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trashikin · 2 years ago

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Arranged Marriage Vaderluke Trash 1

Here you go. This will probably only ever be snippets, idk that I have the patience to flesh it out into a real fic

Tw: dark content, accidental incestuous marriage, unhealthy power dynamics

Enjoy!

Luke wasn't sure what was stranger: walking through the halls of a Star Destroyer openly and without pretense, or being personally escorted by Darth Vader. And not to a prison block, but to his personal chambers.

It made a degree of sense, one generally cohabitated with one's husband, but he had hoped he'd have his own. Vader hadn't insisted that he stay with him in his guest quarters at the Alderaan Palace, after all.

Whatever Vader was thinking was a mystery to Luke. He had barely spoken since dully repeating his vows back, as if reciting rote lines in school. He should be relieved that Vader seemed as uninterested in this union as Luke did, but part of him could not help but be offended.

Luke was not a vain man, but he knew he was a "catch", as several galactic gossip rags put it. Beautiful, smart, and rich without that pesky duty as heir to get in the way. Mama and Papa had promised both of them that they would have their choice of spouse, but Luke had never minded the idea of a political match. He felt useless much of the time next to his accomplished sister, and if that was how he could serve Alderaan he would do so proudly.

Of course, he had expected someone a bit more compatible than a Sith Lord. His one saving grace was that Vader detested spectacle and large swaths of the galaxy were not even aware that he existed. Those who Luke had to tell knew him well enough to understand the reality of his situation. Or so he hoped.

He was a prisoner, no matter where on the Executor he lay his head. A hostage, for Alderaan's involvement in the Rebellion.

"Lord Vader," an officer fell into step along Vader's other side and addressed him. A captain, if Luke read his rank pips correctly.

"Captain Piett," Vader said without intonation, confirming his guess.

Piett glanced at Luke as one would a newly purchased vase one's host pointed out. Not without interest, but quick and surface-level.

"Is this him, my Lord?"

"I have a name," Luke grimbled, "and I am right here."

Both men ignored him.

"It is," Vader said simply. "Report."

Luke schooled his face into a careful mask. This was his first chance to learn something firsthand. He had no idea how he was going to pass it to the Rebellion, but he had to start somewhere.

The reality of the report was either of no strategic value or spoken in a code Luke did not yet understand. It was a boring recitation of a patrol they had done. Quite routine and nearly public knowledge. He tried not to slump in disappointment. There would be other chances.

Vader suddenly stopped in front of a door that looked no different from any other of the dozens they had passed. There was a number plaque above the controls that Luke made note of, but no other distinguishing features.

"That is all for now," Vader said, and for a moment Like wondered if he was dismissing him as well as Piett.

"My Lord," Piett said. He then turned to fully face Luke and dipped his head briefly. "Your Highness."

He left. It was better than nothing, Luke thought. He was more comfortable with familiar terms of address, but at least he hadn't been ignored this time.

Vader activated the door controls to reveal a relatively spartan living space. Luke did not know what he had expected. Palpatine's extravagance, perhaps. He followed Vader inside and nearly walked into his back when he came to a sudden stop in the center.

Luke's mouth was dry but he swallowed anyway. Was it that Vader was unwilling to unleash the depths of his depravity upon Luke in his mother's palace? Was it now time for his true humiliation to begin?

"Refresher," Vader said in the same monotone he had used with Piett. He pointed to a door to their left.

"Comlink. Internal use only." Now he pointed to a console a few meters away from the 'fresher door.

"Your room." This time he pointed to a door on the right. Luke slowly exhaled. He would not be expected to share his bed, at least.

Vader finally turned to look at him directly, the death's head of his mask seemed to tower above Luke.

"My private chamber is past the door across from us. You will not enter it uninvited."

"No problem there," Luke said, before regretting it. Him and Leia, neither could help but snark when they were nervous.

Vader ignored his comment.

"If you wish to leave these quarters you will comm for an escort. If one is not available you will not leave these quarters. I dine at 0500 and 2000. If you are not here or awake at those times you may eat in the mess hall."

"Assuming I have an escort?" Luke asked, emboldened by the lack of response to his last quip to fill his voice with sarcasm.

"Correct," Vader said, either ignoring or not catching what he was doing. "If you have any questions you may ask them now. After that I do not wish to be interrupted. My detour to Alderaan has set me behind."

That stung a little. Luke did not expect to build any sort of connection with Vader, but part of him had hoped the man was human enough for some simple civility. He was less than a prisoner, who might earn Vader's ire. He was… an annoyance. An inconvenience. True, he had worked hard in the past to be an inconvenience to Vader's plans but this was different.

"No, I think the boundaries of my prison have been well-defined, Lord Vader," Luke said.

Vader tilted his helmet at him.

"You are not in a prison," he said.

"I'm a hostage, aren't I?" Luke held his arms out to emphasize his point, then let them flop back down to his sides.

"You are my spouse," Vader said, with no more emotion than before.

"Is there a difference?"

That was the wrong thing to say. Vader stalked forward, radiating barely leashed fury. He stopped so close to Luke that Luke had to crane his neck up to maintain eye contact. If he could call looking into those dark transparisteel lenses eye contact.

Vader raised his right hand with his fingers poised in a pinching gesture, but shifted instead to a pointed finger at the last moment. He placed it below Luke's chin and tilted his head up further, until his neck began to complain at the strain. It was the first time he had touched him since their brief, private ceremony the day before.

"You have lost the privilege of leaving these quarters for the next 28 standard hours," he said, darkly. "During that time you will reflect on the decorum your new station demands."

Luke felt less fear than perhaps he should. He was not currently in danger of being tossed out an airlock, but he should know better than to antagonize him anyway.

The finger pressed harder against his chin.

"Do you understand me, boy?"

Luke frowned at that, that was straight past familiar and on into demeaning.

"Yes."

"'Yes', what?"

What was he supposed to call him? The idea of calling Vader an endearment was so ridiculous it threatened to make him laugh inappropriately and further infuriate the man. Luke decided to go for the safest option. He did not bother using a respectful tone or keeping the grimace off of his face, though.

"Yes, my Lord."

#Dark content #vaderluke #star wars #Ficlet #my writing

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countessofbiscuit · 3 years ago

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dirty two club

Fox loves Riyo with every beat of his propane heart | ao3

Commander Fox Week - Day 4: Bonding | Laughter No Warnings Apply Teen, 1000 words @loving-fox-hours . . .

It was one of the most protean statutes on Coruscant’s books: vehicles with certain uplift-to-thrust ratios (mup-per-ktu) were prohibited for public use.

Given the altitude of most skylanes, and the near-universal zoning restrictions regarding pedestrian-level traffic in built-up areas, owning a speeder bike in Galactic City meant paying more for storage than fuel.

The real target of this rule?

Swoop bikes and their dangerously elastic flight ceilings.

More specifically, the reckless racing of these overpowered engines with seats through the city maze.

A discreet citizen could get away with operating a speeder or swoop in the lower levels, provided it wasn’t modded to the Maw and back with rally lights, exhaust tips, and showy gas purges. Cops couldn’t be everywhere; the knowing knew CSF droids were only tripped by irregular speed. It was flying in an anti-social manner that got one into trouble.

Commander Fox, legal operator of an otherwise illegally modded Aratech 74-z speeder bike, never did that. Nor did he ever attend those unlawful fixtures.

But a tall, dark, and disguised being who called himself Kett did.

Tonight he was joined by a little lady who called herself Twirrl. Her pretty face was heavily caked up. She was made only mostly modest by velvet swatches and lace doilies that had been dubiously stitched together. Like a Corellian folktale had crashed into a brothel. Or a senator had dug through her closet for the hottest fashion circa the Apprentice Session of ‘71.

