#kind of a the bed is made lie in it moment for me. aptly

[multicarinata]

My god it's been like a full month since I had a folksteps moment.

[renaerys]

11. “You’re going to make it. Just stay awake.” (Butch/Buttercup)

{{Original posting unfortunately deleted. Reposted here.}}

February Fic Prompt #11 originally requested by Anon. Greens shenanigans and hella innuendo, just the way I like them.

xxx

Everybody knew that the best person to go on night patrol with was Boomer. The guy talked but not nearly as much as Bubbles, who could probably talk herself through an earthquake and never even notice. He wasn’t a micromanager like Blossom or a straight-up jerk like Brick. And he definitely was not even half as annoying as Butch could be.

“You ever wonder what the fuck is up with Monster Island?”

Butch sat next to Buttercup on the Millennium Tower, the tallest building in Townsville, with their feet dangling over the edge and the city lights at their feet. She narrowed her eyes at him. “No.”

He ignored her. “You know, ‘cause that place is what, three? Four square miles? And the monsters just keep coming.”

“What’s your point?” Buttercup said, not really caring. Her watch read a quarter past midnight. She should’ve been in bed an hour ago.

Butch suddenly leaned in close, and Buttercup leaned back away from him. He looked very serious, and that almost always meant he was about to say something mad dumb—

“Giant beast orgies.”

Buttercup groaned. It was going to be a long night.

“For real! They must be going at it 24/7 poppin’ out tentacle monsters and dino hybrids and flaming squirrels at the rate we fight ‘em. How does that even work? Like, are they all just fucking and it’s Baby Roulette to see what’s gonna come out?”

“Dude, gross. I don’t want to think about that shit.”

“Pssh, don’t lie.”

“I’m really not.”

“You’re not even a little bit curious about what kinda Stranger Things shit is going down right over the bay?” Butch pointed southwest toward Citiesville’s Golden Bay, where the aptly named Monster Island sat a few miles off the coast. “Like the Booger Monster we fought before the Reds fucked off to Snob College. How does that even work?”

He made a crude gesture with this fist and forefinger and then pantomimed picking his nose. Buttercup shoved him off the edge of the building.

“Cut it out, Butch. I said I don’t want to talk about that shit.” She grabbed the backpack he’d brought and pulled out a bag of chips. “Besides, there’s nothing to talk about. It’s just weird monster biology, end of story.”

Butch floated one hundred stories above the ground and grinned at her. “So you have wondered about it.”

“Clearly not as much as you, Horny Darwin.”

He threw back his head and laughed from his gut. Buttercup scowled and stuffed some chips in her mouth. The crunch helped her focus, but her eyes were drooping and her head felt a bit fuzzy.

“Hey, you okay?” Butch was no longer laughing as he hovered close and peered at Buttercup. “You look tired.”

Buttercup cast the chips aside. They weren’t really helping, and she wasn’t hungry, anyway. She ran a hand through her shoulder-length hair. “Yeah, I woke up at 4 a.m. today.”

“Why the hell would you wake up that early on a patrol night?”

“Because I wasn’t supposed to be patrolling tonight, you were.”

“Oh, right. I forgot.”

Not surprising. Butch tended to tune out shit that didn’t directly concern him, especially if it was coming from Blossom. She’d called Buttercup at four in the goddamned morning ranting about some giant hairball monster that had attacked Ivy University campus and how Brick had been so sleep deprived that they’d both nearly suffocated to death and she had to help him to bed and somehow all of this was now Buttercup’s problem because Blossom knew they were patrolling alone for only a few hours to get out of it but no one should be patrolling alone in case of giant hairballs attacking. Buttercup pointed out that the likelihood of another giant hairball attacking Townsville, which was clear across the country from Blossom and Brick’s college, was pretty low. Blossom told her to cut the attitude and make sure Butch didn’t patrol alone tonight. She did not have time to argue when she had to go convince the administration to change Brick’s finals schedule so he could actually get some sleep.

And since Boomer and Bubbles were currently out of town at a music festival until tomorrow, Buttercup had no choice but to be here tonight.

“Ugh, whatever. Did you bring any of those energy shots? I’m about to pass out,” Buttercup said.

Butch sat back down next to her and pulled his bag onto his lap. “You know that shit’s basically radioactive rat piss.”

“This from the guy who scarfed three bacon double cheeseburgers on the flight over here.”

He grinned wolfishly and flexed his bicep at her. “Hey, this hot bod doesn’t get by on yogurt and protein shakes alone. A man needs red meat.”

“A man needs less cholesterol in his diet if he wants to live past 40.”

“See, this is why it’d never work between us. Sorry doll, I gotta lead with my stomach.”

Buttercup snapped at that awful pet name he’d taken to calling her lately and swung around to punch him in the stomach. He caught her fist just as it made contact, absorbing the brunt of her force, and met her eyes. The son of a bitch was still grinning.

“Don’t fucking call me that,” she hissed. Her fist shook and sparked with green energy as she tried to finish her punch, but he held on.  

Halfway under her as she threw her weight behind her stalled punch, Butch’s smile relaxed into something softer but just as dangerous as he looked up at her through his messy bangs. “You kinda like it.”

Buttercup dug her knee into his thigh right over the femoral artery, and he shuddered. “Yeah, this is me liking it.”

She applied more pressure, and he gasped. His other hand grabbed her shoulder and threw her off him, but Buttercup rolled and landed on her hands and feet in a crouch. Butch matched her guerrilla stance and they faced off on top of the world with the stars at their backs and thunder in their veins.

“Still gonna pass out?” he asked.

“What?”

“You said you were about to pass out. Is this any better?”

Buttercup frowned. He’d provoked her on purpose to distract her from her sleepiness? That was almost…

He got up and stretched like a cat, and Buttercup couldn’t help but notice the subtle ridges of his abs when his dark shirt ran up for just a moment. Clearly he was excelling at that gym trainer job he’d been at full-time since they graduated high school.

Not that that mattered at all.

She got up and wiped her hands on her jeans. “A little, I guess. Still tired as shit though.”

Butch cracked his neck like he was getting ready to fight, but he wasn’t. For as long as she had known him, Buttercup had always been able to sense when he felt the urge, just as he could sense it in her. Primal, instinctual, not just a need but a desire to ruin and be ruined all for the manic joy of surviving it. She felt it less the older she got once her body stopped changing and growing, but every couple of months they would inevitably seek each other out for a row. Not even monsters could quite scratch that particular itch. If anything, they exacerbated it.

“Sweet. I got a few other ideas,” he said.

Buttercup crossed her arms. “You get ideas?”

“Ha ha, you bitch. I’m serious.”

She cracked a smile. “We’re on patrol.”

“Yeah, so let’s go patrol.”

“What’re you—”

He took off in a blaze of green, not flying but running down the side of the Millennium Tower, dodging balconies and flipping off the flagpole like some kind of insane Super gymnast. He didn’t lose momentum when he landed and took off running across the busy street toward the next building.

Buttercup was dashing after him before she could think twice about it, to hell with staying here by herself. She slid over the roofs of two cars crossing the street and leaped from balcony to balcony as she climbed the next building higher and higher. Butch had already made it to the top and paused to look back at her. His smiling challenge boiled her blood, and he took off sprinting again along the drain pipes. Buttercup flipped over the guard railing on the roof, sprinted to the other side, and leaped off the edge in a free fall.

The night wind whipped her loose hair, and she somersaulted to cushion her landing on the pedestrian sky bridge connecting this building to the next. Butch slid down the drain pipe and landed similarly a short ways ahead on the glass and metal bridge. They faced off, and she couldn’t help but grin fantastically at the sight of him winded and emanating green power, ready to run.

