds of good behaviour. the world around him has changed, and so has he. is he fully rehabilitated? has that bloody posh quack oliver baumer cured him of his violence?

dr wilson told him she knew about haynes and cardew and the comings and goings of the previous corrupt prison regime. oliver blew the whistle and there had been a massive investigation and as a result, most of the inmates' cases were reviewed, including eric's.

'what would you do, then,' eric once asked, 'if you manage to rehabilitate me? then you'd be out of work, won't ya?' but now eric realized that there were worse evils out there in the world that subsumes the hearts of men.

subsumes.

ha.

there was once a time when eric would laugh in the faces of those who would use big words like that. but since he spent more time with tyrone, hassan, ashley, dr wilson, he'd started reading and expanding his vocabulary. he's even started reading poetry.

sublimation was a word he recently learnt. dr wilson was drawing a timeline of his life and a map of his thought processes and how he came to be the way he was. some things in his past can't be changed, she said, but the way he responds to things, can be altered.

neville died of stage four prostate cancer five months ago. dr wilson fought for eric to be allowed to attend his dad's funeral. he even has a social worker now, nate, who is about the same age as he is, but is a tall, strapping bloke from liverpool with a heavy scouse accent. they talk shite about football and how neither of their teams were doing well in the prem.

then oliver visited him in prison, only to tell him that he's moving to new brunswick. where the hell's new brunswick? nova scotia, oliver said. new scotland?

canada, oliver nodded. because he said they needed psychologists there and the nhs pay was shite and for all his pains oliver wasn't a saint.

jews don't have saints, eric said. oliver looked at him for a moment before they both broke into laughter. well, eric shrugged. you're a saint enough for me. you've performed a miracle. i don't punch people when they smile at me wrong now.

five months later his parole application was accepted and he was free.

except. two months later the whole country went into lockdown.

and this was how he met that irish waif, killian, with the dark curls and the dark eyes and the accent no one can understand, especially when he spoke, words swallowed underneath that blue mask that everyone's got to wear.

he never got to witness that wide, easy smile of killian's in real life, until six months later, but then, that's another story.

--

they met as hospital volunteers in south london, during the height of the pandemic. they both live two flats apart on the same floor, in the same council tenancy building, just ten minutes walk from st george's.

but they weren't friends, not straight away. there was nothing memorable about killian apart from that shocking mop of unruly curls on his head and that awful accent, though eric's learnt to keep quiet and let killian repeat himself several times to the staff and patients on the ward; 'it's killian with a k, not a c like cillian murphy,' he'd said, pulling at his ID badge and pointing at his name. 'this is how i look like under this mask, by the way,' he says, and the patients will laugh. it's a terrible photo, worse than eric's own prison mugshot.

they were wary of each other just as eric was often wary of strangers. he's sublimated enough by being kind to patients and their relatives on the wards -- he doesn't need to continue wearing the same mask with other people.

his new social worker, subodh, once chided him for this.

--

everyone seemed to struggle with lockdown, but eric thrived. he's so used to isolation that he never ran out of ways to entertain himself.

the internet is a beautiful thing.

--

he didn't realize who it was, not at first. eric has his allowances and benefits and saves them up -- he's got no need for new trainers or clothes; and even with food he's rationing them up like he did in prison, he's not a glutton for mickey d's or domino's or that chinese takeaway across the street.

but eric's got urges, sometimes -- an urge that started out as a curiosity, ever since he found out that neville and ashley were together.

the internet is a beautiful thing.

--

eric's watched too many of those videos, now, but to say that he has a favourite or a type would be a stretch too far. he's even tried jacking off to them, but he couldn't even get hard -- not when all he could think about when he heard the men on screen moan was to think of ashley and his dad, together.

no.

he slammed his laptop shut (yes, the same laptop that he got for free from that scheme subodh signed him up for). he learnt how to use vpn. just because he spent his formative years in and out of prison doesn't make him a technological heathen.

but the next night he decided to watch some solo videos instead of acted porn, and this was how he ended up clicking on the profile of user @/cuchulainn1995.

he never shows his face, and despite the irish handle he speaks with an english (sussex?) accent. the first thing eric noticed is he's got a low, deep, growling voice, and such big hands, long beautiful fingers. one of the videos started with cu chulainn (that's how eric calls him now) wearing a white button-up shirt and slacks, but slowly he unbuttoned it and palms at his slacks, deft fingers unbuckling his belt. the hand motion on screen was slow, steady, confident. eric was utterly mesmerised by the way those hands floated across, like butterflies, as cu chulainn stripped down oh-ever-so-slowly.