“You’ll blow our cover, Commander Hoverhands,” Riyo Chuchi teased, before using a trashcan to climb onto Fox’s shoulders.

She didn’t want to miss anything. She might have seen a topside race or two, where the fines were covered by the price of admission to designated penthouses. Everything was legal for the rich. The underworld flavor of speed would be altogether a new experience.

This race had been advertised on a forum that hadn’t made it onto CSF’s Traffic Division watchlist. Privately, Fox hoped it stayed that way. The experience was different for him, too. Better. Riyo’s gasp of delight when each pack cornered into view sounded almost vulgar. Her bare legs clenched against his neck every time an engine popped like a slugthrower, running rich.

Fox’s palms grew sweaty on her thighs. She’d demanded he put them there, instead of holding her primly by the ankles of her knee-high boots.

“I think my racer has yours pipped!” she squealed during the fifth heat.

“Is that so?” Fox replied, amused. She’d insisted on fronting all his bets.

Riyo leaned down and kissed his shrouded temple. “Don’t worry, I won’t make you pay up … unless you want to dip your big fingers into my pink purse later.”

Her hoarsening voice dripped into his ear. Bikes swept past in a rolling roar. His heart thumped wildly under the crush of everything he loved.

Dizzied, Fox squeezed her in agreement, beaming but burning under his shemagh. It wasn’t the racing scarf she’d gifted him. He kept that tissued in its box; the silk felt finer than sea-spray, and Pantoran plum dye—Pantoran-snails guts wasn’t flattering, if more accurate—carried a whiff of something ripe. Imperceptible to Pantorans, or so they claimed, noses in the air.

The delicious aroma of fumes was dulled enough. Fox laughed stupidly anyway, when their neighbor’s live holo confirmed Riyo’s racer the winner. She nearly strangled him with drunken rejoicing. And then she was falling backwards, shit—

Worse: she was planting a kiss on the polite devaronian who’d let them in front. Loudly complimented him on his handlebars. It had Fox ready to jump the painted cordon, commandeer a swoop, and remind Riyo of the real meaning of fast. Hold on, sweetheart.

They’d monkeyed down here, level by level, without his bike. It flashed Guard racing stripes and had probably flashed up in the rearview of more than one criminal here. CSF had a no-chase policy. Fox didn’t.

Fox relaxed his shoulders (but not his grip) and remembered why he was here.

“What would you do, if the war ended tomorrow and you could make your own life?” Riyo Chuchi had asked, over a closeted cup of caf in his office. Verbal references were often required for extending diplomatic protection. Totally professional.

Fox had been blindsided by the question. Marry you was his instinctive answer. But she probably already knew that. He blurted out the only other thing that came to mind, because his mouth had been spoiled by her generosity. Emboldened.

“Race swoops.”

“Really?” Her expression had been colorful. Not a shade of doubt. On a scale of one to ten, Fox’s bike was juiced up to eleven with the dial broken off. Its high-output repulsor coils didn’t belong in any government-issued speeder.

“Yes. But not arena racing. Too samey—and corporate. Off-world courses. Street, if you’d let me.”

“I would if I knew what that meant.”

Fox hemmed. “Erm ... the illegal ones. Downbelow.” Recreational strips and arenas had all succumbed to Corrie property tax and prices; it left the average Joph nowhere to blow his brakes off. Even if Fox would order them shot down if they ever entered federal or military airspace, he sympathized.

“Interesting,” Riyo had said, grinning behind her mug. NO FOX GIVEN was the least offensive one in his cupboard. “Well, what a senator doesn’t see can’t compromise her position.”

“You wouldn’t want to see. It’s dicey stuff. And not the most proper.” Nitrous blasts up skirts and the like.

“What makes you think so?” Riyo pressed. “And why do I sense you know a lot more about this than you’re letting on?”

“... Because I’m in law enforcement?”

Her had eyes glowed with the dawn of excitement. “Not that kind.”

Fox had once promised to take Riyo anywhere she wanted to go. She’d been bed-bound at the time. Hospitalized. Sad and injured and heartbreakingly fragile and—

And he had meant it. Fox just made a mental note that Riyo’s memory was stronger than symoxin.

And he took her to the races.

. . . . .

with love to @tiend for pointing out the uncanny similarity between Tyrian purple and Pantoran plum. and just with love in general ♥ (ao3)

#commander fox #foxiyo #riyo chuchi #coruscant guard #commanderfoxweek2021

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ohtobeaspettyasleah · 4 years ago

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so. how did the coffee date go? do Ethan and Piper just talk for hours on end about life and get to know each other more? And talk about the kiddos??

Coffee. For many of us, its the one thing that makes the world go round. It’s the morning ritual we allocate time for to either enjoy on the couch before the morning news.

Catching up on all the horrors of the world sprinkled amongst the okay and somewhat high spirited good news story of the day. For others, it’s a moment where we watch the coffee stream down into our just barley washed and slightly over pungent travel mug that you tell yourself daily you’ll throw out-- but never do. Hell, maybe you invest in a flavouring. Sugar-free perhaps? Vanilla, caramel or maybe pumpkin spice depending on the season. You wait for the milk to steam-- or maybe you fall into the heart of people who poor their oat milk over ice to make a quick and easy iced oat latte. Cost-effective.

But then there is the very large chunk of people out there, that allocates a portion of their weekly pay for their coffee. Barista made. They know who makes their coffee each morning by name and they know how that persons day is going by the taste of the roast. Maybe it’s perfect? A good day, maybe its slightly burnt? The milk too hot or too cold? Not enough hazelnut syrup.

Ethan Dolan and Pipper Reid fall into the same category. Because out of the three mentioned above? There are about six others that follow and we just don’t have time to sit here and talk about coffee enthusiasts all day when you wanna know about Ethan and Pippers coffee date at Average Jo’s.

The best cup of Jo on the go:

“If you don’t promise to put your mind body and soul into this coffee Jo you won’t ever see this face again.” Ethan was joking. Maybe, deep down he wasn’t. Pipper Reid, sitting in the nook by the window smiling as she brushed her hair behind her ear as Ethan was caught out staring back at her. He froze, but his heart didn’t. Beating in his chest to loud it rang in his ears.

“You back on the dating sense hey Pal? Haven’t seen you walk in here with a Woman no bigger than that little bug of yours since well” Jo paused, he knew Ethan knew what he was referring to, “Hows she doin’ anyway? Lex.”

“Uh--yeah yeah shes good Joey, has this kindergarten teachers whos really pushing her along, Leo’s thriving too, apparently hes some kind of boy genius?”

“What as in math?” Jo smoked as he handed over the two cups of coffee. To go, even though Ethan had every intention of staying in-store. He just wanted an excuse to leave and leave with his coffee if things didn’t go the way he was hoping for. There was a brown paper bag handed over the counter too. Strawberry tarts, free of charge. Ethan chuckled to himself with a small sigh.

“Kid artist Joey, just think Leonardo DaVinci.” Joseph Ardale was always there for Ethan and his kids. A kind neighbour who just so happened to be the only person who Ethan would buy coffee from. No Starbucks in sight, just a small local business Ethan didn’t know how to live without. Considering the espresso machine sitting on his kitchen counter-top hadn't worked in years. Any single dad with twins lives and breathes coffee, add high school teacher to the mix and Ethan Dolan was no exception to the rule.

“Hey, you’re back!” It was the way Pipper seemed as nervous as Ethan himself had him softening. He liked the way she moved over for him. Accepting the gesture as he handed her her coffee. An Oat milk latte with two pumps of caramel syrup. She didn’t care if it was sugar free.

