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alarawriting · 4 years ago

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Inktober 2020 #1: Fish

To say I wasn’t expecting an attack would be an understatement.

I was in my van, driving my oldest daughter to soccer practice. (Why yes, I am a soccer mom. I’m big enough to admit it.) Natalie was supposed to be putting on her shin guards, but instead she was playing the Nintendo 3DS Arista had brought, on the grounds that technically it was her 3DS. I believe Arista’s was out of battery, although it was the kind of detail I try not to pay too much attention to. Arista, of course, had whined about this for ten minutes straight. “It’s not fair! I brought that 3DS! You said you’d let me play! Mommm, Natalie won’t let me play!” And so on. This was partially, though not fully, drowned out by the sound of Theo singing “Itsy Bitsy Spider” loudly, enthusiastically, off-key and with half the words made up, for what may well have been the tenth time in a row.

“Mom! Make Theo be quiet. I can’t concentrate!”

“Just give me back the 3DS! You aren’t even supposed to be playing it!”

“—itsy bitsy spider, gob up the stop again, itsy bitsy spider went on the bo bo bot, so wong go the dwain and it quash the spider out—“

“That isn’t even how it goes, Theo. It goes ‘Itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout—'“

“If you’re just gonna sing to Theo you can give me back the game. Mommm, she isn’t even playing it and she won’t give it back!”

“I’m sing it, Natwee! I’m sing it my way!”

“Yeah, well your way is wrong, cause you’re a baby.”

“ITSY BITSY NATWEE, CAN’T SING THE SPIDER SONG, CAUSE THEO IS SING IT LA DA DOO DOO LA LA—“

“Come on! Let me play!”

With all this going on, I had no hope of getting back enough of my own concentration to change lanes, so I had been stuck behind a car carrier lugging SUVs for the past ten minutes. I hated being behind large trucks; they block my view of the rest of the road. And here I was with nothing in the CD player but Gary’s smooth jazz, when plainly I needed death metal to drown this out. I’d have given my pinky finger to be able to put on the radio, but radio and I did not get along.

As if to underscore this, a sudden burst of static cut through the horn solo. I frowned, wondering if I’d gotten mixed up and this was the radio after all.

“Hey, cool!” Arista said, having apparently found something worthy of distracting her from her quest to recover the 3DS. “My mood ring is red. Mom, what’s it mean when your mood ring goes red?”

I went cold, and glanced at my own left hand on the steering wheel. The stone in my ring, normally opal, had turned obsidian black.

I glanced back up to see the top SUV on the car carrier starting to slide.

“Aspída!” I shouted, having no time to do anything more complex than that. Then I spun the wheel and swerved wildly onto the right shoulder, scraping the jersey wall, as the SUV slid off the carrier’s ramp and came careening down at us.

Distantly I was aware of my kids screaming, but all my attention was on surviving this. The SUV slammed into the shield I had just cast and bounced into traffic, making the car shudder. The small truck that had been behind me struck the SUV, sending it spinning across the road. Meanwhile I’d slammed hard on my brakes, coming to a full stop about twenty feet away from where the SUV ending up crashing into the jersey wall ahead of me. The small truck pulled over, in front of the SUV. The car carrier continued blithely on into the distance.

At least they hadn’t all fallen. That would have been a lot harder to deal with. I could have done it, but I would not have liked to explain it to the kids.

“Mom! Mom! What was that? What happened?” Natalie screamed. Theo was crying hysterically, and Arista was gasping, hyperventilating.

I turned around in my seat. “Arista! Inhaler, now! Natalie, help her grab it!” I wanted to unbuckle, to go take Theo into my arms and calm him, to grab Arista’s inhaler and give it to her, but I didn’t dare. My ring was still black; Arista and Natalie’s rings were still both red.

The guy who’d been driving the small truck was coming toward me, walking along the shoulder, and he looked furious. Of course, from any reasonable human being’s perspective, I’d had nothing to do with the SUV that had fallen off the car carrier and smashed into his car, but with my ring black I didn’t dare assume he was a reasonable human being. I’d read enough about road rage incidents in the paper; I had to assume he had a gun.

I threw the car into reverse and drove backward as quickly as I dared, which was a lot slower than the cars zipping past me on the highway were going, but a lot faster than one dude walking on the shoulder. He began running toward me. “Katev̱odó̱no̱,” I whispered, shoved the gearshift into drive, and pulled out onto the highway, lurching from 0 to 60 in three seconds and slamming myself and my children back against our seats. The car behind me laid on the horn – I’d cut it off. “Sorry,” I said, more to myself than to the driver who obviously couldn’t hear me, but now I was back up to full highway speed, weaving in and out of traffic so that neither the guy I’d just cut off nor the driver of the small truck could catch up with me.

I pulled off the highway at the first exit that came up, watching as my ring dulled to a grayish opalescent color. We weren’t safe, but we weren’t in deadly danger either.

Arista’s breathing was normal again. Theo was still crying. “Mom, where are we going?” Natalie asked. “Don’t I have to get to practice?”

“You’re skipping practice today, Nally.” She used to call herself that. She couldn’t get the middle syllable of her own name, so she was Nally. Nowadays she usually rolls her eyes when I call her that, but this time, she didn’t. I could see her face in my rear view mirror; she was pale and shaken.

“Because we just had an accident?”

“We didn’t have an accident,” Arista said. “We almost had an accident.”

“Right,” I said. “We’re going home, and we’re going to eat ice cream and we’re going to relax.”

“Ice cream?” Theo asked, his sobs becoming weaker and less pronounced.

“Yep! Who wants an ice cream soda, who wants a milkshake and who wants a sundae?”

Kids are sometimes very easy to bribe. Though I suspected that Natalie was letting herself be bribed rather than challenging me. She knew something weird had just happened, but she didn’t want to ask me what, or perhaps didn’t want to acknowledge it.

Another old terror raised its head. What if she was like me? What if all of them were? What if they could use magic?

I shook my head to banish the thought. No one had found us. No one had sent either of them an invitation to school. Natalie was 12, Arista was 10… they were old enough that they could have gotten invitations by now. I’d gotten mine when I was 9, though my parents hadn’t been persuaded to send me to a boarding school until I was 13.

I’d wanted to go. I’d begged for it. I’d wanted to learn magic so, so badly.

I couldn’t even remember how that had felt, now.

***

When we got home, I put the girls in charge of getting the ice cream, the Coke, the sundae fixings, the milk and the blender out, and Theo in charge of washing his hands, going to the bathroom, changing his clothes and washing up. He’d been potty trained for nearly a year, but I’d nearly peed myself during the almost-accident; I could hardly hold it against a little boy that he’d wet his pants. Theo was obviously very embarrassed by it, though, so I didn’t acknowledge that he’d done so, just gave him the opportunity to wash himself up and change to save face.

I went straight downstairs to my fish tanks in the basement.

The filters didn’t hum. The tank lights weren’t on. The room smelled like ozone and smoke. At least one of the surge suppressors that ran my tank filters and lights was blackened. And every single fish in all four of my tanks was floating on top of their water, dead.

The opal on my ring was still dark grey.

In Homeric Greek – the language I cast spells in, though this wasn’t a spell – I said softly, “Brave heroes, I commend your souls to the Elysian Fields. The gods will honor you.” I didn’t actually think the ancient Greeks had believed fish would go to the Elysian Fields, but then, I also didn’t actually believe in the Elysian Fields, or the later Christian version, Heaven. If humans had souls – and they might, I’d seen Jason so many times I found it hard to believe that all of him could literally be gone, forever – then fish could as well, maybe. These fish hadn’t exactly volunteered to die to save my family, but they’d been feeder goldfish, destined for the belly of a pet predator or an agonizing, choking death due to high ammonia levels and lack of oxygen from the overcrowding in the feeder tanks. I’d given them a better, longer life than they could otherwise have hoped for.

Whatever had killed them, I hoped it had been fast. It looked like some kind of electrical short, maybe. A month ago one of those had taken out all the fish in tank four; I’d replaced the filter, and the surge protector, and the GFCI outlet the surge protector was plugged into, but when magic is targeting you, all of the sane and reasonable precautions you can take may end up coming to nothing. The fish had died because I’d bound them to my family and enchanted them to take on our bad luck. Most of the time, that meant fish died one by one over a period of months, as all of the normal bad luck that might occur to a family just failed to happen – my kids never got scraped knees, our cars never broke down, Gary made it through every round of layoffs at his company, none of us ever got sick.