he's wearing a lacy bra underneath the shirt, flat against his chest, and a lacy thong that could barely hold in his entire length. he's well hung, slim, but he hasn't even grown into his full girth yet, as he begins to pump himself through the lacy fabric.

against eric's will, he got hard too, as he watches this stranger tweaking his nipple under the bra and whispering filthy things about wanting to fuck a bad boy and wishing to destroy something beautiful. this man who talked of not wanting to be fucked, but to fuck. all while wearing that lacy bra and lacy thong that eric wanted to rip up with his teeth.

eric's never come so hard in his life.

maybe that's why all of those losers raided the tescos for toilet paper. for wanking to videos this good.

--

killian's the one who approached him first, at the canteen, while eric was flicking through the copy of 'oxford book of war poetry' he found amidst the old magazine stacks of hello! and ok! in the nursing office.

the blt sandwich was a bit dry, and the coffee stale. this was eric's excuse for coughing up his food and spluttering them all over the table, when killian sat in the chair in front of him and asked, 'what passing-bells for these who die as cattle?'

'what the fuck?' was eric's only illustrious response.

'-only the monstrous anger of the guns,' killian replied, voice muffled under the mask. 'wilfred owen.'

'i prefer robert graves.'

'of course.'

this was the first time they'd had this conversation as eric and killian. but it was as if they'd had this conversation, many years ago, many times before.

killian tore up his roll and dipped it in his golden vegetable soup. he pulled down his mask and ate voraciously. like he hadn't eaten in months.

it was the first time eric saw killian's face, in full.

killian smiled, as he licked soup off his fingertips, inadvertently making kissy noises as his lips left each finger. 'i prefer yeats,' he said, oblivious.

eric tried not to stare, he really did. there was something about the movement that was so familiar to him.

but he couldn't place it.

he also thought, that birthmark on killian's left hand looked familiar too --

but surely not?

--

eric's throwing money he doesn't have to cu chulainn, subscribing to his live videos and in his head thinks that he's having a parasocial relationship with this faceless man with a beautiful body, like one of those marble statues the brits pilfered from ancient greece.

his colouring was dark, gingery, and eric wondered if they were as coarse as his own hair. eric wondered if he was as dark, or darker in real life.

in the busy chatbox filled with filthy comments from horny subscribers, eric once gathered the strength to type, 'if ur english why the name cu chulainn?'

eric watched the slight pause in the body language, face unseen from the neck above. and then, for a split second, the sussex accent switched to a soft irish lilt, 'who says i'm english?', and eric thought, 'i've heard this voice before.'

but eric forgot everything when cu chulainn started his show, and when he called his audience a 'good boy'.

eric thought it was a private message just for him.

--

they bumped into each other, at the aldi queue for the self-service checkouts, a metre apart. eric eyed the shite killian's got in his basket -- bananas, spinach, macaroni, yorkshire tea and a bar of dairy milk. eric eyed his own -- pot noodles, crisps, rich tea biscuits. then killian waited for him outside, humming mindlessly, a foldable umbrella in hand. it's started drizzling -- then raining, hard, unheard of for tooting, before walking up to their flat together.

eric pulled up his hoodie and made a point not to stand under killian's umbrella, although he's getting drenched like a wet soppy dog and killian called him out for it. 'stop being an eejit and get under the brolly,' he said, without raising his voice, and eric acquiesced.

--

it's only natural that when the government announced that 'members of a household could be part of another household' as a 'support bubble', that eric became killian's.

and killian eric's.

subodh told him that it's good that he's found a friend, though under no circumstances did eric admit that killian was 'a friend'. they had nothing in common, he said. apart from the poetry and the football (why does he support liverpool? he's irish, for fuck's sake).

eric's been in killian's flat, which was a mirror image of his own, except that they were filled with the most bizarre trinkets when eric's was more spartan. killian never let him inside his bedroom, though, and eric's never pressed further.

killian grew herbs in his flat. a pot of chilli, too. there was a time when he grew up on a farm, he'd said, and everything he ate was from the land around him, because he learnt how to grow them. he learnt how to forage in the wild, he learnt how to slaughter animals. he's good with a machete and an axe too, he'd said, before he realized he'd said too much and fell silent.

this was when eric knew that there was more beyond the softness of killian's visage - there were dark secrets there, hidden behind those eyes, underneath those long, dark lashes.

eric spent more time at killian's flat than at his, since the support bubble rule was introduced. killian can cook. and for some reason, despite saying that he's living on benefits too, he's got subscriptions to all the streaming services and has the latest games on his ps.

eric wondered where he got the money from.