They didn’t speak, there was no need. He took off and she tore after him, each carving their own path leaping concrete chasms, rolling into their falls, and racing against gravity and mortality up the mirror-bright sides of skyscrapers. Buttercup cartwheeled through a narrow path between two huge AC generators and landed like a cat on the metal railing, where she spotted an enormous tower crane powered down for the night in the midst of a new construction project. It was tens of stories tall, and she wanted nothing more than to run up its mast.

Butch had the same idea and leaped like a monkey from the roof of the building next to hers and grabbed the jib. He hit it with the force of a Super, and the huge machinery whined and began to swing. Buttercup abandoned her original plan for one that would be a thousand times cooler. Moving fast, she raced along the thin railing and pedaled through her jump to get her across to the next building over. The crane groaned in protest as Butch sprinted along the length of the jib. She wouldn’t have much of a window.

With a running start, Buttercup scrambled up the wall of the roof access door and jumped high into the air just as the long, metal winch cord came swinging by. She grabbed it barely in the nick of time and went spinning.

Above, she searched for Butch and found that he wasn’t slowing his momentum even as he neared the end of the jib. Buttercup gave the winch cord a little extra boost of her power and went careening high into the air on an updraft just as Butch free-dived off the jib. The night air parted for her and the stars fell to meet her as she reached out, elated, and Butch reached back.

They joined hands at the wrists, and Buttercup moved with gravity and the momentum he’d brought with him before it could wrench her arm clean out of the socket. Together, they hurtled through the air, bounced off a radio tower pole, and landed in a two-man roll on a private rooftop golf course.

Butch was laughing when they came to a stop in a heap on the green, and Buttercup laughed with him. He had his arms around her as she hovered over him.

“That was,” he stammered, breathless.

“Amazing!” Buttercup said.

“Fucking incredible! Holy shit, when you ran for the winch cord—”

“I didn’t think I’d stick it for a second—”

“But you did and I swear I lost my goddamned mind—”

“You jumped! You fucking idiot, you’re lucky I was there to catch you.” Buttercup shoved him, but he only laughed again and held her waist tighter.

“Woman please, how could you ever resist the chance to catch this hot shit? I saw your face, you totally creamed yourself!”

“Fuck you, it was the moment and I wasn’t even looking at you!”

They could hardly breathe as they laughed, and gravity rolled them over. The grass was cool under Buttercup’s cheek, and above the stars were bright and close. Slowly, the moment subsided as they caught their breaths and watched each other through the gloom.

“I kinda knew you’d catch me,” Butch said.

Buttercup rolled her eyes. “I regret it already.”

“Sure you do.”

He was smiling, but there was no mocking or malice behind it. Strangely enough, Buttercup thought it suited him.

She pulled away before she could finish that dangerous train of thought, and he let her without making a big deal out of it. They sat up side by side and looked out over the city and the ocean beyond. Monster Island was dark, but the detection barrier surrounding it glowed a subtle blue in the starlight and city lights.

“Five and a half hours until sunrise,” Butch said, checking his watch.

Buttercup groaned. “That’s so long from now.”

He nudged her shoulder with his. “You’re gonna make it. Just stay awake.”

“Wow, genius plan.” She nudged him back.

“Hey, I got plenty more ideas where Super Parkour came from. Just say the word.”

Buttercup allowed herself a smile in the darkness. Butch could drive her crazy, but over the years she’d gotten used to his self-indulgent vulgarity. Sometimes she didn’t mind. Sometimes it was just kind of nice. Familiar. A pull she couldn’t explain or describe, except that she knew he felt it too, and he always knew exactly what she needed.

“In a few minutes,” Buttercup said, her eyes drooping a bit as sleep crept up on her little by little.

She could feel his warmth through her sleeve and his, close enough to touch, close enough.

“Yeah,” he said, and turned his gaze skyward. “Just a few more minutes.”

They had all night, after all.

[pinkpuffballdude]

Who is Celestia sparrow and what happened with the wizard :0

OKAY. SO. I am HONESTLY not in the mindset to write this rn because some SHIT just went DOWN in our campaign but ALSO this is a great way to destress. Anyway if this comes off as uhhh real weird that’s why. Let’s go.

So to start: me and my friend, @clericjester, have been playing Pathfinder together with my brother and two of his friends for about eight years. Celestia is my character, and has been that entire time, and Thela is Sage’s character. Both of us are rouges, but I multiclassed as... multiple things now, but mostly a bard, so I’m the charismatic one of the party. We’re also the two hardcore RPers of the group, so we’ll go off and do side adventures sometimes, when they come over and were like “hey dad*. Pathfinder.”

*my dad is our DM. It’s very convenient. 

This was one of those times.

It started with an already canon event, where the party split up in a city to go off and find... something, it doesn’t really matter now, but Celestia and Thela went off together and ended up in a bar. Thela got approached by some random thug and offered a TON of money to go and rob a house. We, being a pair of greedy bastards, of course accepted, and hashed out a plan in which Thela would go do the actual breaking in, being the sneakier one, while Celestia stood outside and distracted the guards so they wouldn’t bother her. And that’s what happened! 

Except Mr Thug Man neglected to mention that it was a fucking powerful magic users house that we were stealing from, and so after we got away unscathed (okay that’s a lie, Thela broke into his writing desk and got some cool shit, but also set off some kind of alarm? maybe? and nearly got caught by a pair of GOLEMS) he CHASED US DOWN and has been sending us to this crazy bullshit dimension occasionally where everything explodes.

But first! We thought we’d gotten away! We ran away from the building, the guards didn’t catch us, we met back up with the group, it was all good! Until my DAD was like “okay so you’re on the road to where ever, here’s a map, arrange yourselves in this square” and we’re all like OH GOOD COMBAT and two GLASS GOLEMS you know, the two from the wizards house, came up the road and made a beeline for Thela (and Celestia got on her riding dog and RAN away because FUCK that, but they didn’t care about her cause she had no loot!) and Thela climbed straight in the air and the party almost left her to die, but defeated the golems instead and then turned to both of us and were like WHAT DID YOU DO and ever since we’ve been denying our wizard crimes.

Note: we don’t actually know if he’s a wizard! we don’t even know if he hates us! we just call him a wizard for ease of discussion. 

Later, we were all in a tower in a mad scientists castle, and us two were trying to figure out what the hell the stuff we stole actually did, by trial and error. We already knew that the rods we’d gotten were Immovable Rods, hence the climbing into mid air, and a couple other things, and had moved on to the fountain pen we’d stolen. We scribbled all over the walls of that tower, writing whatever we wanted to, trying to figure out what the hell it’s purpose was. “It’s just ink you can see with Detect Magic!” we said. “It doesn’t even do anything cool!” Okay, said my dad. So you can see it with Detect Magic. “Yeah!” So you can see any of it with Detect Magic. “Right!” From anywhere, he said, with great patience. We looked at each other. We looked at the walls, now absolutely covered in whatever random shit we could think of, in magical ink, visible from anywhere, written by a pen we stole from a wizard who was actively after us. “oh no,” we said, in unison, and immediately jumped into bed and pretended it never happened. Continue lying about our wizard crimes.

I think... after that he met us on a road somewhere, just. literally in the middle of the road, as we were travelling, whole parties there, and the BASTARD teleports us to aNOTHER DIMENSION, and LEAVES US THERE, and tells us that we should “hurry up, wink wink nudge nudge”, and gives us a timer, thing. We are in the middle of a jungle. long story short we make it to the check in point with minutes to spare, and as we leave the ENTIRE FUCKING PLANET EXPLODES. ALL THE OF THE TREES ARE EXPLODING, THERE’S A GIANT DUST CLOUD OF ALL THE DIRT GETTING KICKED UP, IF WE’D MISSED THE CHECK IN WE WOULD HAVE FOR CERTAIN DIED. Thankfully we get teleported out, and the Bastard confiscates all the cool samples we took from there and lets us go. And we go on our merry way! We’re miles from where we started! Stop being such a trickster god!