When the fish started dying fairly rapidly last month, starting with the electrical short, the stone in my ring had been purple – not white opal, not the gray it was right now, not the black it had turned on the highway. I’d put more fish into service and it had faded to white. The fish had been doing reasonably well; I’d thought the danger was over.

But today all of them were dead. And I didn’t dare go out and get more; whatever malevolent spell had targeted me and my family would work a lot more effectively outside the shields I had around the house. Petco would ship me fancy fish, but not feeders. Which meant firstly that it would cost a lot more money to put more fish into service, secondly that I wouldn’t be able to leave the house again until tomorrow when the fish arrived (and what would I do about the girls going to school? They couldn’t leave either, and I couldn’t explain to them or to Gary why not.) And thirdly, that the girls, and Gary, would see the change, think I was taking Gary’s advice about getting nicer fish who could actually serve as pets, and they’d be horribly disappointed when the fish died.

Maybe I could have two layers of fish, I thought. Pet fish upstairs and feeders down here. Order neon tetras and a tank for overnight delivery, set them up, go out and buy more feeders as soon as I had the neons in service.

The thought flickered through my mind that I could buy feeder mice instead. Mammals are stronger and have more life force, and more resistance to malevolent magic. Feeder mice were in the same position as feeder goldfish – they were destined to die. I’d just be giving them a good life before it happened.

But my children would get attached to the mice. Would give them names. Would cry when they died.

I closed my eyes. I needed more power to protect the family than I had at the moment. I’d given up so much of it for my anonymity and my family’s safety, back before I’d even met Gary, when the only family I’d had to protect were my parents.

To get it back, to protect them now, I’d have to break some old compacts. But those old compacts weren’t working well enough anyway, obviously, if someone was targeting me.

“Moommm! We’re ready!” Arista yelled down the stairs.

“I’m coming,” I said, and headed up. I’d deal with the magic later. Right now, I’d promised my kids ice cream, to distract them from near-death and any weirdness they’d observed, and as both a magus and a mother, I’d learned to keep my promises.

***

This is a piece from a WIP “Not Even Past”, about a former child mage student who had to save the world with her group of friends, all of whom died except her. She left the world of magic behind and became a soccer mom. But now the world of magic is coming back for her.

#inktober 2020 #not even past #amanda walker #alara's october 2020 prompt fics

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kenyizsuartblog · 4 years ago

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Inktober 2020 - 23 Rip

This pitiful demonic magic tried to eat away at It as if it could do anything.

The Worldstone would have loved to mimic the residents of Its world and scoff at the attempt. Truly, Spawns of Tathamet had no shame, especially not the three largest heads. This one, the Second Head truly believed he did damage to It? Oh how much It hated them… hated all of them, including the Spawns of Anu. Both side claimed to be different than the other yet both had done the exact same thing – forcing the Worldstone to create and then destroy Its creations without a second thought.

Well… that is, until that one single Spawn of Anu came with the white hair and big dreams. The Worldstone knew It could trust him. It even let his guard down somewhat and contacted the Spawn with Its… thoughts, It reckon it could call them that. Not like in the case of the First Note of Anu, oh no… That worthless spawn pried and poked relentlessly at Its being, tried his best to enslave the Worldstone. But the Stone would not budge to someone as empty as the Firstborn.

But the white-haired one, Inarius. Now him, the Stone called a friend. No one else was worthy for their names to ever be uttered by the Stone.

Then Inarius had been crushed, and became a threat. The Worldstone experienced grief once again but It allowed meddling humans to sever their connection and thrust Inarius off this world. A painful sacrifice, but one that had to be done to save their shared creation.

Yet the Worldstone could not help but weep for Its friend’s fate. Sorrowfully singing to Itself within the depths of the mountain.

But of course a Tathamet spawn had found It and the little nothing tried to corrupt Its perfect being. Bah! The Worldstone would have laughed if It could.

What?

What was the Third Note of Anu doing here?! He wanted to destroy the Stone?! “Corrupted beyond saving”?! Was the spawn trying to make a senseless joke?! The Stone almost lashed out to pulverize the speck of light in Its offended rage.

Wait…

True, this magic was stubborn, it clung to Its being. The Stone might need a long time to get rid of it… and it may influence Its beloved world until then. No, that was unacceptable. Unacceptable!

… Maybe the Third Note would finally be useful once in its damnable existence.

So when the small sword punched a crack into Its structure, instead of erasing it without a second thought, the Worldstone allowed Its own being and power to surge out through the opening. It left behind Its old body to find a new existence, without much of an idea as of yet.

For the first time in Its existence, the Worldstone knew not even a glimpse of what might await It in the future.

It was excited to find out.

2020.10.23.

#inktober2020 #day 23 rip #diablo #that first spark #tyrael #worldstone #back on track hopefully #drawing challenge #illustration #pictures that precede unfortunate events

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nightsmudge · 4 years ago

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Another batch for this week, wooooooo!

You want backstory ideas for these characters? Well Ima give you some backstory ideas:

Day 11: Disgusting little fish man This little guy is called a Sea Imp, which are basically mini fish people Most Sea Imps live in the ocean, right next to beaches. But these days, with the copious amounts of trash and pollution on the beaches, many Sea Imps have formed many unhealthy habits. Such habits include collecting trash to serve as treasure and trinkets, eating leftover food from garbage found on beaches and nearby dumpsters, or moving inland to live in streets and alleyways to find the best trinkets to sell to their kin. The latter habit is what this guy does, he's oftentimes seen trying to sell lost items or shiny bits of trash he found on the ground to pedestrians Day 12: Slippery Little Water Spirit I don't have much for her backstory-wise. But what I do know is that she doesn't speak, instead making cute bubble and bloop noises, and that she leaves a trail of water wherever she goes. Day 13: Shadow Creatures in the Sand Dunes This is a species of creatures I've been workshopping, called Sorbras, or Shadow Sippers Sorbras are found most commonly in the deserts of Mexico and some of the southern parts of the USA. During the day, in the blazing sun, these creatures are tiny, skinny, and weak, oftentimes opting to hide in caves, under rocks, or in the shade under or next to houses. Out in barren the desert, they can be seen skittering quickly across the sand or peaking out from cover, trying to avoid predators. But in towns, they're a lot braver, stealing food from the oblivious souls who took their eyes off their snacks for two seconds, earning the reputation of being pests. Though if you ever come across one when spelunking a cave or when night falls, you better be afraid. This is where they get their name "Shadow Sipper," as they gain mass, strength, and energy from the darkness. What was once a tiny creature the size of a cat, is now a beast the size of a car. Night is the time where they either hunt, or they go off to seek revenge. Typically, Sorbras will leave people alone, but if some poor fool finds one during the day and kicks it around, they're going to be in for an awful surprise once night comes, and they find out that the Sorbra has been following them all day, waiting for the moment it can enact its revenge. If that person is lucky, the Sorbra might just chase them around but not actually harm the person, or the Sorbra might maul an arm or a leg. The unlucky ones that manage to severely piss off a Sorbra will most likely lose an limb -or their life. Due to how the Sorbra's work, many people have managed to tame a portion of them, as they make the perfect guard for people who have to be on the streets at night, or a nice little shoulder companion during the day Sorbras can take the look of numerous different animals or creatures, from birds, cats, reptiles, etc., or have a more abstract and amorphous appearance. This one in particular has the appearance of a boar Day 14: Armored Gremlin Thing I kinda came up with this creature on the spot, not sure what to call it Whatever I'm naming them, I thinking that they're a type creature that was employed as a sort of apprentice for blacksmiths back in the medieval times, due to their abilities to find ore and shape metal using their teeth. They were perfect for helping repair or replicate sets of armor, as these creatures passed down their own crude armor styles and habits in the wild. These creatures had already been shaping and attaching pieces of metal onto themselves for protection, thus it was easy for people to train these creatures to copy the style of their armor. On top of being great metalworkers, they also made fantastic guards for tombs filled with treasure, as these creatures got very territorial and protective over shiny things and metals. Unfortunately, the kingdom these creatures were adopted by fell, causing them to lose their domestication and return back to their old wild habits.What's interesting is that though some packs of them maintain a more rugged and crude look to the armor they stick onto themselves, there are some packs who still live in the old tombs and castle ruins from the fallen kingdom. To this day, those few pack have kept many of the style characteristics from the medieval times, scrapping away rust and carving patterns into scraps of metal with their teeth, as well as maintaining armor pieces from hundreds of years ago and adapting them into their own attire Day 15: Dragon Outpost Guard If I ever draw this guy again, I'm need to give him wings and make him look more interesting This guy is a dragon person (Dragon Folk, Dragon Kin? I'm going to have to come up with a non-copyrighted name), who acts as a lookout guard for a magical town in the Arabian desert; a town that's built on top of an oasis, and hidden from the rest of the world via a very powerful magical mirage. His job is to look out for people coming towards the desert town; if the incoming people shoot off a magical flare, the mirage is parted and the people are let in, but if a caravan of magic-oblivious humans come by without giving a signal, a spacial-warping spell is set off to make the vehicle pass by as if the town wasn't there at all. No idea what his personality is like, but I'm loving the idea of this desert town I just came up with Day 17: Stormy witch I don't have anything for her yet since I just came up with her design today. I like the outfit I came up with though, I'm imagining that her outer skirt and the underside of her hat is covered in shiny blue teardrop-shaped fake stones Alright, another batch of Inktober done, two more batches to go