--

it didn't take long for him to find out.

--

in eric's defense, it was killian who told him to fetch his phone charger from the bedroom.

killian's bedroom, which for the past three months had been off limits to eric, because the door was always shut and killian had never invited him in, not even for a casual 'this is my room' tour. boundaries. if there's one thing he's learnt from oliver and dr wilson and the likes of 'em, it's to learn how to respect people's boundaries.

it's the grey wall and the bedspread that caught eric's eyes first. his first thought was, surely not. his second thought was, surely not.

it wasn't as if there were toys splayed across the room for eric to see. the room was pristine, unlike the mess that was the living room, but eric had just seen one of cu chulainn's videos yesterday and this was where he had sat.

and the laundry basket was in the corner of the room. there was no weird smells, no bras, no lacy thongs - but he noticed the slacks and the white button down shirt. killian had never worn slacks and a white shirt to work, he was always in his casual stripey t-shirt before he changes into scrubs, and then, oh then, there's his belt.

the belt.

the images of killian's fingers, on the ps controller, or when he picks up a brown roll and dips it into soup during lunch hour, come rushing back. the birthmark on the back of killian's left hand, as he unbuckles his belt and unzips his slacks and touches himself. the way his knuckles disappear as he works his fingers up into himself.

and he hears killian's irish lilt, now, in cu chulainn's forced english voice. eric realizes now that he's one of the men who's paid for the way that killian's living.

eric doesn't feel anger. he doesn't feel panic. he's floating, in this room, because he's always seen it through the pixels of his laptop screen, but never like this. he doesn't even know whether he wants to hate killian or hate himself, because at the end of the day eric was the one who had been searching for it, again and again, like a man obsessed; addicted. killian was just there, doing his thing.

killian had been here, last night, doing his thing. and eric had fantasised of doing more, imagined that he could be touched the same way, on this very same bed. eric leans down and touches the ikea bedspread, clean - it's as if killian's washed all the stains off of it from last night, and the room itself smells woody, citrus-y. it smells like killian.

it smells nice.

killian barges in and asks what's taking so long, wooden spoon in hand, flour dust on his nose and cheeks. he's attempting to make sausage rolls from scratch, he says.

eric's eyes glaze over, like he's neither here nor there. he only ever had sausage rolls from greggs and his own mum was a terrible cook, so homemade pastries were out of the question.

the phone charger is still plugged in at killian's bedside, where he's dumped his camera and lighting equipment in a storage box. eric pretends not to see it, and hands the phone charger to killian, careful not to let their fingers touch.

'you ok?' killian asks, concerned.

'yeah,' eric lies. 'it's just that, i've never been in your room before. it's nice,' he says --

-- which isn't a lie.

killian softens, as he tilts his head to one side and squints at eric. 'aye, because you never asked, ya daftie.'

it's almost fond.

--

some nights eric will wake up, alone in his bed, grouching. he remembers the night he was about to be executed by the prison guards, to make it look like he's hung himself, before neville saved him.

he dreamt of walking out of prison, with no one to greet him but a dreary, empty council flat near tooting broadway.

some nights, eric will wake up, alone in his bed, grouching. but this time, he doesn't remember that night when he was about to be executed the prison guards, to make it look like he's hung himself, before he ended up walloping all of them, before walking out into the hot desert sun.

he dreamt of walking out of prison, but this time killian is there, saying, 'the dead arose and appeared to many,' -- except this isn't killian and he isn't eric, and eric struggles to remember the name of this man who looks so much like killian and yet just isn't.

his mannerisms are still the same, though, from the way he stretches and yawns and grins like a cheshire cat, and he is as generous with his touches as killian was. this man laughs at his unfunny jokes about sweating in hospitals and nightclubs and getting someone's goat, and serves him soup from the gazelle that eric-who-is-not-eric has allegedly shot.

killian-who-is-not-killian smiles, as he licks the soup off his fingertips, inadvertently making kissy noises as his lips leave each finger, and eric thinks, oh.

oh.

--

paddy, he says.

eric wakes.

--

at lunchtime, killian shows him an empty notebook that one of the elderly patients had gifted him, on late shift last night. it's worn and battered, faded ink on the yellowed pages.

'she stopped me in the corridor and told me i had to have it,' he says, 'and then she was gone.'

'which ward was this?' paddy asks. 'maybe she's just a bit off, ya know, with delirium.'