“You think I wasn’t gonna come back after asking you for coffee?”

“Just uh, a little nervous is all, I usually don’t uh—this, um—“ Ethan chuckled as he sipped his coffee sinking into the nook.

“Date? That the word you’re looking for, because if it is that’s not what this is, just coffee. I mean if you want it to be a date it can be.” Ethan was teasing, he liked the way Pipper smiled—he couldn’t really tell but he had a feeling her cheeks were hot. In a good way. “Date or no date I just wanted to spend—“

“Spend some time drinking coffee together.” Pipper interrupted, chuckling as Ethan nodded and laughed with her.

“Exactly and isn’t it the best cup you've ever had?”

“It’s pretty good, companies even better.”

“There’s no way you’re trying to flirt with me right now?”

“Would it be so bad if I was? Still confused about the wedding band but hey—you said you aren’t a married man? Fair game right?”

“Oh completely fair game, as fair a game is the kindergarten teacher with the not clinically diagnosed Psychotic son.” Pipper gasped.

“My son is a handful, But he’s a good kid.”

“Have you seen my eye? If I wore an eyepatch in this joint Joey over there wouldn’t stop laughing for a decade.”

“Learnt from the best I guess.” Pipper sipped her coffee, there was a slight change in her tone. Ethan almost didn’t pick it up, he pressed though.”

“Box with his dad huh?” The silence and delayed answer said it all. They both came before the drop in facial expression.

“Ollie doesn’t have a dad.”

“Oh—“

“I mean, sure yes there’s a guy out there whose sperm helped create him but, sorry this is uh, I should probably get going.” Ethan thought he was going to be the one who dipped. Tan off with his take away coffee because this was all too soon and he wasn’t ready for this. But watching as Pipper stood from her chair, his chest hurt. Reaching forward to grab her hand.

“Hey, no, wait wait wait wait.” Ethan stood, placing his coffee on the table and a hand a little too low on Pippers hip. For a second he saw his past—for a moment he saw his future. Pulling his hand away because hell, he didn’t want Pipper to think he wanted something more. “I—“

“Ethan—“

“I crossed a line, too personal.”

“Ethan—“

“I don’t know anything about you, you’re good with my kids, that’s all I know and I just, I wanna get to know you because—“ it was Ethan’s turn to pause, Pipper watched as Ethan looked like a deer in headlights.

“Because?”

“Because, you are the first and only woman I have looked at since.” Ethan took a deep breath.

“Since I lost my uh—my wife.”

“You said you weren’t married.” It was out of shock. Pipper didn’t mean to sound rude. “Sorry—“

“Well I mean, yeah I wear my band, I uh— but you can’t be married to someone who just isn’t here anymore. I don’t, please don’t think this changes anything, I wanna get to know you—to me? Yeah, this was a date.” Pipper was silent. She just watched as Ethan sat back down and ran his hand through his hair. Defeated. He knew this was a terrible idea even if his heart told him otherwise. Pipper sat beside him. Her hand reached out for the coffee on the table, handing back to Ethan as she leaned back, settling in.

“My ex is a piece of shit.” It shocked Ethan. He just listened though. “I’m not the person who you want to get to know Ethan—I’m, I’m a mess. There’s this book I read, called getting your shit together and apparently out of Simon, Theodore and Alvin? I’m Simon. I uh—I’m a grade-A mess but I hold it together well, I don’t show it.”

“That’s the weirdest metaphor or analogy I’ve ever heard.” Ethan laughed as pipped did. Comfortable again with one another. Drinking coffee. “But it doesn’t change anything, we’re both Simons.”

“You’re wife? How’d she uh—“

“Car accident, drunk driver about three years ago, just been me and the kids since.”

“That must have been difficult, is difficult?”

“Twin two-year-olds? That’s hard enough on anyone, Leo doesn’t remember her, he was in the car accident, doctors think he lost his memory or something, his body’s way of preventing more damage. Lexi just knows her mum isn’t here anymore. She’s in the sky, creating the clouds for her.”

“I don’t even know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything, I went to therapy, I proceeded everything, I still have days where it’s hard to function but damn it Pipper the moment I saw you, the second, I just knew, I knew I had to get to know you. Even if just as a friend, more would be great but I’ll settle for anything because like I said, I haven’t looked at anyone the way I looked at you in three years.”

“Well, if it means anything, I like the way you uh—look at me.” Pipper smiled before taking a sip of her coffee.

“Oh really?” Ethan smirked, eyes just taking in Pipper. Wondering what she was thinking. Maybe that her coffee was shitty or he’d shared too much too soon. But as she smiled and just stared back softly he couldn’t help but hope she was thinking about maybe wanted to kiss him. Because he was thinking that, shamelessly.

“I do, nobody has ever looked at me the way you look at me.”

#ethan dolan #Ethan Dolan series #teacher!e #to build a home #dolan twins

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emj-tolj · 4 years ago

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Bringing a World of Adventure Hunting in to Your Home

Not everyone is not living in a position to wander the woods, desert, beach or ruins. I had that situation at one point in my life. And yes its depressing. And when you read others doing all these things its can really get to you. However there are a huge number of things yo CAN do to counteract the depression. Lets visit a good many of these things:

1) Everyone’s first Go-to is Roleplaying. Be its table-top or online. But not all Online games bring out the true desire to adventure, as they are limited to telling a specific story. As such I suggest avoiding using game maps and make you own real maps. Right down and study any runes in the game, study the magic tech in the game, write side stories of your character that can not be done in game. Create a history to the character you made. Some games are limited what you character looks like. Draw your own character and hang it by your game station.

2) If you have adventure wear, wear it about the house/apartment. Does not have to be all of it. Boots, a shirt, a vest, tunic, wristbands, cloak

3) If you have the money and talent turn kitchen into a tavern or saloon, line shelfs with bottles and plates and other tavern/saloon wear. Avoid cheese props. Study movie sets and get ideas from that.

4) Likewise turn your bedroom into an Inn room. Go ristic and simple with natural colors and materials

5) Burn in a cauldron or censor wood chips, herbs and incense,

6) Hang posters of nature about the walls in natural wood frames. If you can obtain some old wood window frames, you that as your poster frames. If possible find images of nature on line and print them out. Try to make all the images co-inside, so its looks like you are looking out into the same view. Change the posters with the seasons if possible

7) Place realistic life-size animals about your home: Snake, turtle, mice, birds, chipmunks, insects. If you have a ficus tree or a cluster of plants, place a birds nest with eggs in it

8) Play sound effects and ambient sounds in the house. Youtibe and other sites have a plethora of ambiance and sounds from cave to camp sites, tavern sounds, market squares, pirate ships, forests

9) Add a fountain/s in your home. Fountain pumps can be bought anywhere these days,

10) Terrariums! Make them and add them to your home. Even of the plants are fake

11) Aquariums! If your adventurous aestheic love is the see or any water setting like ponds, these are fantastic to have. And do not limit yourself to just fish: Crabs, snails, turtles, frogs, lizards, snakes. Even if you are not allowed to have pes, build an aquarium anywhere. The flow of the water from the filtar moving the plants can lend to the imagination

12) Wood, tin and copper and wrought iron objects

13) Leather bound books. Line a shelf with them,

14) Candles and lanterns. Some people can not have things where they live for safety mode. Even if you never burn them, have a cluster of candles anyway. Just the look of lanterns and candles plays with the mind. You can also invest in battery ones but I think they are silly looking

15) Bowls of fruit: Wood bowls and real fruits and nuts about the house.