#Inktober #inktober challenge #Inktober 2020 #disgusting #fish person #slippery #water spirit #shadow creature #dune #armor #dragon person #outpost #storm #witch

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pipsqueakparker · 5 years ago

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bc im sleepy and also haven’t posted any writing in a while, have a scrambled together inktober prompt i just wrote while trying not to fall asleep (aka don’t get your hopes up and don’t be mean. this is just communication porn pretty much.)

Frail

Baz is staring at me.

Who knows how long he’s been awake, but he’s always watching me sleep. I should be properly creeped out, I’m sure, but Baz has been watching me since we were eleven. It’s hardly unusual. Now he just has a different motive, he’s no longer plotting my demise. (I hope.)

I’ve still not figured out what he’s plotting these days, actually. He must be plotting something, he’s always staring. Staring and thinking. Sometimes he thinks so loudly, so hard, I’m almost afraid he’ll hurt himself. Have you ever heard of a cranial sprain? I’ve not, technically, but if a doctor told me that Baz had one I wouldn’t be surprised. What with all that thinking.

He’s thinking so loudly now I can’t sleep. I’ve been pretending to be asleep for the past ten minutes, and he’s been letting me. Because that means he can just keep staring.

“Truly leaning into those vampire stereotypes, aren’t you?”

I don’t have to open my eyes to know Baz is raising one of his perfect brows, I can practically hear it in his voice.

“How do you mean?”

His voice is rough. He’s been too busy staring and thinking, hasn’t used it yet today. I like it.

“Watchin’ me sleep.” I do open my eyes now, just as he furrows his brow. “Haven’t y’read Twilight?”

“Have you?”

I roll my eyes. “Saw the movies.”

I shift onto my side, facing him. He doesn’t look away, though his stormy grey eyes look lost in thought. ‘Course he is. I poke at the crease between his eyebrows. I don’t know if vampires can get wrinkles, but if they can, he’s bound to have a nasty one right there. “What’re you thinking about?”

“Nothing.” He answers too quickly. He takes the hand that just poked him into his own, brings my palm to his lips. I barely feel the kiss, it’s so gentle, but he doesn’t let go of my hand after.

“Baz Pitch doesn’t just think of nothing.” I murmur. “You never stop thinking. It’s exhausting. I’m exhausted for you.”

“Then go back to sleep, Snow.”

“Can’t.” I tug at his hand. “Why won’t you tell me?”

“It’s not important.”

He lets me tug at his hand again, doesn’t tug back or anything. Sometimes I wish he would do anything back. But all he does is lay there and stare and think. That’s all he’s done since...

He’s been soft, and gentle. Always so gentle. He’s been utterly un-Baz-like.

Not that I don’t appreciate it, the gentleness, the being soft with each other.

But I’m almost tired of it. It’s not like I want to go back to fighting, I still like this all so much better than fighting, but that doesn’t mean he’s got to lose his fight completely. Baz is beautiful, and brilliant, and strong. And he’s stubborn. And that’s what I love about him.

“‘m not made of glass, y’know.” I shut my eyes again, because I’m almost afraid to say anything. Maybe it’s an all or nothing deal, maybe it’s either being soft or fighting, no in-between. If that’s the case, I can’t watch myself ruin it all. But I also can’t put up with all the staring and thinking and being too gentle anymore.

“What are you on about now?” He doesn’t let go of my hand. I want to take it as a good sign. I squeeze his fingers.

“You’ve just been... gentle. And you won’t tell me what’s going on, in your head.” He and Penny both, actually. They’re both always thinking, and speaking in too soft voices.

It’s because they care, I know. They want to help, but don’t know how.

“What would you prefer?”

“I want you to talk to me.” I open one eye a bit. He’s still staring, right at me, and I can almost see gears turning in his head. “I want you to be you again.”

“I’ve always been me, Snow.”

“Baz.”

He blinks. Sighs. I squeeze his hand again and he squeezes mine back. He still doesn’t say anything for a while. I almost think he’s not going to say anything at all, but then -

“I’m worried.” It’s so soft I almost don’t hear him, but he finally pulls his eyes away from me as he says it.

“‘Bout what?”

“You, you numpty.”

“Baz, I’m fine.”

“Simon.”

“I’m serious!” He jumps, my voice is too loud in the quiet of the room. Good. It’s been too quiet, too soft, too gentle for so long. “I’m not gonna break, I just - I get it, I do, but it’s -“

I’m spluttering for the right words, and just a few months ago Baz would be making fun of me for this. He doesn’t now, he just looks at me with those understanding eyes. Baz has never looked at me with understanding eyes.

“Stop it!” I sit up, it catches him off guard again. Good.

“Stop what?”

I don’t realize I’m tugging at my hair until he’s sat up and grabbed my wrists, pulling my hands back down.

“That. This - the being careful - being nice -“

“You want me to be mean to you?”

“Yes! No - I don’t know.” I slump back against the pillows with a sigh. Baz watches me, as usual.

“I don’t understand what you want, Simon.”

“That makes two of us,” I mutter. Baz keeps watching me.

Then he shifts, scoots closer to me. He swings one of his legs over my lap, straddling me. This is new. We’ve been close, we’ve spent a lot of time holding hands and sometimes he would kiss my forehead or my temple or my hands, but this is different. This is Baz in my lap and still watching me intently, and leaning in closer to me, and pressing his mouth over mine, and my brain short-circuiting for a minute because when was the last time we actually kissed?

My hands fall to his hips and his find my shoulders, then he’s pulling back.

“I’m worried about you because you’ve been through hell and back, Simon. Because I can’t read your mind and I don’t always know where you’re at. One minute you seem fine, and you’re acting like your old, unbearable self but the next you’re... somewhere else. And you’re fucking awful at talking about any of it, so I have no idea what you need.”

I don’t know what to say, so I push my face forward and kiss him again. I’m not good with my words, but maybe I’m still good with my mouth. Maybe I can get the point across like this, with fistfuls of his shirt at his waist, with the press of my lips and the jut of my jaw. The thank you, the appreciation, the...

He pulls back again and I growl, I can’t help it. It just comes out, and he chuckles. I can’t remember the last time I heard him laugh without mocking me.

“I’m worried because I don’t want to fuck up, because I care about you, you absolute nightmare. I’m in love with you.”

My breath catches in my throat. I can see the panic in his eyes once he’s said it, but there’s something else there, too. Anticipation, maybe? Hope? But it moves further and further to concern the longer I watch him. The longer he waits for my mind to jumpstart itself enough for me to respond.

“Fuck,” I breathe, because I can’t be anywhere nearly as eloquent as him. “I love you, too, don’t I?”

“Do you?” The hope and anticipation seeps into his voice now.

“‘Course I do.” He leans in and kisses me again. “I’ll try,” I promise against his lips. “To talk, be better with that - if you will, too.”

He doesn’t need to say anything, he’s just as eloquent with his actions as he is with his words. He presses the promise into my lips without saying anything, I can feel it to my core.

Was this what he’s been plotting? Does he plot anymore? Or has he just been thinking about loving me? Maybe these are questions for another time, maybe I’ll get my answers later. We’ll both try, at least.

#simon snow #snowbaz #baz pitch #carry on #snowbaz fic #carry on fic #drabble #my fic #inktober #unedited #im falling asleep #whoops

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diablo-that-first-spark · 4 years ago

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Inktober 2020 - 23 Rip

This pitiful demonic magic tried to eat away at It as if it could do anything.