Later on we were staying at a hunting lodge, right, and there was some stuff that we still hadn’t figured out, like a silver bracelet that as far as we could tell didn’t do anything when you put it on. So we’re at this lodge, it specialises in werewolf hunters, right, so this lodge is FULL of werewolf hunting fanatics. This is important. There’s been a string of murders within the lodge, and no one can figure out who’s doing the killings and we’re going all detective on this shit, which means the party is split up. It’s fine, were safe, whatever, but this does mean that Thela and Celestia are alone and outside under what turns out to be a full moon (I bet you can see where this is going). We’re at a dead end, we can’t find anything, so THELA thinks it’s a GREAT IDEA to pull out the bracelet and just. put it on. We hadn’t actually put any of the items on, or used them that much, until we knew what they did, but no! she just. Pulled it out. And put it on. 

And immediately turned into a fucking black wolf, bit Celestia, and jumped over the twenty foot high wall (that’s about six meters for all you metric heathens out there). Sage was not in control. Thela woke up the next morning in their shared room! and they had one of the hunters track her trail from the yard all the way around to their room, which as soon as he got there they regretted because a fucking werewolf had gone into their room and Thela was now a werewolf who became an npc when she was a wolf oh my god what are we gonna do. The answer to that, of course, was keep it hidden until she fucking JUMPED UP INTO THE BOYS ROOM AND RAN THROUGH THE HALLS, AS A WOLF, TEARING SHIT UP, THROUGH THE WEREWOLF HUNTING LODGE, WOLF THELA NO. Anyway that’s one of the proudest moments of my life because Celestia was able to convince the most bloodthirsty of all the hunters that the boys were simply playing some sort of game, that for some reason involved running through the halls screaming WEREWOLF, THERE’S A WEREWOLF IN THE BUILDING. I peaked. So Thela ended up hiding in the shadows (and Celesia’s room) for the next three days until the full moon ended, by witch time we were able to talk the boys down and get on with our lives, and the adventure. Also the murderer was the soft drunk boy, as possessed by an angry murder werewolf ghost. That was a trip.

Fun fact about Thela’s lycanthropy: I don’t think it’s true lycanthropy, because 1) shes got a silvery tattoo that 2) tells her which animal she’s gonna become that 3) changes, depending on what turns out to be multiple factors. One of them is location, but right now she can always be a tiger because she’s wearing a tiger belt. 

The latest and greatest wizard shenanigans were when he showed up and teleported us and a monk named Balance (who was aptly balanced on a fucking chain when we met them), and who he for some reason wanted to stop guarding a randomass bridge, BACK to the exploding planet. This time, pre exploded! There was actually stuff to find there, and we got four exploding snails out of it*. AND a bunch of samples. The check point this time was a moving platform because this man only finds joy in our suffering, but he didn’t meet us when we got out, AND we’d gotten to our destination in three days instead of three weeks, so...

And Thela’s tattoo didn’t show anything while we were there? Like, either she couldn’t shift or if she did it would have been into the Void? We didn’t test this. 

*so they actually rapidly compress into spheres when threatened, creating a shockwave similar to a bomb. Reusable slug bombs!

And today after our Lovecraftian Experiance (which I can also talk about, if you’d like) the tattoo looks. Twisted. But only to Thela. I think hallucinations are in order. Also I want to peel off my skin, but that has nothing to do with Bastard Wizard.

So that’s the story of our wizard shenanigans, thanks for asking!

[doomedandstoned]

Slomatics Reveal Music Video for “Telemachus, My Son”

~Review by Lacie Chapman~

Riffs, riffs, riffs. When it comes to Belfast’s sludgy doom-and-gloom trio SLOMATICS, that is the descriptor that immediately comes to mind. I will admit that, prior to Billy Goate hitting me up to do a review for this album, I had never even heard the band’s name in passing around my local scene. This was completely baffling. Listen to any loud, heavy band from the last decade or so and you will find bits and pieces of this band floating around in their sound. Truly unprecedented, fuzzy, rifftastic genius. Vintage amplifiers alongside analog synths riddled with fuzz permeate the depths of time and space when you try this band on for size.

Although I was intimidated by my lack of knowledge about this group, I was eager to have a chance to discover a new-to-me band that was so widely acclaimed by my peers. Since forming in late 2004, Slomatics have built an amazing discography, from their 2005 debut split with El Bastardo to the more recent collaboration with Mammoth Weed Wizard Bastard, 'Totems' (2018), and five full-lengths in between. The most recent entry, 'Canyons' (2019) is destined to be a fantastic addition to an already impressive repertoire.

I had the pleasure of listening to Chris Couzens and David Majury on guitars, Marty Harvey on drums and vocals, as they guided me through my first listen with their aptly named sixth LP. The album art by Familiar Ink grabs you immediately as you seem to peer from a deep pit engulfed in towering walls and alien plant life. Tinges of black, orange and blue burst through the decay, stars twinkle dimly, bringing forth the call of the void. Embracing the atrophied arms of time, the growth of deterioration, death and darkness eternal.

I plugged my phone into my sound system, maxed the bass and cranked the volume before laying on the floor of my room to prepare me for a surreal aural treat that I had never encountered before.

Canyons by Slomatics

"Gears of Despair" leads you through the path of destruction. The fractured remnants of the bed we made but refuse to lie in. From the first few moments, echoing walls of fuzz shook my entire house, enveloping me in the dark corners of the universe. Creeping dread encroached my perception as I floated in the vast nothingness, cold and utterly alone. Marty’s voice beckons me further onto the path from afar. I try to follow but I fear I’ve become lost.

Canyons by Slomatics

"Cosmic Guilt" is a punch to the face. Only the second song into this remarkable album and I was completely enthralled with this band. My entire body was reverberating with the foreboding ether pouring from the speakers, dripping down my walls, smothering me with dread. I stumble on.

Canyons by Slomatics

As "Seven Echoes" flowed into existence with incredible crystalline psychedelic elements, I came to the realization I was all too sober for this listening experience. I stopped the music and smoked a fat bowl of Gorilla Glue as I pondered the beginning of this fantastic album. I came back to my prior resting place, awaiting transportation to another dimension. This is Doomed and Stoned, after all.

I found my head bobbing along as Marty’s drums introduces the track "Telemachus My Son," the music video for which we are debuting in this piece. Primitive, heavy guitar riffs from David and Chris soon greeted me as a choir of warm, fuzzy, reverb-soaked analog synth followed close behind. I was totally content while my body melted into the carpet. This kind of riffage and doomy walls of noise are exactly what I seek out when looking for new bands. I felt completely blissful. The steep path twists and turns, leading me further through the canyons.

Canyons by Slomatics

"Beyond the Canopy" blew me away and is easily my favorite song on this album. Glistening stars taunted me forward, past my line of vision. Suddenly a wave of grandiose exhilaration washed over my being as the tone built up anticipation of the unknown. Psychedelic synths echoing with saturated reverb and lush, vibrant light guided my path while I caught a glimpse of the heavens lying ahead of me. I felt at home amongst the billowing, brilliant quasars.

Canyons by Slomatics

"Arms of the Sun" embraced me with a light, heavenly flood of those glorious analog synths. I had become one with the void. I was no longer following the path on foot. I have ascended into stars, changed beyond all recognition.

Canyons by Slomatics

The song "Mind Fortresses of Theia" takes it down a notch with grounding, rumbling melodies from Chris and David that cascade freely on the track. Ominous riffage enthralls my essence. Marty's voice calls me. I am almost to the end. I can see the light at the end of this tumultuous, extensive path.