16) Seasonal and year round garlands and wreaths about the house. Clusters of ferns. If you do not have a green thumb, go fake if need be. Ferns and spider plans are my fave.

17) Drift wood and moss covered wood.

18) If you have your own Adventure clothes and gear do not bury it in a closet. Get a mannequin and display it,

19) Fur, leather, blankets, wool, sheepskin throws and pillows.

20) Banners and tapestries

21) Invest in a couple of mortar & pestle sets, one for the kitchen and one for the bathroom is you have the room. (Confession: I collect them)

22) Hang herbs and dry plants in the kitchen.

23) Clay pots and assorted pottery about the house. Try to sick with OLD looking styles. Check out some sites or books on ancient styles for an idea

24) Antlers add a wonderful feel to ambience. Even if fake. Now they are made into door handles, draw knobs and so much more. (DO NO go hung deer and elk JUST for their racks)

25) Bowls and vases of snail shells, acorns, pine cones,

26) Rolls and displays of maps,

17) Glass and Ceramic bottles: Display a few or better yet, use them! fill them with shampoos, liquid soaps, drinks and what ever else you use and look at daily

18) Old style dip pens and ink vials on your desk along with scrolls of parchment and an old leather bound journal,

19) Color glass baubles like the ones at christmas time and “witch balls” These are great if your Aesthetic is the sea or in the Witchy profession,

20) Wood wand display. Not talking about Harry Potter here. Do a little reserach and find or make a REAL one. Display it on your desk or mantle staff. If you have a set, even better.

21) A Statue of an ancient god,

22) Baskets and wicker to hold things

23) Metal goblets and drinking horns

24) If you have one or several hand your shields on the walls,

25) Oil hurricane lamps,

24) Hang and display Gourds about. If you know how to carve and stain gourds, all the better,

25) Birds houses. In the house?? Sure, why not?

26) Feathers. Sometimes just a vase of ling feathers helps. If they are feathers you find in your walks, just as better. Each one has a story

28) Bowls of rocks. Not only does this bring the natural world in but its said that a bowl of rocks by the door and window wards off negativity.

29) Old wood boxes. Just do not collect them but USE them. put whatever in them as storage. Afraid you will forget what’s in it??? All the better. There is your treasure at the end of your search.

30) Corn dollies. These folk cultural dolls and designs have their roots into the ancient world. a display of them, especially during the late summer, really invokes the harvest season

31) Ceramic and wood bake ware in the kitchen. Ads a rustic tavern feel. This could include bread boards and bowls, wood spoons, rolling pins,

32) Replace DVD covers with parchment or wood texture covers. Sometimes a wall of game and DVD cases can kill an ambiance you are striving for. If you can not print out all these coves, hang a tapestry over your shelf unit or add wood shutter doors

33) Cover your library of bright color books with leather, paper of plether, No access to leather? See of someone has an old leather jacket they are ditching you can cut up

34) Wood flutes, harps, ocarinas, pan pips, lyres and rustic drums add to a great tavern-ish display.

35) A tall vase of cattails gives ambiance for this that over adventures in places like rivers and lakes,

36) If you have a collection of crystals, sea glass and gemstones, show them off in a wood box or basket,

37) Halloween Witch bottles add to the adventure appel. (I have a buhnch and have all my teas in them,

38) Fancy yourself an Librarian or treasure seeker? Have a display of “artifacts” like (potters, tiles, scales, bones, glass, wood), Find some broken pottery shards and make them look like Greek pottery. If you sculpt make a remnant of a state or a bone or prehistoric tooth. Create your own artifacts and put stories to them.

39) Hang a bunch of leather sachets and small bags from a hook or sit them on a shelf,

40) Find yourself a rustic tea set,

41) Collect vintage clay and wood tops. Tops have been around since ancient Assyria and Babylon.

42) Display a collection of carving tools or depending on your likes, a small anvil and hammer,

43) Hand on hoots of rack by your door or wall woven wicker hats, leather caps and witch/witch hat, head wreaths,

44) Display an old stick/straw/grass broom head wreaths,

45) Display a helm or helmet you have in a place that speaks “I am at the ready”

46) Fold a small stack of old burlap bags and place on a shelf and use them to store things like potatoes and onions,

47) Display and basket of wood knitting needles and wool,

48) Grow plants, flowers, herbs and small trees. Even small pots of just grass adds a sense of nature and Adventure (The ancient Greeks would grow grass for their New Years Eve celebration) I have lemon trees in my windows I grew from seeds.

49) A Fish Net works great to add an aesthetic look to your space.

50) If nothing more find an artist and have him/her draw your aesthetic self as you see yourself in different poses, gear and situations. Blow thing up power size and hang them about your space

51) If you can not do any of this, create a physical scrap book of pictures and images that’s screams your aesthetic ideals. Visit it daily and add to it.

NOTE: While all these ideas are great starts, DO NOT over do it. Less is more. Rustic and simple. Avoid cheesy plastic props and things like signs screaming “I am a Proud Viking!” Investigate films, movies and history into your aesthetic loves and the world behind it. Do not create clutter. Make you space livable and function to your NEEDS. Make you space your home, not a museum. If your space is cluttered and does not bring you a feel of your Aesthetic feelings you may need to pull back on some of your props.

#aesthetics #aesthetic #decoration #decorations #adventurecore #adventure #adventure aesthetic #Adventure Hunter #home #house #apartment

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purkinje-effect · 3 years ago

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The Anatomy of Melancholy, 75: Paper Weight

Table of Contents. Third Instar, Chapter 6. Go to previous. Go to next. TWs: Religion, joint issues, diet/appetite weirdness, brief transphobia adjacent anxiety, minor dehumanizing ghoul treatment. Uh. Not in that order. A slightly longer groundwork chapter, and continuing evidence that I am, in fact, criminally insane. [Updated 2021.07.12.]

“...[F]ixed in a sort of eternity at the heart of the crystal.” -- Orwell’s 1984

______________________________

‘Choly woke to Sticks gently stroking at his long dark shock-streaked hair. He could not discern the time of day without any light sneaking in around the edges of curtains, and recalled their inn room did not have windows. The ghoul drew his attention back to him with a drowsy smile.

“Ready to start the day?”

To resist the draw to curl up into Sticks, ‘Choly stretched out with a yawn, only to jerk his eyes open. He laid on his back for some time. In the night, one of his shoulders had separated and dragged his neck out of alignment.

“--I’m not ready, but let’s start anyway. Angel, be a dear and turn the lights on, please.“

The Mister Handy puffed to life again. Reignition of its pilot light cast dim outlines to the space. Unveiling the Burlington glass fixtures returned the room to unnatural illumination by that strange red-green light which ‘Choly disliked intuiting as gold. By the time Angel had completed the task, Sticks had thrown himself out of bed to dress.

‘Choly managed to sit up, and palpated at his errant joints, using the mindful pressure of his fingertips to coax things back into place. Not dislocating his fingers in the process required what little focus he could summon without coffee or his reinforced gloves, but he could barely move let alone think straight with the strumming stitches radiating through his arm and neck. He squirmed inside, knowing he couldn’t help but force Sticks to bear witness to the strangled hisses and cartilaginous pops.

Angel presented ‘Choly a can, which he accepted half-awake. He put on his glasses one-handed.

“A canister of fresh water to start your day, Sir? I’ve only got the one at present, if you’d like to split it. More is on the way.”

“Would you be able to open it...?”

“I have no sharp implements,” it apologized.

“Give me that.”