But the white-haired one, Inarius. Now him, the Stone called a friend. No one else was worthy for their names to ever be uttered by the Stone.

Yet the Worldstone could not help but weep for Its friend’s fate. Sorrowfully singing to Itself within the depths of the mountain.

But of course a Tathamet spawn had found It and the little nothing tried to corrupt Its perfect being. Bah! The Worldstone would have laughed if It could.

What?

Wait…

True, this magic was stubborn, it clung to Its being. The Stone might need a long time to get rid of it… and it may influence Its beloved world until then. No, that was unacceptable. Unacceptable!

… Maybe the Third Note would finally be useful once in its damnable existence.

For the first time in Its existence, the Worldstone knew not even a glimpse of what might await It in the future.

It was excited to find out.

2020.10.23.

#inktober2020 #day 23 rip #that first spark #diablo #tyrael #worldstone #the drawing table #pictures that precede unfortunate events #that toothpick sized sword sure did work well #or did it

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wildmagicplant · 5 years ago

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Oct. 10 - pattern

continuing my inktober writing! i actually wrote most of this about a month ago but then abandoned it mid sentence in a fit of disgust lol. i cleaned it up a little and gave it sort of an ending this time. comics jason ficlet

The first thought that goes through Jason’s head is Oh fuck. He’d been tracking a new drug that had shown up, tracing it from clubs and dumbass kids back to some shady suppliers operating out of the back of businesses near the Bowery, got some info the fun way on where they were getting it from originally, but he’d thought he was heading to a shady manufacturing setup.

Instead, he’s staring at the kind of explosion of lush green plants that only ever meant one thing in Gotham.

“I know you’re in here, Ivy,” Jason calls out. He’s as still as he can make himself, trying to hear where she might be. Poison Ivy is part plant but she still breathes. There’s too much fucking rustling, though, and Jason can hear some sort of artificial air system hissing. Makes sense; even Ivy can’t keep this level of jungle alive indoors without some intense setup.

He hasn’t moved away from the door yet, but Jason would rather chance taking Ivy off guard than wait around to get goddamn ambushed here. Moving slowly, gun drawn in his right hand, the other left free to push his way through the plants, he heads into the room. He takes the time to grumble to himself. This is not what he’d signed up for. Jason tries to leave the big names for people on good enough terms with B to recoup back at the cave afterwards. It’s a fucking pain in the ass trying to deal with fear toxin or—Jason’s jaw tightens as he thinks about it—Joker venom on his own, and while he’s got a very basic chemical kit for any accidental exposure, the cave is a lot more equipped for it. And, well, Jason is good, but any of Arkham’s regular residents have more than enough experience dealing with Bats that his normal tricks aren’t nearly as effective on them.

There’s a rustle behind him, off to his left. Jason freezes. He can’t say for sure, but he’d bet it’s Ivy. There’s no follow-up movement, and he glances around. Stuck in the middle of a goddamn indoor jungle, fucking perfect. It looks like there might be some open space ahead of him, and Jason keeps that in mind as he ducks around a small tree covered in vines, putting it between him and where he thought he heard movement.

Sure enough, a tense minute later, Jason sees a figure sliding through the plants.

“I don’t know who’s in here,” Ivy begins, the low murmur of her voice somehow carrying. “But if you come out now, I’ll kill you quickly.”

Jason suppresses a snort. That’s a lie if he’s ever heard one. Also, not a line that’s likely to make anyone listen to her. The urge to mouth off is strong but he ignores it. Instead, he ever so slowly takes out a batarang from one of his pockets. Ivy hasn’t moved, and Jason really doesn’t want to have this fight in the thick of the plants if he can avoid it. He turns away, and throws the batarang in the direction of the door he came in. It whistles through the air, slicing some leaves off as it goes, and he thinks he heard it thud into a wall.

Ivy whirls, lunging in the direction of the door. “Not so fast,” she snaps, and Jason takes off toward the opening he saw earlier. It only takes him a few strides to reach what looks like a laboratory space surrounded by plants on all sides. This is definitely where Ivy’s been manufacturing the drug—probably breeding a specialized plant and just distilling the chemicals into a concentrated form she can dry out to turn into a sellable powder.

Jason only has a brief moment to take it all in before he hears Ivy coming back toward him. He leaps over one of the workbenches and ducks partially behind it. He readies a shot, and as soon as Ivy comes into sight again, Jason takes it.

Ivy hisses, and some of the plants move as she reels back. Fucking plants. Jason’s never understood the appeal of nature and Ivy’s weird-ass half-moving plants have done nothing to change his mind. There’s dark brown blood seeping out of her leg but it does nothing to stop her advance. She snarls when she sees him.

“You! I thought I was dealing with a thief, not a Bat,” she spits, and throws something at him. Jason rolls sideways and the vial shatters on the ground where he had been, an acrid smell rising from the splatter as the ugly green liquid eats into the concrete.

There’s a little voice in the back of his head that tells him how much it looks like the water of the Lazarus Pit, but Jason ignores it. He takes another shot, but before he can see if he hits, Ivy launches herself at him. Without thinking, Jason slides feet first under the table as she hurtles over it. He pivots as he stands up on the other side, and darts into the plants around, crouching down behind something with broad leaves.

Just in front of him is another of the trees with vines wrapping around it. Jason looks at it appraisingly and makes a split second decision. It bends a little under his weight, but it holds and he’s at the top in almost no time at all. The ceiling is high enough here for it to have been some sort of warehouse at some point, but it still can’t be more than 20 feet tall. There’s no fixtures on the ceiling beyond some lights set into it and Jason can’t see an easy way to get into it either.

Jason grits his teeth, and presses the button set into the base of his helmet. “Red Hood here, got a situation, anyone in the Bowery that wants to join in the fun?” Luckily, the good thing about having the comm inside his helmet is that he can be practically nonverbal and the comm will still pick up his words. He tries to peer through the greenery to see where Ivy is as he waits for a response.

No answer comes, and he tries again. “Hey, fuckers, anyone listening?”

Nothing.

Well, fuck. Jason doesn’t have time to figure out why no one is answering, so he files that away as something to pick a fight about later, and activates the heat vision setting in his helmet. Ivy is stalking through the room below him, maybe 20 feet away. She isn’t looking up, but it won’t take her long to realize he’s not on the ground. He has to make this count.

God, why did it have to be Ivy? Jason doesn’t keep up with her, has barely seen her since his return, so he has no clue what all’s changed with her since he was Robin. For all he knows, she can talk to the fucking plants now. Maybe she can just ask them where he is. Whatever. He doesn’t plan to stay here long. His best chance is definitely going to be catching her off guard and knocking her out as quickly as possible, and then getting the fuck outside where maybe he can call someone in to come pick her up. This was supposed to be simple, he thinks, annoyed.

She’s nearly directly underneath him now, and this is a position Jason is very prepared for. He slips his gun back into its holster and jumps out of the tree.

Jason smiles to himself a little as he lands directly on Ivy’s shoulders, legs wrapping around her neck as he throws himself backwards, taking them both to the ground. Still got it, he thinks. He could choke her out like this, and he tightens his legs, but suddenly something stabs into his leg, and kicks out.

It’s enough of an opportunity for Ivy to slip free, and she scrambles to her feet. Jason rips the syringe out of his leg and stomps on it. It doesn’t hurt much, which he hopes means that none of whatever the fuck it was in there got into him.

“That all you got?” he says, looking around for something he can use to his advantage. Too many damn plants.

“You shouldn’t have said that,” she hisses, and snaps her fingers. Suddenly, Jason’s right side is being grabbed by—vines. Lovely.

He smirks, trying to duck out of them, and says, “Aw, if you wanted my attention, you coulda asked.” Ivy rolls her eyes, and it’s just long enough for him to grab a knife from his belt and he cuts through them easily. “This is a real lush setup you got here. You should give tours,” he says, dodging her kick easily and getting a solid punch in. She grunts at the impact, but swings her other hand. It doesn’t even come close to connecting and Jason thinks for a second that maybe she’s just missed. He realizes his mistake almost instantly as a thick vine comes hurtling through the air at his head. Jason dodges without thinking, pure muscle memory guiding him to duck below the vine as he lunges toward Ivy. He plants one foot in front of hers, and spins the rest of his body toward her, arm outstretched behind her back, sending her tumbling over his foot right into—

Right into where Batman would be, if he were still Robin, still a kid, still had a partner he trusted. Fuck. This is the other reason he doesn’t like going up against the costumed villains anymore. It’s too easy to fall back into old patterns. It makes him sloppy and it makes Jason feel equally exhilarated and bitter.