Canyons by Slomatics

Closing out this superb album is the track "Organic Taverns II." What a perfect track to end this flawless release. The sheer intensity, the suffocating sludge pummeled my spirit as I became one with my surroundings. I love Marty's vocal style, especially in this song. He is now counted as one of my favorite doom/sludge vocalists. This band is now one of my favorites.

Clocking in at just over 48 minutes, this album is pure aural ascension that I never wanted to end. I put it on again immediately just to fully grasp the immensity I faced. This time, I sat in front of my subwoofer, floor and walls buzzing with fuzz drenched glory. I cannot wait to backtrack through their discography, listening to the growth that lead to such a masterful conglomeration such as this. I am enamored.

After the cosmic dust had settled following two stints amongst the ever expanding nothingness, I tried to ground myself into reality. Nothing really tops the high of smoking a good bowl and putting on fantastic tunes to pass the time. Pressing play on this album was honestly the best decision of my day and I sincerely hope you listen to this album, find your little niche in the groove and enjoy the ride.

Follow The Band

Get Their Music

[elfnerdherder]

The Gunmetal Kiss: Chapter 6

[Support my Patreon] [Read on Ao3]

Well, guys, it’s here! This was a baby fic, but I’d love to thank all of you for the time and patience you’ve shown through the last couple of years of stagnant posting and random rambles of how much work sucks. I think I’ve settled into a groove of my new job now, and I’m hoping to get into a once a week update, kind of how I used to. Baby steps!

A special thanks to my patrons: @evertonem @starlit-catastrophe @kenobi-is-king @sylarana @frostylicker Duhaunt6, Mendacious Bean, Superlurk, and Cecily! You guys are the best!

Chapter 6:

May 8, 2017:

Nothing.

May 9, 2017:

Nothing.

May 10, 2017:

Nothing.

July 28, 2017:

Nothing.

October 13, 2017:

Nothing.

December 25, 2017:

Nothing.

January 1, 2018:

Nothing.

February 1, 2018:

Nothing.

March 1, 2018:

Nothing.

April 1, 2018:

Nothing.

May 1, 2018:

Nothing.

June 1, 2018:

Nothing.

July 1, 2018:

Nothing.

August 1, 2018:

Nothing.

September 1, 2018:

Nothing.

October 1, 2018:

Nothing.

November 1, 2018:

Nothing.

December 1, 2018:

Nothing.

December 31, 2018:

Nothing.

January 1, 2019:

And Time Froze.

           Will Graham died often. He died often, and nothing happened. People died, and nothing happened. Sometimes, he was commended for his work. Sometimes, he had a desire to put mirror shards in the eyes of his targets.

           He doesn’t, but sometimes he thinks about it.

           He’d told Alana it was a mirror, but it wasn’t, was it? He became, but he could become anything, and was he truly a person when he was constantly becoming something else? He thought of how Hannibal looked at him, hungry. How he’d slid that knife so smooth.

           He’d wanted to confess something about Mason Verger. Will Graham did work outside of the United States.

           Time passed, and nothing happened. Nothing happened because Will Graham was not a thing to retain information, but a thing to mirror the world around him just long enough to pass the power along. Never for himself, never himself, and nothing happened as the time passed. Will Graham wasn’t truly Will Graham. He was a ghost.

           Ghost Agents aren’t people. Will Graham never had feelings for Hannibal.

           Dying this time wasn’t anything special. It was nothing, but he knew it’d stain his ex-lover’s eyes forever, make them cry themselves to sleep. Enough they’d never know he was alive. Enough to know they’d not pry for him.

           Enough to know he’d never again exist to them.

           Despite the smell, sewers were the best of exits. Most of them were scarcely occupied by humans, and it led to avenues of quick getaways. Climbing out of the gutter and sliding out of the stained and wet jacket, he tossed it in the dumpster nearby and rounded the corner, picking up his bug-out bag.

           Standing poised before a bleeding sun and Will’s only escape, Hannibal Lecter’s knife glinted, reflected and nearly blinded Will. He paused for the briefest of moments, his mind reflecting, turning in on itself. He stood slowly and gripped the duffle bag tight, calculating.

           He couldn’t speak. He swallowed, throat tight, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Nearly two years. Nearly two years, and Hannibal looked good.

           Hannibal had a knife in his hand. Hannibal’s hand cut throats so smooth.

           “You found me,” he said, hoarse.

           “I never lost you,” Hannibal explained calmly. “You simply kept your head down and refused to see.”

           Will held his breath just long enough to make it hurt. He exhaled slow, allowed it to burn.

           “You going to stick me with that?”

           “You were telling the truth the whole time, I think,” Hannibal said. “Bits and pieces, but true. I wondered, long after, if you had to doctor your own wounds most times, and that’s why they were so gruesome in the aftermath.”

           “I’m not going to get into a knife fight with you. I’ll subdue you and move on.”

           “I thought to throw away the hideous canvas, but it was a ship adrift at sea. It seemed somehow fitting for you.”

           “Enough, Hannibal.”

           “It was not enough,” Hannibal interrupted, curt. “It was not so near enough time as I’d have liked, and in truth, Will Graham, I don’t believe it was near enough time for you, either.”

           He tasted Ortolan and brimstone. Will bit at a dry spot on his lip, tore hard enough bleed. His grip on his bag didn’t falter, but his breath did.

           “I thought you a remarkably difficult read until I realized it wasn’t that I couldn’t read you, but that you were never quite yourself to read. I miscalculated your affections, or so I supposed until I saw what it was for you to mirror someone’s affection back onto themselves. Then, I felt rather lucky in realizing I was able to experience a genuine intimacy with you.”

           “You walk a fine line between arrogance and confidence.”

           “You’d claim what you and I shared somehow compared to the watered-down version delivered in the coffee shop to Abigail Hobbs, whose grief and anger towards her father drew her into witness protection after your death? Or your romantic interludes with Nathanial, who could not convince you to come back to bed after you’d sufficiently pleased him?”

           “If I was so unobservant I didn’t notice the third man in the room, I should retire,” said Will. It sounded far droller than he felt.

           “You’re hungry for something, aren’t you?” Hannibal asked, and there it was: that look in his eye, that hungry look that made something inside of Will hungry, too.

           “No,” Will rasped.

           “You once wanted to get to know me,” Hannibal urged, and his voice softened. It wasn’t rough, but hesitant, something smacking of vulnerability, but Will didn’t want to think of that right now. “I had thought you’d maybe like to know me still.”

           He thought about fighting the Great, Red Dragon, how Hannibal had slit his throat so smooth. How his eyes burned, and there was a set to his jaw that hinted at a protective nature, an urge to act because he wouldn’t stand the notion that Will could get hurt again.

           Will stupidly thought of Alana wondering who’d first got in his head and scrambled it all up.

           “We have to go,” he said, and he glanced to his watch.

           “Will –”

           “I’ll…I’ll talk, but we have to go.”

           Hannibal looked likely to resist, but after a brief, taut second, he relaxed. “My car is less likely to be found.”

           It wasn’t a lie. Will gripped his duffle bag tight, then relaxed. He gave a brief nod and gestured for Hannibal to lead the way.

           There was a certain edge to be the one holding the keys to the car. It was a fucking Bentley, and Will allowed himself the luxury of melting into the leather. The last mission had been tiring, in truth.

           There’d been a lot of missions that’d been tiring, if that was something he was willing to admit. Maybe not yet, not at a moment like this.

           His duffle bag rested between his legs. In it held the key to a thousand identities, a thousand opportunities. He wasn’t sure if his mind was turning or reeling. “Tell me about Mason Verger.”

           Hannibal held both hands on the wheel as they peeled through casual suburbs and took stop signs rather than street light intersections. Will saw the care of it, and his fingers fidgeted with the lock button.