Sticks snatched it playfully and held it between his knees while he reattached his Pip-Boy and left hand. He hadn’t quite got to buttoning his shirt just yet. He slipped the glove off his mechanical prosthetic, and produced a sort of multitool from the armature of the region analogous to the metacarpal bones. As the ghoul made use of the folding implement, ‘Choly watched the hand’s exposed mechanical parts in motion, intimating tendons and ligaments, not always attached to something resembling a bone. A dull pop liberated the can’s lid. Sticks took a few swigs and handed it to ‘Choly helpfully, before hiding the tool again and slipping the glove back on. He moved on to finishing with his shirt so he could tie his bow-tie blind, humor to his breath.

‘Choly simply sat there and observed Sticks at length, nearly altogether forgetting gratitude or thirst. Words failed him. Sticks ran his right hand over his one surviving curl of hair. The blond ghoul noticed him staring and sat up straighter.

“What?”

“A pocket knife? That’s allowed?” He kept turning his neck, head held at deliberate angles, seeking that last tweak of alignment his cervical vertebrae wouldn’t yield him.

“See’s never asks me to show my hand,” he shrugged. “Half the time, they don’t even notice it’s not flesh.”

“This isn’t about your hand, and you know it.”

“Hey now. They’re fine with utensils. It’s got to be scarier than a butter knife to make them skittish. Really, though. Don’t mention it. It’d probably risk ‘em taking my whole hand, especially now that it’s wired into this thing.”

Sticks huffed a bit. Angel leapt to assist when his neckwear wouldn’t cooperate.

“Oh, do let me help you with that, Sir.”

“Thanks, chap. Hard to do without a mirror.”

“I brought in a hand mirror.” Unappeased, ‘Choly gestured to Angel for his hairbrush, which he set to using with his head dipped between his knees, desperate to couple the inversion of gravity with cadence of his brushing. Once he sat up again, he looked to Sticks. “Which, would it be all right if we brought in some things from the car? I figure that even if we get lucky today, we’ve paid for a week, so we may as well stay for a week. No sense in rushing things. Might miss something, if we do.”

Sticks tilted his head.

“I could warm to that. What all would you even need to bring in, though?”

“Little things,” he reassured a little too quickly. “Toiletries. Some spare clothes. Nothing too elaborate.”

“I don’t see why not.” He gripped his own knees. “Let’s knock that out. After, we can head to breakfast. Now. You want my help with your corset and stuff?”

‘Choly’s shoulders folded in as he worked at unbuttoning his shirt. His reservations came not from distrust but self-consciousness. Despite having partook in several kinds of sex acts with him already, he still preferred that the ghoul only see him naked from behind, if at all. But, he didn’t care to parse any selfishness or perversion in the offer: he wanted Sticks’s help. He’d be a hypocrite, anyway, to find fault in Sticks’s own enjoyment of the activity, when his very physiology provided the same passive delight for ‘Choly. He pulled the corset to him, and removed his shirt so he could hook the busks. Only then, holding it up against his front, did he relent to receiving help stringing the back. The more pieces Sticks helped him into, the more straightened out and held in place he felt. More clearly than usual, he craved the full-body orthotics set, in the expectation that with them he might feel normal again. Functional again. In any sense. In every.

He objected, mostly internally, that his brain would thrust heavy self-reflection on him so soon after waking. The idea of returning to bed enticed him again. No. Sooner than do so in the bathroom mirror, he pinned up a french twist blind and loose.

The two finished off the water before leaving the room.

They first stopped at the restrooms, where Angel waited just outside. ‘Choly flinched at the doorway, only to scold himself for even thinking he shouldn’t use the men’s room. He remained aware of others the entire time, relieved to go unnoticed and unremarkable. He insisted to himself that the night before had been a fluke.

Exiting the mall made ‘Choly wish he’d brought his visor inside. The garage’s luminosity wasn’t significantly greater than inside the mall, but the shift in hues to natural lighting pulsated in his right-sided cervical migraine. He didn’t think he’d gotten used to the limited color spectrum indoors so soon, yet here he was, nearly thinking seeing any color besides red, green, and gold signified he was seeing colors which didn’t exist. The intensity with which he saw cyan, magenta, and even white, he approximated to an aura migraine. The edges of his vision felt over-illuminated and blurry. If this sensitivity overload would take place every time he adjusted to and from Burlington glass lighting, he decided he would avoid going inside and out with any frequency for the remainder of their stay.

In the garage, mostly only the children paid any attention to the trio. So early in the morning, many inhabitants shared cinder block campfires to prepare community breakfast. On the way to Little Boy Blue, they passed through delectable aromas of sweet breads and pan seared meat.

Sticks opened the trunk for ‘Choly. Once he could tell ‘Choly intended to make use of Angel’s storage compartment to carry his things inside, he tossed in few of his own clothes too. He smirked at yet another of ‘Choly’s outdated behaviors:

“You packed like you’re on vacation.”

“A vacation with a purpose, perhaps. I’m grateful for it, though. It doesn’t seem this hotel has complimentary soaps.”

Sticks snickered.

“To broach a veritable elephant,” Angel stressed, “I must point out that while we may be booked for a week’s lodging here, you only have four Melancholia remaining, Mister Carey. In addition to our primary goal, we should stay on the lookout for toothpaste and mouthwash today. And we may no longer require them for first aid, but do recall that Stimpaks are the most important part of that recipe.”

Stimpaks. 'Choly paled at his oversight.

“Surely four of those things will get you through the week,” Sticks muttered. “You can’t swear off food now, with the biggest restaurant cluster in New England at the other end of the building.”

“...If I can help it.”

Sticks puffed up.

“Not if I can help it.”

The Mister Handy and chemist turned down the invitation to argument.

On their way back inside, ‘Choly saw Maury eating with a group of other settlers. He didn’t want to interrupt their meal, but he still waved. When See’s screened them, ‘Choly showed them Angel’s compartment again. Everything passed muster with security, albeit thoroughly rifled through. ‘Choly welcomed their return to the clear, dark uniformity of the mall interior’s red-green glow. They dropped off their things at the room, then went into the mall proper.

The Concourse seemed to only just be waking up by this hour. Most walked southward like them. Only half the stores looked open for business. ‘Choly looked to his Pip-Boy for the time. Just after nine. He accepted it and slouched as comfortably as he could atop Angel.

He figured most of the people headed to the food court were Laners, while the rest were probably visitors, or at least lived outside the mall. Along the way, he people-watched, eventually making a visual distinction between Laners and everyone else less by their routine and more through their attire. The fashion of mall denizens seemed to posit some commixture of Irish crochet, beaded silk, and embroidered tweed, bakelite and astrakhan, plus-fours and long trailing skirt hems, chemisettes and dickeys tethered with layers of scarves and shawls.

More people packed into the boisterous food court for breakfast than had for dinner. Even getting to the counter with the shortest line took patience, with hundreds seeking their first meals. Sticks ordered himself carrot pancakes, then turned to ‘Choly.

“Are you sure I can’t interest you in breakfast? With the lines like this, I’m not ordering twice.”

Fatigued lyric traced his reply as he patted at Angel’s storage compartment to retrieve his Billerica Golf Course mug with a smile:

“You can interest me in a cup of coffee.”

The ghoul impatiently resigned to a smaller order than he’d liked, and flashed his inn room key fob to net a discount. He requested a plate from Angel, and took it and ‘Choly’s mug to hold out for the server, who confirmed, yes maple syrup, black no sugar, before plating up as requested. Twenty-seven pulls lighter, Sticks let Angel locate their seat with its higher passive senses.