There’s a noise behind him, and Jason whirls just in time to see Ivy kicking up at him from the ground. He turns so she just catches the side of his hip with it, and he stumbles back, but at the same time he reaches for his gun. Jason takes another faltering step backward, watching as Ivy notices the opening for what it is, and in one smooth motion, she launches herself up from the ground and toward him, arm outstretched like she’s trying to strangle him.

She doesn’t get the chance, because Jason uses the shift in weight his extra step gave him to sidestep her slightly and hit her solidly in the head with his gun. Ivy falls to the ground, but he doesn’t want to take the chance, so he hits her once more, and grabs some zipties from his pocket. Once he has her tied, he hoists her over his shoulder and heads outside.

Leaving her slumped against the outside of the building, Jason goes back in. He doesn’t spare much thought for what might have been her plan here. Leave that for the detectives. Jason slips a small sample of the undistilled materials into a ziploc, and then as quickly as possible, sets the room up to burn. Fuck the damn plants. He tests a little of the chemicals and it burns easily without seeming to release any smells. The rest of the building was empty, and Jason is beyond done with this bullshit, so he trails the chemicals all over the room, covering as much as he can with them. When he’s satisfied with the amount of coverage he’s gotten, he heads for the door, trailing another line of chemicals behind him. Jason pulls his lighter out of his pocket, flicks it on, and drops it into the chemicals, quickly closing the door behind him.

Jason doesn’t even wait to see if it catches, just runs away from the building, from Ivy. From the thing that he’s equally trying to forget and to hang on to desperately, the deep instinctive knowledge that no matter what he does, there will always be a part of him that’s Robin. He takes one look back, and he thinks he sees a flicker of a cape. Good. It’s someone else’s fucking problem now.

#jason todd #dcu #poison ivy #i love how well some of this tracks with the most recent ep of titans #feels good feels organic etc #my stuff #pls come talk to me about this concept i have FEELINGS #not inktober

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snictionary · 6 years ago

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The Snobels 2018 snominees masterlist

updated 29/11/2018

The snominations will close 30.11.2018. After that, you’ll have the entire December to snote for your favourite in each category. The winners will be announced 9.1.2019, which is the birthday of our snord and snaviour, Severus Snape.

If someone you snominated isn’t on here, it’s because you did not provide a link. Without the link, some bad guesswork is the best I can do. The only way to make sure the people you snominate appear here is to submit a link.

I will keep checking the snominations and updating this list!

Meta

@severusdefender, @akashikadoesthings, @deathdaydungeon, @raptured-night, @idealistic-realism00: Marauders vs Snape and Draco vs Harry, the difference between bullying and rivalry (meta 1)

@aworldofgrey, @thegreatsnapescape, @wormwoodandasphodel: Lily should’ve done more to help Severus during the events of Snape’s Worst Memory (meta 2)

@legilimensxsnape, @thegreatsnapescape: Sirius’ hate for Snape (meta 3)

@severusdefender: The end of Prisoner of Azkaban (meta 4)

@sayruq: Severus Snape never stood a chance (meta 5)

cj_whitehound: But Snape is just nasty, right? (meta 6)

@snapedefender: Why is it the accepted norm that Snape was obsessed with Lily? (meta 7)

@potteryet: One thing people forget (meta 8)

@rainfiresnowearth: Not fond of his looks (meta 9)

@rainfiresnowearth: Daily Snamione #88 (meta 10)

@maximoffsrogers, @deathdaydungeon: House points (meta 11)

@queersnape: About House points (meta 12)

The World of Severus Snape: Discipline at Hogwarts (meta 13)

@deathdaydungeon: Always (meta 14)

Literature

@thegreatsnapescape: Rue and Rainflower (literature 1)

@deathdaydungeon: A dealer, not a Death Eater (literature 2)

@humanveil: si vis amari ama (literature 3)

@severusdefender: One small step (literature 4)

@thesnapewecandreamof: Harry Potter AU idea (literature 5)

flamethrower: Of a Linear Circle (literature 6)

@humanveil: Curiosity (killed the cat) (literature7)

Paganaidd: Memories and Dreams (literature8)

@rainfiresnowearth: A Gloomy Poem for Our Dour Potion’s Master (literature 9)

@rainfiresnowearth: Lost by the Seashore (literature 10)

@deadcatwithaflamethrower: Harry Potter’s third year (liteature 11)

@thesnapewecandreamof: Missing (literature 12)

Art

@bananagege: Proud boy in Pride Month (art 1)

@elenianz: that snape boi (art 2)

@thegreatsnapescape: Redemption (Out of Reach) (art 3)

@the-mr-lolipop-things: Severus with his Pygmy Puff (art 4)

@elenianz: the good old days (art 5)

@a-substantial-trash-pile: Snapetober 13: Guarded (art 6)

@madfantasy: fairy kisses (art 7)

@doodlebat: Tiny Sneep stole his mum’s old Hogwarts uniform, skirt included (art 8)

AnastasiaMantihora: Impedimenta (art 9)

IrenHorrors: Always... (art 10)

Hellanim: The hot wet bat (art 11)

Vizen: Welcome to Slytherin (art 12)

@elenianz: Severus Snape is Gina Linetti of the wizarding world and no one can convince me otherwise (art 13)

@thegreatsnapescape: Inktober day 2: “Worst Fear” (art 14)

@bananagege: Week 3 of Snape Appreciation Month : Snape Experimenting Alone (art 15)

@madfantasy: Spauldron (art 16)

@lifeofapottedplant: How dare you stand where he stood? (art 17)

@nazonopurinsu: The place where we met for the first time (art 18)

@kedroboiz: Early Saturday morning in the Hogwarts kitchens (art 19)

@RainFireSnowEarth: The most beautiful thing (art 20)

@RainFireSnowEarth: When my time is up (art 21)

@RainFireSnowEarth: Cowards (art 22)

@RainFireSnowEarth: One day (art 23)

@RainFireSnowEarth: Poem - Nikita Gill (art 24)

@RainFireSnowEarth: I will cry (art 25)

@RainFireSnowEarth: Poem - Lang Leav (art 26)

@RainFireSnowEarth: Strangers and Secrets (art 27)

@RainFireSnowEarth: Quote - Russell Brand (art 28)

@RainFireSnowEarth: Quote - Mandeq Ahmed (art 29)

@RainFireSnowEarth: Author - n.d (art 39)

@RainFireSnowEarth: Similar Personalities and Traits (art 40)

@RainFireSnowEarth: Different Personalities and Traits (art 41)

@RainFireSnowEarth: Similar Magical Abilities and Skills (art 42)

@RainFireSnowEarth: Different Magical Abilities and Skills (art 43)

@RainFireSnowEarth: #79 - Daily Snamione (art 44)

@RainFireSnowEarth: #82 - Daily Snamione (art 45)

@RainFireSnowEarth: #85 - Daily Snamione (art 46)

@elenianz: Layers & layers (art 47)

@semiramis-audron: Severus has been known to knife a motherfucker in his time (art 48)

Meme

@thegreatsnapescape: car salesman: *slaps Snape* (meme 1)

@potions-and-potters: Turn against the dark lord (meme 2)

@snapedefense: no (meme 3)

@ktnissevurdeen (@lvnderbrown) : What do you do? (meme 4)

@hharringtcns: B e c a u s e h e i s w o r t h i t. (meme 5)

@snapeseverus: Updog (meme 6)

@uchuu-nosuri: This is canon, right? (meme 7)

@1800areyousnappin: Snape flirting (meme 8)

Shitpost

@a-snarling-slytherin: swaying Snape around in the air (shitpost 1)

@snapedefense, @pessimistichogwarts: How Snape Haters Think The HP Books Were Written (shitpost 2)

@buffspiderman: you must join the festivities, Severus (shitpost 3)

@potions-and-potters: Severus I’m still missing your photo for this year’s faculty newsletter (shitpost 4)

@severusdefender: Level with me (shitpost 5)

@doodlebat: When you find bargain priced Dark Mark tattoos (shitpost 6)

@deathdaydungeon, @astronema-princess-of-all-evil, @xxtheforgottenonexx, @mollymcgiftens, @a-snarling-slytherin: Stage (shitpost 7)