           “Mason Verger was a pedophile, and my work colleague shared it with me after a troubling day at set when she broke down crying and couldn’t continue the scene.

           “I…do not have a tolerance for those that think themselves above the repercussions of harming the innocent that are in no place to protect themselves. I thought it important that I convince him of his wrongdoing, therefore I set out the careful planning of our friendship and his inevitable destruction.”

           As orange, dull streetlights striped and skewered his face, it made his grim smile feral. Will liked it. It made him remember Dolarhyde dying. Will was shot, and Hannibal hadn’t hesitated in stabbing Dolarhyde so that Dolarhyde couldn’t stab back.

           The scar was ugly, hidden only by a beard Will painstakingly maintained. It was difficult to blend in with a scar like that. Difficult to do your job when people kept asking questions.

           “It was only one party, but it was enough. We procured drugs from his personal stash, and he didn’t notice that I mixed a potent blend of psychedelics into the powder. He took them without thought, and I’m sure you know the rest.”

           “How the hell did you get a hold of something like that,”

           “I have a friend in the pharmacy business. Big pharma is actually a large problem that the federal government should look into,” he chided lightly.

           “Not my job.”

           “No, but I’d like to know about that,” he replied, and at the next stop sign he grabbed one of Will’s fidgeting hands, letting it rest in the neutral space between them on the armrest.

           “Hannibal—”

           “You said you would talk.”

           He did say he’d talk. Will chewed his bottom lip and nodded in approval at Hannibal’s turn of head towards the interstate. Interstates were safe at night. Safer than people thought, so long as you didn’t drive like an ass and draw attention to yourself.

           He waited for a few miles before he spoke. Hannibal’s patience was fine-tuned and calm, not at all intrusive. He knew Will had no sort of idea where they were going, knew he was at the mercy of Hannibal’s need to know.

           And Will had known that walking towards the car, yet he’d gotten in anyway.

           “What you saw was me using my hyper-empathy disorder in order to so completely ingrain myself into the space of another person that I’m able to aptly anticipate their needs or any potential hazards of them being within my workspace and mission. I was recruited because despite that, it doesn’t hamper my ability to kill someone, should the need arise.”

           Admitting that was easier than admitting to the rest of the job. Other people had scrutinized his psyche before; one more was nothing.

           “You’re good at it.”

           “As are you,” Will countered.

           “When I care about something, Will, I will protect it at all costs. I know what it is to be unable to protect the things that I love, and I promised myself that it would never happen again.”

           There was something in the way that he said ‘love’ that made Will’s breath stutter past his lips.

           “You don’t know me, Hannibal. You can’t suggest you love me.”

           “I know more than others, otherwise you would not be so defensive of it. Instead, you’d be cruel, as you were to the rest of your targets that now think you dead.”

           “You want me to be cruel to you?” Will asked –he didn’t appreciate the sound of it being more incredulous than threatening.

           “No, I’m informing you that if you didn’t want me to follow you, you should have made me think you were dead. You ensured such a thing from every target after me, which leads me to assume you wanted me to find you.”

           Will was still more baffled than angry that Hannibal had found him. Of all the stupid, risky, outlandish things someone had done just to get his attention…

           “That’s not unreasonable, given the evidence,” Will allowed. Begrudgingly.

           “And given how good you are at disappearing, I’d promised myself should I get you in this car, Will Graham, I wasn’t going to let you out of my sight again,” he continued, amiably. “As I said, I want to get to know you. I think I’d be more than pleased with what I find.”

           Will looked at their hands clasped. He thought of the boat adrift at sea, likely still on the wall of that bedroom inside of a house that was dusty and abandoned. He wondered if Jack would comb through that house and find himself standing in front of that canvas. If he did, he would more than likely think of Hannibal asking Will if he wanted it back. He’d ponder it for years after, should they get away with this. Had that been a codeword? Did Will betray the organization, and I was too stupid to see it?

           The bag at his feet held enough futures to last a lifetime of over and over again. Rebirth and death. Rebirth and death.

           Red Dragon had tied Hannibal in a fisherman’s knot. In his spare time, Will quite enjoyed the sport of it. Maybe he’d like to know about that? Maybe they’d find a place in the forest where no prying eyes could see?

           Will smiled. “I’d like to get to know you, too.”

           There was nothing but miles of road behind them. Just ahead lay every possibility.

[twofrontteethstillcrooked]

"This thing where you manhandle me needs to stop," Silver said sternly.

"Of course, Mr. Silver," Thomas said. "Your cooperation in this matter is appreciated."

"What matter? What's going on?"

an outtake of silverflint/flinthamilton, because this week has been bananas so what if i wrote 90 more scenes of people falling asleep? WHAT IF.

Silver had been dreaming: salt, pecking seagulls. He followed Madi down into the ship's caverns and she disappeared. In the cabin Flint lolled in a hammock while Thomas unrolled a map across the desk. They were rehashing part of the dinner conversation, about when the parish might place a new direction stone, and Flint pointed to Silver to say, 'He has a way with eels.'

"How can you be sleeping at a time like this?" Thomas asked, and the only reason Silver heard him ask was because Thomas had thrown open the bedroom door a split second before speaking.

A sliver of moon was visible through the window. Not a dream. "It's night," was all Silver could come up with as a response. He tried to grab back the blanket.

Thomas, being nine thousand times more awake, was too fast. "Here," he said, proffering forth Silver's crutch in exchange. "Come on then."

Until this second Silver had never thought about punching, or even pinching, Thomas; he'd rarely even been annoyed by Thomas, which was, in hindsight, astounding, because Thomas obviously had the means to be a hugely annoying person. Silver thought about fisticuffs now. He was, as ever, disadvantaged by being shorter than Thomas -- though most were shorter than Thomas, and Silver was shorter than many -- and possessed of fewer limbs. The element of surprise, of being underestimated, had worked to Silver's advantage before, and might work again.

Maybe he could seduce him, and afterwards sleep the deep rejuvenating sleep of the well satiated.

Silver took a deep breath. That. Hmm. Was not a cliff he ought to be considering flinging himself off just yet, never mind that Thomas, disheveled and warm in a nightshirt, was prying him off the mattress into a standing position.

"This thing where you manhandle me needs to stop," Silver said sternly.

"Of course, Mr. Silver," Thomas said. "Your cooperation in this matter is appreciated."

"What matter? What's going on?"

Thomas stepped away upon checking Silver could in fact stay upright with the crutch. "Just. Come next door."

He strode from the room like a person accustomed to being followed. Silver wanted to resent that, except... Now he was sort of curious. The floorboards were icy through his sock and stepping outside to go from his own door to Flint and Thomas's was painful like Silver had belly-flopped onto an ocean. The little kitchen was empty and dark, and Silver arrived in Flint and Thomas's barely lit bedroom having given up on the idea that perhaps a dazzling sight would great him (Madi, or a treasure chest riven open with jewels, or even just a jar on the mantel labeled "Lord Hamilton's Good Sense").

Flint lay in the middle of the mattress, curled on his right side away from the bedroom door. He was trembling. That Silver could somehow see he was trembling-- Silver felt glued to the floor, like seawater was rising around him. His crutch bit into his palm. Thomas pushed back the quilt to take his place in bed to Flint's right. He tipped his head at Silver and pulled a face like, Why are you just standing there?

Silver made his way to the bed, and climbed in to align himself along Flint's back, tucking his knees up behind Flint's. When he ran his arm around Flint's waist Flint grabbed his hand possessively. Silver breathed in the soap scent of Flint's damp hair and neck -- a bath had been had, it seemed -- and Flint pressed back against him. They were like spoons stacked in a fancy nef. (Aptly, the one old nef Silver had ever been in the presence of was shaped like an English galleon, worked in gold atop a beckoning mermaid. Thomas had probably owned seven. Nefs, not mermaids.) (Though Thomas having once owned a mermaid seemed...oddly plausible.) Silver couldn't see much in such low light, in such a position, but he could feel Flint sigh as if now everything was fine, and a last tremor left Flint as he began to stroke his thumb into Silver's palm, like he knew it was sore.