‘Choly sat with his coffee warming his gloved hands for some time, content to let the aromatic steam roll over his face while he watched Sticks dig in with knife and fork. Angel set a Melancholia bottle on the table. Eventually, Sticks’s bites slowed, and he stopped to finish chewing. He cut off a forkful and held it out with a cupped hand beneath, optimistic the craving spurred ‘Choly’s attention.

“The maple syrup makes up for it being carrot.”

‘Choly eyed it. Sooner than admit due impropriety, he let him stuff the bite in his mouth. He had expected the syrup and apple compote to provide all the sweetness, but the finely grated root vegetable mixed into the batter contributed both sweet and savory. Against his better judgment, to quash any question altogether, he mooched a second bite as well with interest.

“Don’t you like carrot?”

“...Blueberries aren’t in season,” Sticks eventually smiled. “Now, I’d happily split these with you... or are you actually happy with that damn silt flour smoothie?”

“I’m only happy with my Melancholia, in that it doesn’t upset my stomach.” He opened it with his reinforced gloves, and thought to himself, This batch isn’t even cherry. It’s mint. “If you want my full faculties, you’ll have me with Mentats, Melancholia, and a cup of black coffee.”

Brow raised, Sticks frowned into his plate as he scrutinized where to cut off his next bite.

“Far be it for me to come between you and your faculties.”

Angel used the dish station at the far end of the food court to rinse their plate, mug, and utensils. Then, they got to skimming stores.

Beginning just outside the Customs House, they poked around any open store which appeared to carry armor or apparel. ‘Choly went by cane for the most part, and tried not to let interesting garments distract him or his cash from his goal. He wasn’t about to spend anything until he knew the price tag on liberating the leather orthotics from whoever might have them. Neither their descriptions nor the product photos in the catalogue produced results.

In one shop, Sticks unhelpfully described the item to the clerk, who immediately pointed them to an array of girdles and brassieres. Beet red and speechless, ‘Choly had to nearly shove away the salesmanship, no matter the young man’s encouragement or respect. Sticks didn’t know whether to find ‘Choly’s reaction revealing or amusing.

They passed crossway between the main entrance and Sutter Grove, only for ‘Choly to stop cold. Like some strange airport reunion, a loud, excited group of Laners fawned over a black woman with a shoulder-length white bob--white all the more stark in contrast to the red-green golden mall-sea. When Sticks noticed ‘Choly had stopped, he backtracked, eyes on the woman sooner than him.

“You need me to help you up on Angel?”

“Such accolades. What do you suppose she means to them?”

“From the look of her, she must travel a lot. They probably just haven’t seen her in a real long time. It’s not important. They’re going to Burlington Glassworks. They won’t have what we’re here for. Now come on.”

Head askew, ‘Choly watched the gaggle drag the overwhelmed yet pleasant woman across the Concourse and to the lighting store.

“I... I want to go in there.”

“Didn’t think you were particularly religious, but whatever. We can take a break and play tourist or somethin’.”

‘Choly almost objected, but figured he’d understand if only he satisfied his curiosity. If he recalled anything from the time before he’d stepped foot in the United States, he knew with certainty he’d been raised to abhor religious observance. At least, outwardly...

Myriad strange shapes the luminescent space, but the motif repeated in the glass art filled with glowing golden red-green fluid, that the neck swirled and looped around the body, then somehow reentered it. Bulbs were hung by these loops from the ceiling, some in knotted strings, while most other bulbs rested in metal fixtures reminiscent of egg cups. If not for the artistic shapes and the hue of light they cast, ‘Choly and Sticks almost considered it like stepping into the lighting department of a hardware store.

“Hierosacristan Fresnel!” The group begged, both in English and what ‘Choly could only presume was French. “Hierosacristan, tell us of your orbit!”

The staff had abandoned their posts in fascination of their visitor. Some showered her with sunflowers. Here, ‘Choly could see the woman wore an ornately embroidered shawl, fur-lined metal armor, and an all-black bodysuit. The woman could only oblige her admirers with a humility strained smile. A dozen or so stone park benches furnished the deeper half of the store, in two neat rows facing the back wall. ‘Choly sat at the last bench to watch, transfixed. Begrudgingly, Sticks joined him, and Angel, behind them.

As she spoke, Fresnel’s deep, silvery voice alternated between English and French, limiting ‘Choly and Sticks’s full comprehension. Her audience seemed more captivated by anything she didn’t say in English.

When she told them, “Qu’Atom vous garde,” they mirrored it in kind. ‘Choly filled in any gaps in the language barrier with presumptions of what little he knew of Orthodoxy.

“Much of my year I have studied in Thomaston... XXXXXXXXXX I wandered the Nashua ruins a bit before coming to the Lane proper... XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX I come to greet the granite... I must travel West before I return to Five Sisters. To report my findings to Grand Mother Skwodovska. But, I savor a leisurely return. My discoveries dictate my orbit. XXXXXXXXXX I Winter at the Lane for the first time... XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX ”

At some point in her speech, she took notice of their visitors. She broke away from sermonizing for the dozen or so practically clutching for her attention, to approach. ‘Choly straightened, expecting her to scold him. But she bowed to Sticks with grace, and held his hand in both her own. The ghoul fell speechless when she smiled up at him.

“What a blessing, that one of Atom’s beloved attends us. I never get the chance to speak with any Undying.”

Sticks let her hold his gloved hand, too, and laid on his charm.

“I’m impressed at our timing. We happen to be at Ant Lane right when such a highly esteemed Child of Atom has popped in.”

Again struggling with humility, she withdrew to stand. Taken aback by the sight of Angel, she hemmed into her fist.

“Forgive my start from the robot. One of my past orbits took me to the Commonwealth, and since my visit to the Cambridge Polymer Labs, I haven’t much liked the company of Mister Handies.”

“Cambridge!” Angel blandished. “Such worldliness.”

She appreciated that it did not take exception with her.

“My brothers and sisters show our devotion in a commitment to travel.”

“Forgive my stupidity,” ‘Choly asked, voice cracking, “but what exactly is a hiero...?”

The intense, robust woman half-sat on the back of the next bench to form her reply. Up close, ‘Choly could make out her face tattoo, of many concentric rings, emanating outward from one eye. Sooner than wonder what it signified, he could only imagine how much it must have hurt. The white bob was a wig.

“You speak Keb? No?” She became more particular in her words. “Among the Children of Atom is an order of scribes, historians, cartographers. We are the Daughters of Radon. We hail from the Rock of Ages. We document and research Atom’s holiest substances, such that any of Atom’s children can safely trace a path and greet everything She has touched. The rank bestowed of Daughters of Radon is Sacristan, keeper of holy spaces. Hierosacristans are the Daughters’ Zealots.”

‘Choly strained to follow along, teetering between looking lost and unintentionally judgmental.

“What interest, then, in granite? I heard correctly, that you intend to greet it? It’s very pretty, but really, I want to understand what has you all so enchanted. Is there correlation between granite and these glass lights?”

Fresnel smiled broad and beaming, nearly sarcastic in a way.

“A visitor from the Commonwealth. I see. The answer is Atom’s touch. We concern ourselves not just with nuclear bodies, but with large sources of granite, marble, and limestone. Anyone could observe these structures, both man-made and still-buried, but it takes the devotion of Daughters to listen to their histories.” A sigh and slouch announced her travel weariness. She pointed above them, to the hanging glass. “Everything is a vessel. We carry our world-soul. Nuclear bodies carry the Holy Light of Atom. And certain stones can carry recorded memories of the worlds which formed this one through Division. The Daughters are committed to documenting these memories, so that the Children can celebrate everything from the past which went into the creation of the present.”