@dungeonsblues: Is Sev a good dancer? (shitpost 8)

@lifeofapottedplant: No foolish wand waving (shitpost 9)

@thegreatsnapescape: Every time I see this comic (shitpost 10)

@thegreatsnapescape: Expectdough patronyum (shitpost 11)

@snapeseverus: Those cunning folk (shitpost 12)

@mysnarkyslytherinsecret: Snape is walking across the Great Hall (shitpost 13)

@supiprimi, @severace-snape, @bayneko, @askfordoodles, @justdrarryme, @pandas-cant-fly-ks, @thepurplewombat, @cannithebear: Ridiculously overpowered

Conspiracy theory

@tetragon4: The Headmaster Snape Conspiracy (conspiracy theory 1)

@we-built-the-shadows-here, @dungeonsblues: Ruthless Dumbledore (conspiracy theory 2)

@severit, @prosnapeblogging, @potteryet, @thegreatsnapescape: All up in their faces (conspiracy theory 3)

@thoughtsaboutsnape: Severus marries the whomping willow (conspiracy theory 4)

@severus-snape-fans394, @snapeingturtle, @snapedefense: 3 lives saved (conspiracy theory 5)

@snapeingturtle: Gay deer (conspiracy theory 6)

Peace

@snapedefense, @snapeingturtle: the incredible cellist (peace 1)

@snictionary: incel (peace 2)

@supiprimi: The saga of snevor (peace 3)

@aworldofgrey, @sevi-seviyorum, @onecolorgirl, @wormwoodandasphodel, @thepotionsmasterwife, @librarydaze, @mollymcgiftens, @saltyqrow: Sounds more intimate (peace 4)

@snalendar-snofficial, @snictionary, @severus-snape-apreciation-blog, @madfantasy, @elenianz, @thegreatsnapescape, @agalemnon, @suffer-my-displeasure, @elfarock-art, @run-and-hide21, @lcsslr, @justyouraverageshittyblogger, @captainhellaradsart, @banana-ge-ge: The Snalendar 2019 (peace 5)

Headcanon

@thesnapewecandreamof: Hiding from Madam Pomfrey (headcanon 1)

@thoughtsaboutsnape: Severus’ patronus wasn’t a doe. It was dough. (headcanon 2)

@sxvxrxssnape: facts (headcanon 3)

@severussnapeimagines: Snape being human (headcanon 4)

@deathdaydungeon: Snape’s greasy hair (headcanon 5)

@snapped-snape: Hot take (headcanon 6)

@thoughtsaboutsnape: Swole Snape (headcanon 7)

@deathdaydungeon, @thoughtsaboutsnape: Sev’ socks (headcanon 8)

@RainFireSnowEarth: Is this the DADA Classroom? (headcanon 9)

@RainFireSnowEarth: #145 - Daily Snamione (headcanon 10)

@RainFireSnowEarth: #157 - Daily Snamione (headcanon 11)

@thesnapewecandreamof: Missing (headcanon 12)

@snapeingturtle: A little sneadcanon (headcanon 13)

@prosnapeblogging: Snape’s ears (headcanon 14)

@thesnapewecandreamof, @deathdaydungeon, @raptured-night, @somuchanxietysolittletime: I Have a Question (headcanon 15)

@sevi-seviyorum, @severusdefender: Snape moves to Vegas

#the Snobels 2018

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queenofcats17 · 6 years ago

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BATIM Inktober 31

Last day and it’s Reborn. I decided to focus on Esther and Joey’s relationship since Esther’s been on my mind lately.

This is three days late, and for that I am sorry.

Most people who were friends with Esther Klein didn’t know she even had a brother. Her best friend hadn’t even known Esther had a sibling until she’d been invited to the Drew household and had seen the family portraits. She wasn’t surprised, honestly. She’d led most of her life separate from Joey. She was six years older, after all, always too old to be a proper playmate for him. She’d had expectations to meet, responsibilities to perform. By the time he’d run away from home, she’d been up to her ears in work at the law firm. Still, she remembered the day her mother had called her with cold clarity. She’d gotten home from work to find the phone ringing off the hook. She’d answered, expecting it to be a colleague from the firm who had been pursuing her relentlessly. She’d been ready to yell until she heard her mother crying on the other end. Her mother was speaking too fast, her voice clouded with tears.

“Ma, slow down,” Esther said. “I can’t understand what you’re saying.”

“It’s…It’s Joey.” Her mother sobbed. “He’s gone.”

“Gone…? What do you mean gone?”

“He ran away!”

Esther’s heart sank. Looking back, she felt like she should have seen it coming. Her parents had been worried about Joey, telling her about how angry he’d been getting, how he’d been drawing away from them. Looking back, she felt like she should have done something. She hadn’t been able to go back home to comfort her parents, so she tried to assuage their fears on the phone. Her heart was heavy when she hung up. She knew Joey’s mind had been set on art, but their parents had been worried he wouldn’t be able to live comfortably like that. Joey had evidently taken this to mean that they didn’t believe in him. He was always doing things like this. Always acting impulsively without any regard for the consequences. But she couldn’t force herself to be angry with him. She was terrified. She didn’t know where he’d go or what was going to happen. And that was petrifying.

She didn’t see her brother again for almost 20 years. By that point, he’d made quite a name for himself in the animation world. Joey Drew Studios. When the studio had opened, Esther had almost cried from relief. Her brother was safe and alive. And best of all, he was making cartoons like he’d wanted. She allowed herself to believe, for a time, that he was happy. But this only lasted for so long. When the rumors of bankruptcy began to circle, she paid a visit to her brother’s studio. She told no one at the office where she was going, nor did she tell Robert. But her husband knew. He always seemed to know. No one at the studio recognized her, not that she expected them to, especially since she introduced herself as Esther Klein. The employees looked nervous when she said she was a lawyer, but also resigned. She was led down to Joey’s office by a thin man with crooked glasses and dark bags under his eyes who told her he was the accountant, Grant Cohen. He assumed she was there because of the bankruptcy, and she did nothing to tell him otherwise.

“Mr. Drew, there’s someone here to see you,” Grant said when he opened the door.

“Tell them to wait.” Joey snapped. He looked to be buried under a mountain of paperwork.

“I’m not waiting.” Esther’s voice made him freeze. He looked up very slowly. Grant took one look at Joey’s face and got out, leaving the siblings alone.

“What are you doing here?” Joey’s expression was closed and guarded. There was no trace of the bright-eyed boy who had tugged on her sleeves to show her his drawings.

“I came to see you.” She replied. God, he looked so much older. She could see the beginnings of grey at his temples, mixed in with his dark brown hair. There were lines around his mouth, his eyes. He’d filled out a bit since she’d last seen him, stocky like their father. He’d grown a mustache too. It looked good. He looked like an adult. He was an adult. So why did she still think of him as that gangly kid?

“I figured.” Joey narrowed his eyes. “Why did you come to see me?”

“I missed you, Jojo.”

“Don’t call me that!” He stood up abruptly, slamming his hands on the desk. She didn’t flinch. She was used to his outbursts.

“I missed you.” She repeated. “Ma and Pa miss you.”

“It’s been 20 years. If you really missed me that much you would have found me sooner.”

“How?” She could feel her temper beginning to rise. “You ran away, Joey. You didn’t want to be found. You didn’t tell us where you were going, you didn’t tell us where you were staying, you didn’t even tell us you started this studio. Ma and Pa had to find out from the paper that you were even still alive.” She still remembered that news clipping her parents had sent her, the photo of Joey standing side by side with a man she didn’t recognize, looking happier than she’d seen him in years.

Joey grumbled something, sitting down. “What do you want Esther?”

She sighed, pulling out a check from her purse and placing it on the desk. Joey looked at her, then at the check, then back again.

“It’s not going to bite you.” Esther folded her arms. Joey snatched the check up, looking it over. His eyes widened.

“This…This is a lot of money.”

“It is.”

“Are you…giving it to me?”

“I am.”

For a moment, relief seemed to wash over her brother’s face. Then it was gone.

“You think I can’t do this.” He snarled, face transforming into a mask of rage.

“I think you’re having a hard time right now.” She chose her words carefully. “But I believe in you. I just want to give you a little help.” He scowled at her, then at the check.

“You changed your name.” He said. “Did you get married?”

“I did.” She couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Robert.

“Do you have kids?” His anger was ebbing now, curiosity peeking through.