You are truly unbelievable, Silver wanted to say to him. Since he couldn't figure out how to in a way that would convey the exact best tone -- namely, that Flint was a horrible melodramatic faker and also that Thomas was a co-conspirator of the foulest sort -- Silver kept his mouth shut. He let his arm relax. Flint felt right under his hold; like he fit, or like Silver fit, molded to his back, like it made any sort of sense that this was where and how Silver was meant to be sleeping. It didn't help, or it helped more than Silver could comprehend.

Thomas chose that moment to reach across Flint to pat Silver on the head before putting that hand somewhere on Flint in a way that seemed mutually beneficial. Silver wouldn't think of denying Flint and Thomas their intimacies, but being patted on the head was intolerable. Silver swung to plotting a little revenge inside his skull. In the morning he could over-boil Thomas's egg. He could stand on a kitchen chair and jump Thomas as he passed by. On. Jump on. He could--

"Please stop scheming so loudly, Mr. Silver."

"Stop telling me what to do, Mr. Hamilton."

Flint made a noise like he was stifling a chortle. Treacherous villains, the both of them.

~

'He misses you,' the letter said, 'though he says nothing of it.'

Madi had written hastily, Silver could tell; her words had a sharper slant than when she wrote with leisure. There was a small tear near the bottom, and a water stain shaped like a sheep. On the back Thomas had sometime started what appeared to be either a market list or recipe: 2 eggs, flour, turnips. The date at the top proved the letter was eight months old, give or take a week, and the wrinkled, fraying page had been folded into a variety of shapes in that time. Had been read, and reread, and kept, despite its decay.

'He will not look for you. You must go to him.'

It was, Silver thought, as if Madi had seen everything he'd labored to keep hidden: he'd stopped going to the hill. He contributed to the common good, helping around the camp, cooking meals with improving if usually improvised skill, making jokes with children, chatting with elders and mothers about topics ranging from weather to war to the best ways to remove candle wax from cloth. He and Madi had achieved some kind of marital accord; she hadn't tied him to the bed while he slumbered and bludgeoned him to death with a heavy pan. She loved him, he loved her, their life together wasn't a lie.

It just hadn't been the whole truth. Silver used to think a half-truth was better than none, and occasionally even preferable, and through his own transgressions had been violently disabused of the notion since.

Flint gave a soft, questioning hum, his eyelids twitching. He moved his forehead against Silver's leg and his hand opened and closed, as if he'd caught and was holding close whatever he reached for in the dream. Silver pulled the blanket up to his shoulder, and Flint frowned. Silver smiled. Trust Flint to be grouchy about more blanket though snow was throwing itself against the house and the bedroom fire was burning ever lower.

In the kitchen Thomas was chunking ice out of the water bucket for tea. After one crack Flint huffed as if the commotion were disrupting all his dream-self's adventures. In a roughened voice he said, "Why aren't you under the covers?"

"I need to be up soon," Silver said.

Flint huffed again and went back to sleep.

Silver slipped the letter back between the fourth and fifth days of the old copy of The Decameron Flint had, it seemed, been reading. Left under Flint's pillow, Silver supposed, it had migrated -- a corner poking Silver in the eye had been what roused him this time. (To the book's credit, its interruptions were less boisterous than Thomas's.) He put the tome on the tiny bedside table and slid down into the blankets. Flint stirred to throw an arm over him and press his face against Silver's sternum, as if to insist on being embraced. Silver listened to Thomas rattling the tea kettle and felt guilty for possibly as many as five seconds. Flint tightened his hold.

I used to wake missing you so much I did not think I could bear it, Silver thought, pressing his face to Flint's hair. And then I did bear it; and that was worse.

He was about to give a mawkish sort of sigh when Thomas came in and put his frozen-corpse fingers on the back of Silver's neck.

"Good morning," Thomas said, cheerfully evil, after Silver yelped.

"Why," Flint said blearily, as Silver tried to haul Thomas down onto the bed.

Outside a rock dove tapped at the windowsill, a peevish and judgmental bit of commentary if ever Silver had heard any.

[promin-blog]

What do Denethor and Pippin have in common?

What inspired this post is a quote by the fabulous Elkins who mostly analyzes Harry Potter but made this LoTR related gem of an observation:

Ah, Denethor... You know, Denethor was my favorite non-SYCOPHANTS-ish character in all of LotR? I always really felt for Denethor. Must be that Edge thing again. I always liked Pippin, too, for that matter. I liked that touch of morbid curiosity to him, that morbid fascination: the way that he never seemed to be able to resist doing things like throwing rocks down deep pits and awakening ancient Evil, or staring into Eastward-turned palantir, or... Well, you know. Pippin was Denethor Lite, really. That's why they got on so well.

‘Pippin was ‘Denethor Lite’. When I first read this, I was really blown away. I didn’t think before of comparing Denethor and Pippin in any way, but when you think about it they have a lot in common.

That ‘morbid curiosity’ being foremost.

There is this famous quote by Friedrich Nietzsche, that might shed even more light on the matter:

He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster . . . when you gaze long into the abyss the abyss also gazes into you.

If you happen to be somewhat confused by this quote, what could help is this line from S07E20 of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, “The Changing Face of Evil”:

He who studies evil is studied by evil.

And what Denethor was doing was precisely studying evil by looking into the abyss of the palantír. This is foreshadowed by Beregond:

And the Lord Denethor is unlike other men: he sees far. Some say that as he sits alone in his high chamber in the Tower at night, and bends his thought this way and that, he can read somewhat of the future; and that he will at times search even the mind of the Enemy, wrestling with him. (LoTR: RoTK)

What’s more, evil returned the gaze, studied Denethor in turn and used his curiosity against him, making him more like itself:

Then coming to the doorway he (Denethor) drew aside the covering, and lo! he had between his hands a palantír. And as he held it up, it seemed to those that looked on that the globe began to glow with an inner flame, so that the lean face of the Lord was lit as with a red fire, and it seemed cut out of hard stone, sharp with black shadows, noble, proud, and terrible. His eyes glittered. (LoTR: RoTK)

‘The globe’s inner fire’ makes Denethor’s face look ‘terrible’. The ‘glittering’ eyes might even be trying to evoke Sauron’s Eye ‘rimmed by fire’. Going back to that Nietzsche quote, Denethor, while trying to fight evil using the knowledge of the palantír, should have been careful not to become a monster himself.

On the other hand, Pippin is the first character, and the only member of the Fellowship (barring Aragorn) who looked into the palantír.

And this is, as Elkins above aptly noticed, a kind of a pattern for Pippin. He is the one who threw that stone into the abyss of the well in Moria, to sound its depth.