'aye, it was off rodney smith ward,' killian nods, before leafing through the pages again, carefully.

a note falls out.

'from paddy, to eoin,' killian reads out loud, squinting to make out the words.

'eoin,' eric says, weighing the word on his tongue, before deciding that he enjoys the way his lips have moved, the way his throat has closed, to form the lovely sound ringing between them.

'paddy,' killian agrees.

--

'so, the sand of the desert couldn't keep your soul buried, eh eoin?'

--

killian thinks, when he was growing up, his real da used to say: 'coincidence was god's way of being anonymous.'

but this isn't what he chooses to believe.

he believes it's more like poker: life won't always give him easy hands, but it'll be down to killian how he chooses to play it.

so he chooses to believe that it was out of his own free will that he chose to sit at that table and quoted wilfred owen at eric love.

he chooses to believe that it was out of his own free will that he chose to wait outside aldi in the pouring rain, umbrella in hand, to walk eric love home.

he chooses to believe that it was out of their own free will that they became friends, despite the dreams that he had been having lately: of quiet conversations in flimsy tents, of secret trysts under the desert moon.

'when it was the desert, and you, and me,' killian thinks --

only those words weren't his, nor were they eoin's, but from a fragment of eoin's soul that paddy's carried with him.

from egypt to sicily to normandy.

from dublin to ballymena to newtownards.

and now, to fucking tooting, of all places.

how poetic.

--

he couldn't find the woman again. she was, he thinks, not of white-european descent, and her accent was foreign, but killian had thought nothing of it when she handed him the notebook--

-- and disappeared.

the nurses had never seen her before, when killian attempted to describe her. and with everyone wearing masks, it became even harder to identify who killian was talking about, and the nurses looked at killian as if he was still hungover from whatever he'd smoked the night before.

killian will call her 'eve', he thinks,

and the notebook his forbidden fruit,

these phantom memories are akin to a serpent.

'take a bite,' they call out to killian;

-- and so he does.

this way, at least, he'll live.

--

tbc.

part two here

[synthshenanigans]

i didnt say it properly before but god you dont know how happy i am that [synth shenanigans] made a return like dude i put that as my name for a reason like DUDE it came BACK after so fuckin LONG MAN

funky banger synths my beloved....

[omppupiiras]

ahhhh sex = money is just 🔥🔥🔥🔥😍😍💸👌 i'm lowkey a little surprised by how much i like it 😂

[stellamancer]

niku!! I saw your post and now I'm curious - what are your top five love songs? ✨️

hehe birdie hellowwww. my top five love songs in no particular order! love distance long affair by deco*27 hey, it's okay if you laugh. hey, it's fine if you cry too hey, it's okay if you get mad, you're allowed to fall in love hey, it's okay if you wanna kiss, hey, we can hug too. hey, it's fine if you want me to be yours and yours alone.

with you around by yellowcard

you're making movies in your head when you fall asleep having nightmares, dreaming that I'm gonna leave i know you've always been afraid of ending up alone somebody hurt you, now you're waiting on a dial tone

all you wanted by michelle branch

if you want to, i can save you i can take you away from here so lonely inside, so busy out there and all you wanted was somebody who cares

till i by hiroyuki sawano ft yuuri

cause i wanna be a piece of you till i die no one wants to be alone even if you're torn apart and put back together and though we fall apart between the hell's divide if you wish for it, i'll always stay by your side*

kokoronashi by majiko (originally papiyon-p feat. GUMI)

you can’t see! you can’t see! just take my bones, why not everything? start tearing me and damaging, do anything, lay me in the ground i’m screaming and shaking, my eyes turn red somehow even now wrapping me around, your touch abound, not letting go even when i say it's okay

[akkivee]

choose your fighter: ichikuu lyrics edition

[valenfield-inspo]

Jill Valentine & Chris Redfield - Resident Evil: Revelations Moodboard

[moonsavior]

❤️ I made a playlist, I couldn't help myself ❤️

⋆｡°✩ ⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊✩₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆ ✩°｡

⭐🐇⭐ Has elements of each incarnation of Xavier's MC (Student!mc, Queen!mc, and Hunter!mc) blended with Xavier's different personalities (Lumiere, Prince of Philos, Backtracker Captain and his Possessive Side) through space & time 💫🪐

[jomeimei421]

GYAAHHH people are reblogging ANCIENT art of mine

[offthewall1979]

oh ok so he...... knew. how that came off to people. i like how he didn't really answer any question here

[nekohrine]

part 2

(masterpost)