‘Choly fumbled as carefully as he could. It fascinated him, that it seemed more and more that religious devotion tied directly into the creation and maintenance of the increasingly supernatural glowing glass fixtures--let alone that it had anything to do with radioactive material.

No wonder they appreciate Sticks. “And you... listen to the granite here?”

Sticks poorly hid his annoyance with a shift in posture and a grunt.

“Most granite is quite loud. The granite here... whispers.” Fresnel admitted. “The Children often call this place The Quiet Granite. You’re very new, and so eager to learn of Atom’s Kingdom... Are you here to let in Her Holy Light?”

“Until I stepped foot in here, I had no idea this place was a church. I know it sounds stupid, but I wanted to come in to see the lights up close. I’m fascinated that a substance could sustain luminescence without external excitation.”

Though his admission dulled her enthusiasm, his verbiage still held her interest.

“I’m not directly involved in glassblowing, so I know very little of it. The Glow is most remarkable, n’est-ce pas? Even if you’re here merely to marvel at our blessed work, you can still take a piece with you. You should speak with my brothers and sisters here. If you’re more than a scholar or tourist, the local Confessor can direct you to our body of scripture as well. I’m far better suited to geography than sermons.” Fresnel’s attention warmed back to Sticks. “Be no stranger to our space...”

“Sticks.”

“Be no stranger, Sticks.” She smiled, mirthful. “You and your odd friend here are welcome here.”

Before the game of Twenty Questions could continue, Fresnel stood to pat Sticks’s hand... and the top of ‘Choly’s head. The chemist frowned as she excused herself.

“Fresnel spoke directly with you,” a devotee said, behind them. They looked over their shoulders at the nervous man. “Is there anything I can do for you, Undying?”

“It’s Sticks,” he repeated, quickly growing tired of it. “We’re sightseeing, you could call it. I think this fella wants a souvenir.”

The man looked ‘Choly over and nodded, motioning for them to follow him to the counter. He produced an egg-crate tray of walnut sized glass baubles, and picked them up to swirl them around in visual demonstration.

“We’re blessed to meet a Hierosacristan.” He poorly contained his delight. “I wonder if she would permit that I be in her caravan when her orbit carries her onward.”

“Where is she headed next?” ‘Choly asked, moreso making conversation than wishing to know.

“The standard path for all caravans from Ant Lane to Burlington is Route 89, straight through the mountains. But, she mentioned traveling West. The Daughters of Radon follow the orbit of their heart. She may intend another orbit yet uncharted. --Forgive my gushing. You’re interested in a prayer armillary?”

“How much are they?”

The potentially inappropriate question caught in ‘Choly’s throat.

“Fifty-one pulls.”

“You don’t happen to take cash, do you?”

“Certainly. Our caravans do trade with more than just Ant Lane.” The Child picked up the tray’s edge to look at a note on the side. “One hundred fifty dollars.”

So deep in, he didn’t feel like he could say no thank you and just walk away. Not that he wanted to walk away empty handed after such a bizarre interaction.

“Tell me more about them. What makes them glow?”

“There are two aspects to Burlington’s glass artistry. We’re beholden to conceal our craft, but it’s perfectly safe for all Atom’s Children, blessed with the Endurance to withstand Her Light or no.“

In the remark, ‘Choly stifled a shiver at the possibility that the entire mall might be a religious settlement.

“The craftsmanship is remarkable.” His voice cracked. “How long do they last?”

“Years, if they must. But these smallest vessels are intended ephemeral: We encourage that you use them to seal a prayer, then shatter it someplace consequential to disperse the good will into the universe.”

“Are they... still safe if broken?”

“They are not grenades. And to drink its contents would be ill advised, foremost on account of the broken glass.”

“I would never have considered the fluid potable,” ‘Choly lied, having had the thought gifted him. He shakily produced the requested cash, and the Child let him pick one of the egg-like baubles. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you?” His beseeching, bleary eyes suggested more than simple commerce. “Do you require any arrangements? Any accommodations of any kind?”

Sticks eyed the tray with near disappointment, and rocked a bauble around in its cup with one finger.

“...You said they were fifty-one?”

“Take one, gladly!”

Feigning pleasantry, he picked one for himself. It exasperated ‘Choly that Sticks had not attempted to influence the price tag on his trinket, but only his frigid shoulders said as much.

“Thank you. Get to take a piece of this place with me, then.”

“But of course!” The Child nod-bowed to them both. “Qu’Atom vous garde.”

They mirrored the nod, caught in the uncertainty of pronunciation, and the uncertainty of appropriateness that they repeat it back.

‘Choly held his prayer armillary at his chest as they exited the Glassworks. He had no intention of ever break it. The thought crossed him as he glanced down at it, that he could place it in Angel’s storage for use as a perpetual light source, like the light to a glove compartment.

“...Angel,” he asked it, spellbound by the strange, vaguely oily, fluoresceinesque fluid, “you’ve got French programming, haven’t you? That was French, yes? What was she saying?”

“I believe it’s French, Sir. At least, partly. If I’m to understand Miss Fresnel, these Children of Atom worship gamma radiation... as well as something they regard as ‘foreign.’ ”

“Cultists, basically.” Sticks snorted.

'Choly didn’t care whether the Children’s religious motivations made any rational, scientific sense. It still burned him, that they’d given Sticks his trinket for free. The ghoul handed him his with only a vague smirk.

“I, you didn’t want one, then?” He had only starry-eyed gratitude. “Are you sure?”

“Why would I? I let them give it to me so they’d knock it off and let us leave.” The ghoul blurted out an abrupt chuckle and slung an arm around ‘Choly’s shoulders, to grip him a little too forcefully. He kept his voice down, cracked lips inches from ‘Choly’s ear. “Don’t make me go back in there. I get enough of that from you.”

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A/N: I anglicized the maiden name of Polish-French Marie Skłodowska-Curie, in the expectation that oral tradition would follow phonetically. (I also wanted to differentiate the Grand Mother from both Mother Curie III and FO4′s Curie, while still nodding to the historical figure.)

A/N: I’ve thus far gone all my life not knowing it’s pronounced Freh-nel or Fray-nel. Even my science teachers all pronounced it Fresnel. Hm.

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#fallout #children of atom #fallout 4 #fallout fanfic #fo4 fanfic #sole survivor #ghoul oc #mister handy #melancholy #sticks #angel #child of atom #hierosacristan bernadette fresnel #the anatomy of melancholy

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mimithings97 · 5 years ago

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7:58pm

When babysitting time almost ends prematurely ;) Based on the Drabble Request:

#14 “how am i supposed to know you put a banana in your pocket?”

Word Count: 2k

A/N: For the anon that said ‘Oh my god 😂😂😂😂😂 #14 and jungkook bls crackety crack crack that newborn chickies would be jealous 😂😂😂😂’, I don’t even know what you meant but I love it and enjoy, Mimi x

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You’re completely fucking neck deep.

And you wished you could say that in any other way than the one you mean. Like neck deep in a steamy bath with salts and candles and the smelly shit Jungkook uses after the gym because it’s a home smell. Or like neck deep on your couch with records soothing the ears and some kind of fried dish sizzling on your cooker. Fuck, like neck deep in the smell of sex as someone pile dri-

“Y/N, Y/N, Y/N! I- er- can’t reach the bathroom door thingy!”

Nah.

You’re neck deep in the stress of your two nephews and niece.

“Yeh, Jae, just give it a big push and it’ll open.”

“Mmm, tried that!” he’s pouting but still finds the energy to contradict his face by skipping around your legs.

“Fine. Bathroom door here we come!” But you’re in no way enthusiastic.