Pippin felt curiously attracted by the well. While the others were unrolling blankets and making beds against the walls of the chamber, as far as possible from the hole in the floor, he crept to the edge and peered over. A chill air seemed to strike his face, rising from invisible depths. Moved by a sudden impulse he groped for a loose stone, and let it drop. He felt his heart beat many times before there was any sound. Then far below, as if the stone had fallen into deep water in some cavernous place, there came a plunk, very distant, but magnified and repeated in the hollow shaft. (LoTR: FoTR)

Please take notice how the text contrasts the intense avoidance of the rest of the Fellowship of the hole in the floor - they’re making beds as far away as possible from it - and Pippin’s intense curiosity (’he crept to the edge and peered over’) - he is positively drawn to it! And again the abyss (’the invisible depths’) returns the gaze, or more precisely, returns the sound:

Nothing more was heard for several minutes; but then there came out of the depths faint knocks: tom-tap, tap-tom. (...) (Gandalf:) It may have nothing to do with Peregrin's foolish stone; but probably something has been disturbed that would have been better left quiet. (LoTR: FoTR)

And when Pippin looked into the palantír, Sauron returned the gaze and tried to, well, study Pippin. Gandalf even checks Pippin for Sauron’s influence/transference:

'Look at me!' said Gandalf. Pippin looked up straight into his eyes. The wizard held his gaze for a moment in silence. Then his face grew gentler, and the shadow of a smile appeared. He laid his hand softly on Pippin's head. 'All right!' he said. 'Say no more! You have taken no harm. There is no lie in your eyes, as I feared. But he did not speak long with you. (LoTR: TTT)

The implication of this is, of course, that Pippin too would have become something of a monster (as later happened to Denethor) if he peered into the abyss long enough. But that didn’t happen, largely because of Gandalf’s intervention. On both occasions (Pippin throwing the stone in the well; Pippin looking into the palantír) it seems Gandalf wants to distract Pippin from the abyss:

Gandalf: You, Pippin, can go on the first watch, as a reward, (FoTR)

Gandalf: I will ride ahead at once with Peregrin Took. It will be better for him than lying in the dark while others sleep. (TTT)

So what makes Pippin ‘Denethor Lite’, is essentially Gandalf being aware of the ‘changing face of evil’.

[thereluctantinquisitor]

for the prompt thing, if you want and have time, can I ask for Desi and Maaras, maybe the first time maraas sees Desi's scars on his wrists? Maybe... because... they're in bed... naked... > v >

Between The Lines

Desi x Maraas, approx 2700 words, most under the cut

Taking place a decent way into their relationship, when they are both comfortable enough to share some of the secrets they have kept for a very long time.

CW: Mentions of blood magic related self-harm.

There were a lot of things Maraas didn’t know about Desi.True, a lot of the time he was just willing to let it slide rather than risklighting the fuse beneath his red-haired firecracker. But as Desi let out aquiet hum of contentment and settled against Maraas’ bare chest, still coveredin a light sheen of sweat, Maraas found his gaze repeatedly drawn to the smallmage’s forearms. They were uncovered for the first time, but he had been solost in the heat of the moment that Maraas hadn’t even noticed right away. Theshame that washed over him was secondary only to the concern scraping at thewalls of his chest. Concern he would have to word very, very carefully as he eyed the series of red scars that ran like anangry ladder up his lover’s forearms.

“… Hey, Desi?”

“Mmm?” The mage barely stirred, heavy-lidded and exhausted.He huffed out another warm breath, index finger drawing an absent pattern onMaraas skin. “Fuck, you want to talknow, don’t you?”

The remark that would have usually coaxed a chuckle out ofMaraas was met with silence. Instead, he couldn’t seem to keep the frown off hisface as he eyed those marks. You see, what he was about to do went against one of Maraas’ long-heldbeliefs, which was that other people’s problems were none of his business. Thatif they wanted his help or his input, then they’d ask for it. He knew it was a prettyflawed view of reality, sure, but it was one that had served him well thus far.It had kept his nose out of trouble and his heart out of disarray more timesthan he could count. But for the first time, lying there with Desi nestledagainst his side, the prospect of saying nothing felt infinitely worse. Infact, it felt impossible.

“You look good with that shirt off, you know,” Maraas saidslowly as he moved his hand, brushing his fingers up and down the curve ofDesi’s back. “Feel too warm tonight?”

Desi snorted, eyes still shut. Maraas could feel the mage’sheartbeat slowly coming down from their previous ah… engagement. That frantic thrumming gradually softened intosomething almost peaceful the longer they lay together atop the soft mattress.

“Hm. It was about time, I suppose,” Desi replied eventually. His offhand tone, clearly aiming for flippancy, just managed to miss the mark.It wasn’t easy to pick up, but Maraas caught it like a slightly mistimed notein a familiar song. There was hesitance to the words, their façade of nonchalancebrittle around the edges. Maraas shifted slightly, eliciting a frustrated groanfrom Desi, until he was sitting propped up against the bed’s backboard. Mutteringsome choice oaths, Desi slid his way upwards too, belligerently determined totuck himself beneath Maraas’ arm like a particularly grumpy birdling. Maraasraised his arm in invitation and settled it back around the mage’s small form,drawing him in close. After all, he wanted him held tight for what was to come.For what he knew he had to ask next. He wanted him to know that he was wanted,no matter what. That he was…

… well, loved.

“Got a decent collection of scars, there. That why you’realways wearing those long sleeves?”

“Yeah.”

The simple directness of Desi’s reply actually surprisedMaraas. He had been expecting something harsher; something that bit hard enoughto leave a mark. Instead, he felt Desi’s chest fill with breath then release itin a long, slow rush. He continued in a tone so flat it was like listening tothe weary confession of a man condemned.

“Suppose you want to know what they are, huh.  Why I’ve got them.”

Maraas eyed Desi for a moment. Well, eyed the back of themage’s head, at least. His face was hidden, turned towards his chest, chintucked downwards. He had also shifted so that his once-visible forearm was pressedagainst Maraas’ skin, those red lines angled to conceal them from view. Whetherhe had done it on purpose or subconsciously, Maraas couldn’t say. He wasn’tsure it really made a difference.

“Of course I want to know,” Maraas began, brushing hisfingers up and down Desi’s bicep, tracing a gentle line from his shoulder tothe bend of his elbow. “Look, I’m not gonna force you, but I do care. I won’t lie about that. If it’ssomething…”

Maraas let the sentence die on his lips and Desi snortedhalf-heartedly in response. He moved, naked body brushing against Maraas’ untilhe was also propped up against the backboard. Slowly, he raised a hand andpushed it through his hair, sweeping the stray strands off his face, eyesclosed. When he opened them, they were resigned, possessing thatbattle-hardened look of inevitable regret. That worried Maraas more thanany marks on the skin.

They were the eyes of a man as he stepped up to the noose and waited for the floor to drop.

“I… did things. In the past,” Desi began. His voice wasn’tfeeble or hesitant. It was just quiet. Solemn, the way one farewells a lovedone on the dock. “At the Circle. During my Harrowing…”

“I’ve heard of that,” Maraas said when Desi trailed off fora moment. He continued to caress the lines of the small man’s back as Desi tooka few small, steadying breaths. “Damn nasty trial. Aptly named, frankly.Someone had a dark sense of humour.” He paused thoughtfully. “Or no sense of humour.”

Desi nodded absently, his eyes now on the arm he had drawnin towards his chest. Slowly, as if expecting something horrible to happen, heturned his wrist until the series of red lines were visible once more. The pairstayed like that in silence for a while, tracing the marks with their eyes asthough they could be read like letters on a page. Right to left… left to right…and one that ran vertically through them all, breaking the pattern, cutting itlike the knife that made them.

“I was nineteen,” Desi continued slowly, regarding the darker line, “when I did that one. The long one. At my Harrowing.”

Maraas closed his eyes for a moment, but opened them againjust as quickly. “Blood magic?”

Desi hesitated for longer this time. Then, stiffly, henodded. Just once; a tight, almost pained gesture. Maraas could feel the wayDesi’s muscles tensed at the words, then even moreso after his silentadmission. He was like a wounded animal waiting for the killing blow, backedinto a corner, too tired even to raise its hackles and bare its teeth. Thatoverwhelming sense of resignation seemed to grow around Desi’s small figure, stilltucked protectively beneath Maraas’ arm as they lay side-by-side.

No… that won’t do at all.

Quietly, Maraas hummed and reached out with his free hand, taking Desi’s wrist in loose, surprisingly gentle fingers. He raised itslightly until it was bathed in the nearby candlelight and regarded thosemarks, arranged like a lattice across his pale skin. Sharp cuts. Frantic. Donein haste. A last resort. A final chance.