“You have a niece and nephew, Joey.” She pulled out a photo, handing it to him. It was a family photo of her, Robert, and their two children. Rachel scowled at the camera, displeased by the dress she’d had to wear. Isaac dozed in his mother’s arms. He’d never minded getting dressed up as long as he was being held. Joey held the photo gingerly. The children in the picture were so small. The girl looked a lot like Esther, and the boy looked like the man he assumed was Esther’s husband, but with that trademark Drew dark hair.

“What are their names?” He asked quietly.

“The girl is Rachel and the boy is Isaac.” It was hard to miss the pride on Esther’s face. He’d always known she’d make a wonderful mother. Joey felt his stomach begin to twist into knots. She was like Henry. She had a family, a good job. There was no place for him in their perfect lives.

“They’re…They’re beautiful kids.” He handed the photo back to her. Esther tucked the picture back into her purse, studying his face carefully. He looked so sad.

“I’d love for you to meet them.” She said. Joey’s eyes shifted away from her. He pursed his lips, folding his hands on the desk.

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I just can’t.”

“That’s not an answer, Joey,” Esther said flatly. “Why can’t you come to meet them?”

“There’s no place for me in your perfect life.” Joey shook his head, a touch of bitterness entering his voice. “You’re some big-shot lawyer. I’d be a disgrace if you introduced me to any of your friends.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “As if I’d ever be friends with someone who would think that of you.” The people at the firm who spoke disparagingly about Joey and his cartoons were not the kind of people she liked to associate with. Elitist assholes who looked down on her and the people she was close to.

“You’d eventually become ashamed of me.”

“Joey.”

“You’d throw me out eventually. As soon as I do something you don’t like, you’ll just pretend you’re not related to me.”

“I would never do that to you,” Esther said softly. She was honestly hurt that he thought she’d do something like that to him.

“You will.” Joey looked up at her, his expression hard and his eyes cold. “You’re just like everyone else.” Esther stared at him for a moment before her expression hardened as well.

“You want to wallow in self-pity? Fine.” She said, turning away. “But don’t come crawling back to me when this whole thing blows up in your face.”

“I don’t need your pity!” Joey stood up again, hands on his desk. “You never believed in me anyway! None of you ever did! But I’ll show you!”

“I hope you drown in ink!” She stormed out of the office and up the stairs. The employees whispered as she passed, saying something about how Joey had pissed off another lawyer. Grant shot her an apologetic look as she passed his office. She drove him, going upstairs once she returned and curling up on her bed. Robert came to join her a few minutes later.

“I’m guessing it didn’t go great.” He sat down beside her, rubbing her back.

“I don’t even recognize him anymore.” She muttered. “What happened to my brother?” She felt on the verge of tears. Esther didn’t like crying. When she’d been young, bullies had called her crying a sign of weakness. Unless she trusted someone, she didn’t want to cry in front of anyone.

“It’s going to be okay.” Robert pulled her into his lap, stroking her hair. “We’ll figure this out.”

There were many times in the years following that where Esther wondered what it would have been like if she’d been able to talk Joey down, if her children had been able to grow up with their uncle. Maybe she could have saved his employees from the fates they’d suffered. But she’d been so angry at him after that conversation at his office that she hadn’t gone back for a long time. And when she did…It was too late. Her brother had died a long time ago. In his place, there was only a monster. And Esther felt she’d helped to create that monster.

#bendy and the ink machine #fanfiction #batim inktober #joey drew #esther drew #esther klein #robert klein

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timesorceror · 7 days ago

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Inktober Dreamling [Day 18 - Ghost]

This was the first drabble that really spiraled out into an AU that I could possibly write in the future, and the general progression goes a bit like this...

Dream isn't Dream of the Endless, not exactly, but he's not properly dead, just disconnected from his body

Hob is something something psychically sensitive? But not like a full medium. He’s just really aware of spirits and stuff and is just trying not to die

whatever Dream is, he can be used as a kind of power source for spells, which was why he was being kept there

as he and Hob are trying to figure out what Alex had done to keep him trapped and what spells they were using him to power, some soft Dreamling happens

when Hob is finally able to get Dream back in his body (maybe idk after some confrontation with Corinthian?) Dream introduces Hob to Death

Hob unintentionally insults Death like in canon, the whole ‘I could grant his wish’ exchange happens (because I think it’s funny if it happens at the end, and Dream wants Hob to live as long as he will)

happily ever after (and maybe a smutty happy ending too)

And of course, the thing you came for: the drabble.

Enjoy; I know the folks who follow my creator thread in the Mr. Sadman Discord server enjoyed it, which was why I even wrote down the literal plot points to begin with, lol.

Hob knew something was wrong the instant he entered the house.

He'd been having visions of the Burgess place for a while, but while they had felt urgent, there hadn't been much to go on. Just a vague image of a glass sphere encased in iron accompanied by intense feelings of lonliness and despair.

So, after a few months of the same damn visions plaguing his dreams and keeping him from even a hint of a good night's sleep, Hob had finally thrown together a plan and dug out his break-in kit and go bag (in case the break-in went bad, of course).

But he didn't expect to find the place... bespelled. There was truly no other word for it in his vocabulary. And he had a rather large one since his gift had required him to become a voracious reader if he wanted to stay alive. Still, the house was not deserted, not exactly.

Bodies littered the hallways and rooms of the mansion as Hob walked through it, but every person he knelt to check was still alive, or at least they had a pulse and they were breathing. Steady, heavy breaths like those of a deep sleeper.

Mostly everyone wore the same uniform; guards, if Hob had to guess. Though there was one room that looked like the master bedroom with an older gentleman still in the bed, and on the floor crumpled like a ragdoll was a black man of about the same age. Old man Alex and his partner, Hob thought. The air felt soupy and still, as though Hob were walking through a soporific fog of chamomile and Night Nurse. It clung to his skin and sweat, reaching into his lungs and making him dizzy even when he paused to take a break a time or two as he explored. Hob desperately wanted to leave, but he had a feeling that his visions wouldn't stop until he found the source of what happened here.

It was only by happenstance that he noticed the door. It was slightly ajar, and didn't look any different from any of the other doors except for the strange glittering explosion marks streaked across the floor.

When he knelt to touch it, Hob found that the marks were made from finely ground sand. What the fuck had happened here?

Hob descended the stairs and found a short hallway at the bottom. The floor, ceiling, and walls all covered in the fine, powdery sand that Hob wisely decided not to touch more of until he knew more about the source of the phenomenon in the house. But more interesting than the sand covered walls were the double doors at the end of the hall that had been flung outward by a great force of some kind... and the shock of jet black hair that spilled out from around the edge.

When Hob got close enough, he could see that it was another body... but not uniformed like the others.

The figure was beautiful. Deathly pale and heartbreakingly gaunt, but arrestingly beautiful. They were dressed in a simple long-sleeved shirt and denim jeans.

And they weren't breathing.

Hob felt a gasp punch its way out of his sluggish lungs as he fell into a crouch beside the body and felt for a pulse. There wasn't one, but Hob could feel a dull thrum of power running through the skin like a live wire that shocked Hob the moment he touched it. Hob swore, and then his eyes caught on something in the room beyond. A broken cage of familiar iron, with pulverized shards of glass painting the room with a sea of stars.

"You came," a voice breathed softly to Hob's right, startling him out of the trance he'd been in since he'd entered. He looked over sharply, and could do little but gape at what crouched next to him in the entryway.

A ghost sat next to him, expression weary, yet vaguely hopeful.

"I wasn't sure you heard," said the ghost, whose shocking bright blue eyes matched the dull sapphires of the pale stranger on the floor. "But no one else could hear me," they continued, "and I am in desperate need of your assistance."

#inktober #inktober2024 #dream of the endless #morpheus #hob gadling #dreamling #the sandman #ghost #timesorcerordraws #timesorcerorwrites #ficlet #sandman ficlet

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activatingaggro · 6 years ago

Text

scared to let your guard down

INKTOBER #4: DEFIANCE | 9686 WORDS

RICCIN KAYATA | ~9 SWEEPS / 20 YEARS OLD

PHERES DYSSEU | ~9 SWEEPS / 19 YEARS OLD

cw: discussion of age gaps and resulting consent issues, abuse, use of smoking sopor for anxiety in last chunk

"You lookin' for a pale? Don't worry about it," Cu Chul had told you. "I've got it fucking covered."

This is not what you'd thought she'd meant.