Yoongi, on the pretence that these are in fact his children, would say they’re beautifully brimming with life, immature and youthful in the sweet kind of way, the apples to his eye, the stars to his fucking moon. You’re brother turned real sappy over the course of fatherhood. And to be honest, you’d liked them, at first, when they couldn’t talk, when they didn’t all start dressing the same and you could tell one apart from the other, when you didn’t have to face them alone and without the extra strong arms of your boyfriend.

Yet you find yourself into the fourth hour of damage control to your apartment and toilet brakes consistent with that of an elderly woman with pelvic floor dysfunction.

Jungkook’s better at this than you. He has the ability to reinvigorate his childhood self and channel it all in babysitting days. That and he stashes banana milk to the brim and out of your reach in the top cupboard just so he can retrieve it and play ‘fun uncle Kook’. He’ll say it’s just because he loves banana milk and to be honest, you can’t really argue with that.

And, shit, you miss him.

“Auntie Y/N.” Her voice is sweet but you see the glint of the devil in her eye, you swear.

“Yes, Mai.”

“Daddy makes me hot chocolate before bed, and bedtimes almost here.” You frown deep. Yoongi almost definitely doesn’t make them hot chocolate because Sannie has a nut allergy, but how can you tell a child she’s lying.

“And auntie Y/N.” She strings it out like it’s honey and silk and fuck does it work.

“Yes Mai?”

“I think Jae’s locked himself in the toilet.”

Fuck! Damn children and their short arms that can’t reach over their heads!

The girl in the plaid pyjamas, watching on amused as you scramble for the bathroom, has more sense than you’ll ever have at 8pm. It’s sad, but sadder when the door creaks and reveals first a sniffle and then an all out sob before the small bundle curls into one of your legs. You’re wearing jeans, but he hugs you like you’re soft and comforting. It kind of thins your edges a bit and you scoop him up in no time, because babysitting is a bitch, but you’re not.

“Oh bubby, did you get yourself trapped in the toilet.”

“Mmm,” a sleeve covered tiny fist rubs at his eyes, and he gives a tinier nod before he flops down into your neck.

You pace the apartment with shuffled walks, an attempt to soothe the dying hiccups on your shoulder, and find a spot in behind the sofa to watch on as the other two make a plaything out of Jungkook’s exercise band. You should have the sense to tell them to be careful but every time Sannie pulls one end, Mai pulls the other and then Mai, the 5 minute older triplet that she is, sends San flying, is just a bit too good to distract them from.

It’s a shame the sound of keys and the hallway light has to disturb the ‘peace’.

“What do we have here!”

Jae shifts at the same time as you to spare a glance at the man in the doorway. Business casual, because it’s a Friday, looks good on him, and the smile he adorns when the first two bound up and at him with speed looks even better.

“Uncle Kook!”

“Sannie!” He throws San over one shoulder.

“Uncle Kookkkk!”

And pushes a fist out to the other.

“Mai my bro, how we chillin.”

Her tiny fist meets his before pulling back in a fake explosion. You don’t know when the tradition started, why Jungkook thinks it’s appropriate, but because she replies with a small, “peachy, Kookie, peachy,” you might just have to smile and feign sensibility.

Your early day perception of Jungkook definitely didn’t pip him as one for children, to the extent you genuinely thought he was scared of them. But then he cried when Yoongi announced his girlfriends pregnancy, cried harder when three munchkins were born, and forever since has lived up to the job of ‘best uncle’ despite having 5 others to contend with. Your brother and him were stunningly close like that. It’s how you and Jungkook had met. And now you’ve come to love the 8pm deadline, rather than 10:30, he’s set out of his training session, because now you get to share the wonder that is your boyfriend with three tiny faces. You almost think they adore him as much as you. Almost.

“And what’s up with this little champ ey?”

You give him a gentle shake to rouse him, then he finds your eyes, then Jungkook’s and finally throws two chubby arms in his direction even though Kook already had his hug ready and waiting. Your boyfriends probably sweaty, but the boy pays no mind and finds his peace between shoulder and neck. Jungkook turns your way.

“Hey you,” his eyes glint like that when he misses you. Maybe you blush.

“Hey you.”

“Why is the bread baby crying?” Jae’s got rolls for days, arms, legs, hands and feet just round and pure squish and you know it’s because Yoongi can’t say no to him like he can the others.

“He couldn’t get out of the bathroom.”

There’s a bottle of protein shake on the side that you’d readied in preparation for Jungkook’s appearance, and he takes it gladly in one hand whilst balancing Jae, impressively on the other.

“Macho man!” Jae perks his head up a bit at the nickname, eyes a little more alive than when they were puffy, “you gotta start doing your morning stretches like I said. Those arms aren’t gonna grow themselves,” the shit he spouts sometimes you swear-

“I know, uncle Kook, I’ll try, but- but- but, maybe you and auntie Y/N could make another door, a little smaller, fo-for me.” It’s a cute enough statement that you keen, Jungkook too, and you both share a look of despair at the blubbering stutter of baby that is your nephew.

“I’ll see what I can do for you champ,” and finally Jungkook and his arms are set free, Jae shuffling small steps across the wooden floor with his penguin socks loose and giving you a final moment of broodiness.

You distract the impending coo you were going to let off in favour of picking up the remnants of dinner, which turned to playtime, as tomatoes and carrots line the cracks in your floor.

Jungkook’s got a sweaty hand on your neck though, needing stress and the evenings memories away for a few brief seconds. He’s got those kinds of hands. The ones you can talk about for hours because they’re strong, fucking pretty, do glorious things in glorious places and dirty things in others. His hand drops though before babysitting time ends prematurely. Yoongi doesn’t get back until tomorrow morning, so even a wisp of a thought of that man behind you and how he’s definitely sweaty and definitely a feast, is gone, poof, dissipated.

“How’ve they been? Rough work again?”

“Mmm, of course,” you take a note the bin needs to be taken out as you chuck the last remaining pieces away.

“Come on, they’re not that bad.” You’re ready to tell him to go suck one and try and do it by himself, but there’s hands on your hips, warm, sweaty, soothing, and a dick against your ass...hard.

“Jungkook!”

“What, they’re really alri-”

“The fuck are you doing the triplets are literally there,” his lips pull back from where they had settled on your neck.

“D’you mean, I’m not doing anything.” He’s high pitched like he doesn’t know his dicks up your ass, so you scoff.

“What are you hard for, you mong,” but you go to push him away, arm behind your back, firm to his hip, yet your hand meets something harder than his abs - he works out, but not enough to make him that solid - and definitely a different shap to how his cock normally feels - and you’ve felt him up enough times to know. “And why is your boner shaped like that?”

“Boner, I’m not ev-”

You spin, eye his botched erection, and dip a hand to his pocket. He looks at you, shocked, puzzled, and suddenly you’re prematurely plunging into your grave in the shame of thinking what you were thinking.

“Wait, did you think this was my d-i-c-k!”

He waves it, his choked laugh too, in your face. You’re red, and probably crying, but your cheeks are so hot with embarrassment you don’t know.

“How was I supposed to know you had a banana in your pocket!”

He laughs fully enough that the kids seek out it’s source.

“Uncle Kook, uncle Kook, can I have a bite?”

He gives her the whole thing, still staring at you with teeth on show, a story to tell Yoongi, and one final blow to the shit show that is your life,

“Mai.”

“Yes uncle Kook.”

“Tell auntie Y/N she’s nasty.”

And when nasty is a whole other word for a child, Mai proceeds unphased, probably believing in the sentiment of the statement.

“Auntie Y/N.”

“Yes Mai.”

“You’re nasty.”

...Fuck.

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