Yes. Maraas knew their kind. Perhaps not as well, but well enough.

“It… must have been hard for you, locked up in the Circle.”

A frown flickered across Desi’s face and he glanced up,meeting Maraas’ eye for the first time since they’d begun their dreadedpillow-talk. “Well, yeah. They had usall locked up like fucking caged animals. I just… had to do something. Maybe I just wanted to pissthem off, I don’t know. I hated them. The Templars. The Chantry. They saidblood magic was evil so I said why thefuck not.” He snorted, this time with true derision, bitter like a penny underthe tongue. “Might as well, after all. I just knew I needed to make sure. If… shit, if I fucked up my Harrowing, I…”

He broke off into a frustrated sigh, and balled his handtightly, the tendons standing out against his skin. Maraas, still caressingDesi’s wrist, shifted his grip, sliding his hand up until he could wrap itcomfortably around the mage’s trembling fist. As he spoke, he slowly worked histhumb beneath the smaller man’s curled fingers, coaxing his nails away from theflesh of his palm. Even after such a short time, they had left crescentshaped bites in his skin.

“Hard to tell yourself it’s worse than dying, or being madeinto one of those Tranquil, huh?” Maraas agreed, then shook his head. “Shit,they dangle you in front of a demon then kill you if it goes south. That’sfucked up no matter how you look at it.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Desi said, then swallowed. The motion wasalmost sickly, the way a man unused to sea swallowed while clutching the sideof the boat. “Do you, uh… I mean… because of…?” He trailed off again, eyespeeling away from Maraas to fix on his wrist. The question he failed to finishvoicing was obvious, and it burned in the quiet air.

Do you hate me?

The fact that Desi couldn’t even say the words told Maraasthat words alone would not be enough to reassure him. One by one, he uncurledhis fingers from around Desi’s fist and spread his hand wide, palm facingtowards the candlelight. Lit by the glow, the lines across its surface – theones read by fortune-tellers in the dusty back rooms of taverns – seemed off. Wrong. Too deep and too ragged inplaces, almost silver and raised against Maraas’ skin. For a time, Desiregarded them with a perplexed tilt of his head, his brow pulling into hisusual chronic frown. Then, without warning, he reached out and traced a fingeralong the lines of Maraas’ palm, hesitating the moment he felt the knotted skin. That frown slackenedslightly, and Maraas offered a somewhat rueful smile.

“Had to keep it low-key, travelling around with theValo-Kas. If Templars or the Chantry caught wind of it, I’d be in a whole worldof shit. Worse if word got back toPar-Vollen.” Maraas watched the tip of Desi’s finger follow the lines back andforth, shifting to a new one wherever the scars met like water flowing througha channel. “Can’t say I like the idea of having my mouth sewn shut, as much asyou might prefer it.”

“… How often?” Desi asked, choosing to ignore Maraas’attempt at deflection, those bright eyes flicking up to meet Maraas’ own.“How often did you do it? The scars are so…”

“Ah, not all that often,” Maraas admitted with ahalf-hearted shrug. “The scars are only bad because I’m a lot more used tocutting other people than myself. Plus I was always in a hurry, and didn’treally have time to be all precise about it. But hey, better that I lose a bitof my own blood if it means stopping someone else from losing all of theirs,right?”

Desi said nothing for a moment. Eventually he lowered hishand back down to Maraas’ chest, only this time he did not bother trying toangle his arm to hide the scars. He nestled himself back against Maraas’s side.The Vashoth watched silently for a moment as Desi stared at nothing inparticular, his gaze distant. Then, as if tickled by the memory of a good joke, Maraas let out alow, rumbling chuckle.

Desi attempted to ignore it at first, but his frustrationand curiosity got the better of him.“… What?”he demanded, tilting his head up. “This isn’t exactly something to laugh about, you know. We’ve bothbeen a pair of royal fuck-ups this whole time, and we didn’t even bother tofucking tell each other.”

“C’mon, you don’t find that funny?” Maraas asked, mouthcurving into a fond smile. Before Desi could fire back a reply, he scooped thesmaller mage up and onto his chest. The move elicited a yelp of surprise fromDesi, but his only act of defiance was to half-heartedly thump Maraas’ chestwith the flat of his palm. Then he settled back down against him, seemingly content with his new position. His small form rose and fell gently in time withMaraas’ chest.

“Yeah… a real bag of laughs,” Desi grumbled, voice oozingsarcasm, but Maraas could feel the tension spilling out of him as hepractically melted with boneless relief. Thatmust’ve been damn hard for him, Maraas thought as he reached out to cardhis fingers soothingly through Desi’s hair. Toput it all out there like that. Wonder what he thought I’d do?

It was a good question. One Maraas should have probably leftfor another day, if he possessed a single bone of restraint in his body.

Unfortunately, he didn’t.

“So… what did you think I’d say?”

Desi stirred at the sudden question and Maraas felt thetickle of his lashes as he opened his eyes. “You really have something againstletting me sleep, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” Maraas laughed, his hand ghosting down the back ofDesi’s neck before continuing to trail along the length of his spine. “Guess I was justwondering… well, why now?”

There was silence for a moment, and Maraas swore he could feel Desi chewing over his words,formulating response after response and discarding them all like poorlywritten notes. He waited patiently, not wanting to rush him. After all, it wassomething that genuinely puzzled Maraas. Had he done something right? Or hadhe just not done anything particularlywrong?

“I just… you know…”Desi fidgeted uncomfortably, but made no attempt to distance himself fromMaraas, which the Vashoth took as a good enough sign. After a moment, Desi justrepositioned himself instead, scooting up a little to tuck his head beneathMaraas’ chin. “Figured if you were going to ditch me, it would be better if youdid it now. But… fuck… I mean, it would still…”

Maraas didn’t need to hear the words to know how thesentence ended.

It would still hurt.

He felt the rumble of Desi’s groan before he even heard thesound rise from the smaller man’s throat. It was part frustrated, part mortified.“Shit… see? If you’d just let mesleep I wouldn’t have to lie here and make an ass of myself!”

“Nah,” Maraas drawled,hoping that he sounded encouraging but probably treading more in the realm offond amusement. “So… what? You thought I’d run for the hills screaming at a bitof blood magic? Well shit, I’d say sorry for not living up to expectations, but you know howmuch I love disappointing people.”

Desi snorted, shaking his head, but Maraas was almostcertain he could feel the corner of the mage’s smile against his chest.  Or maybe it was a smirk. It was always hard totell with Desi, even when Maraas could see his face clear as the moon in thesky.

“Should be your profession, Mar-ass, considering how good you are at it.”

Yeah, okay, it was definitelya smirk.

Maraas laughed in response to the jibe, then let out acontent sigh, reaching up to drape his arm across Desi’s back, his hand coming torest at the small mage’s opposite hip.

“Y’know, I kinda like it when you’re like this,” Maraas mused,tracing circles on Desi’s bare skin with the tip of his finger. “Makes you seemmore human. Less like a demonic littleshit.”

Desi yawned with all the enthusiasm of a lounging cat. Evenhis reply was lethargic, as though he only gave it because it was required ofhim by some unspoken contract.

“Fucking b—” asecond yawn shivered through him, breaking up an otherwise satisfying insult, “—astard.”

Maraas grinned. He tilted his head down and pressed a kissinto Desi’s tousled hair. The red-head breathed out a long, slow hum at that,and Maraas felt his lashes flutter a few times before coming to an almostpeaceful rest. Grin softening, Maraas eased himself back, hand absentlystroking the side of Desi’s hip. A fond smile settled upon his face as he lethis own eyes drift closed.

“Yeah… love you too.”