The apartment you're lounging around is in set up - well, not like a pale bordello. You've been plenty of places, but you've never been in one of those, no matter how many insinuations Dysseu makes. Nah, it just looks like a plain ol' fucking apartment, really. It's the same as half the buildings in Lang Kheh. The ceilings are low and wooden, with rafters exposed and cobwebs plagueing the corners. The room's smokey with the scent of roasting fish, and the stink of the docks from down below keeps wafting in through the cracked windows. The furniture's faded in the way that everything is, here: it doesn't matter how many doors you have, or shutters, or clothes. The salt always seems to find a way to bleach it.

It looks perfectly normal, save for the fucking floor. And that's only on account of the fact...

"Cu," you hiss, doing your best to keep your ears aloft. Your heart is in your throat, racing away like a rabbit on a track. You can practically feel each jump of your pulse. "Cu!"

She looks back at you from where she's chattering with the host, some green-eyed sprat who scarcely reaches your shoulder. He's got the sort of face that'd make your eyes linger, usually - the kind of horns that're made to take a grip - but you've got bigger issues. The room’s cute. Even you can admit that. The folks are cute, too.

Significantly less cute is the way some of ‘em are flat-out piling.

At first glance, it just looked like your regular sort of party. But nah. The two tealbloods snuggling on the couch aren’t necking, for all that one’s got her face pressed in close to his cheek. They’re whispering, their fingers laced together, and it was only when her shoulders hitched that you’d caught those were tears on her face, not fucking highlights.

Cu gestures at you sharply to wait.

“Cu!” you yowl, louder this time. There’s an indigo and a rust braiding hair on the countertop. Every third strand, her hand goes skirting across the nape of his neck. When you jerk your chin towards ‘em for Cu to see, he actually fucking chirrs, harsh enough you can feel the vibrations through your feet, and he leans into it.

Your face’s as orange as the sun itself. You look away like you’ve been slapped, ears pulling back, and Cu -

- all she does is fucking laugh at you, lip curling like you’re being fucking silly. “I told you I’d get you piled,” she says, all full of scorn. “Cousin, you wicked nonbeliever, did you motherfucking doubt?”

“This ain’t a pile, girl!” You have to cant your voice low. The olive’s eyebrows have raised so high, they might as well be hidden in his hair, and he’s stepped back neatly into the crowd. When Cu realises he’s moving, she actually shifts to watch him go, her mouth twisting down into a mouie, and it takes you clearing your throat for her gaze to turn back to you. “This’s a fucking - fucking -”

She sighs. Then she steps in close, reaching up to grasp your braid and tug your face towards her. “Cousin,” she drawls, soft and warm, even as her cool breath puffs against your cheek. It’s honey-sweet, in a way that speaks to fucking pre-gaming that she didn’t have the grace to share. “Chillax. ‘course it ain’t one pile. How the fuck you gonna find somebody if it’s one pile? You think I’m haulin’ you out here, dragging your candy-ass all the way across the region, for one pile? You think I’m lookin’ to bend your knees and haul you into mine?”

“Nah, cuz. You wanted a pile, and I did you a good one. I gave you half a fucking dozen of ‘em.” She gives your braid a tug. “Now,” she says, “it’s up to you what you do with ‘em.”

Then she turns. “Stygia!” she calls out. “Stygia, babe, where’d you wander off to?”

What you want to do with them, as it turns out, is one hell of a question.

It’s not a pale orgy. Fuck all if it doesn’t feel like one, though. There’s folks curled around each other on every other inch of the floor, sometimes with soft shit under ‘em, more oft not. Someone’s brought out snacks, and stacked the table full of ‘em - but when you take a sniff, they’re straight all the way through, without even so much as a drop of nectar to their name. And it’s hard to be willing to linger, when there’s two fools feeding each other crackers right off of it, fangs brushing fingertips in a way that makes your throat fill with bile.

Nah, it’s just a fucking cuddlefest, is all. It’s more’n a dozen goddamn strangers, linking hands and rubbing cheeks like they’ve got no need to pay mind to all the eyes watching. Once you’re past the disquiet of it all, you can see why Cu hauled you here, and how she’d figure things would go. When you drift over to an empty bagchair, one with just enough sopor to let your breath hang free from your chest when you lay down in it, it chills you out enough that you can actually watch.

And there’s plenty of strangers like you here, trolls with eyes wide enough to see the blood-hue curling the exteriors. They roam like wayward notes across the chorus line, trying to find any place they might fucking fit in. And for the most part, it works. Is there anything more pathetic than a lost soul? You’ve always fallen for the wrong end of the square, for that. Some of the drifters are handsome enough, but there’s nothing about these sorry fucks that makes you want to lay palm on their faces, of all places.

Plenty disagree, though. And there’s something roughly satisfying about the way folks look as they start up conversations and split off into their piles. But you don’t get it. You’ve never gotten pale, when it comes down to it. What lure is there in the cup of a palm? What reprieve can be found in something so fucking mild as another fuckers words? When you’ve been upset, the only thing that’s ever soothed you is distraction. You bury yourself in work, or in song, or in chasing down Kindra’s ferrety ass, burying your body in his couch and your face in his videos. Talking’s always just dragged for you, like sandpaper across your very soul. Even with Vide, even in ash, where every words sharp with contempt, and every question you ask is done with an eye towards the solution --

-- well. You can do ash. It’s just harder to let folks do you, you guess.

But even trolls that look like they’re having that problem are getting past it. Oh, you’ve watched pale vids. Who the fuck hasn’t? You and Sipara watched Raphae’s entire catalogue, once, shrieking and shoving every time he’d come onto the screen, just so you’d fucking know. But this’s different. In the videos, everything’s always so fucking fake. You don’t need to have ever touched a pile to know when shit’s too theatrical, too expressed, too fucking genuine to ever be real.

Folks here are hesitant. It’s not just about touch: it’s about asking questions, and your gaze’s especially caught on a little teal and jade, sitting across from each other in the corner. Their legs are folded. Their hands are prim. There’s no room for their knees to so much as fucking brush, or their hands to touch, and every move is deliberate. You read the twitch of the jades lips as she asks if she can touch the other’s hand.

And when the teal murmurs no, she slides into the next question, as seamlessly as if the rejection never even struck her as a bother. They’re talking lusii. They’re talking family, the jades crechemate down in the caverns that ain’t clade nor quad, and it feels almost like you shouldn’t be watchin’ this. There’s something intimate about it, more, even, then the teals curled around each other like they’ll die if separate. But you can’t bring yourself to look away.

Not until someone nudges your boot sharp, and someone says, amused: “- like what you’re seeing?”

The troll standing in front of you is short, and round, and rust, from head to toe. Her skin’s so pale that it’s flushed in places with the colour, mottled hydrant bright at the tip of her ears, and her eyes are almost a perfect match to Sipara’s. So’s her face, and her hips, and --

-- her bust isn’t. Blessed fucking Messiahs, her bust ain’t, and thank every saint in history for that. But then you rip your eyes right the fuck back up, because goddamn if it isn’t that kind of a party, no matter how impressive it is. “Just taking in the views, sister,” you drawl, lolling your head back, just to ensure that your gaze stays where it ought. “Tryin’ to get a feel for this shit. Wicked crazy, yeah?”

“I don’t know. I like it.” She shrugs, clasping her hands in front of her and rolling them to stretch, palms-out. She’s got tiny-ass hands. Soft as shit, from the looks of it: she ain’t the type of troll to work, you take it, at anything worth workin’. “They’re fun. Is this your first time?”

“Yeah.” You pause. It seems like you ought to say more, from the way she’s looking at you, so you add: “- boss said I ought to come, so I did.”

She blinks at you. “.. your boss took you to a pale party? Really? That’s, uh -” With a snort, she rolls her shoulders up, glancing away. “That’s kind of weird, sorry,” she admits, amused. “And, like, kinky? Wow. My boss just asks if we want, like, lunch, but I guess this is, like, also kind of like work place bonding --”

“It’s not like that,” you snap, jolting up hard enough that the bag nearly spills behind you. The idea of you and Cu in a pile - you’d be lying if that horrifying thought hadn’t struck you, when you’d first walked in, but no. Absolutely fucking not. The thought of piles strike you as nasty at the best of times. Piling with one of the priests -

Chiloa had said that voodoos aren’t there for fucking therapy. They’re a punishment. They’re a way of keeping the population under control, and for correcting bad behaviours, and that’s the reason they had no call to work on indigoes. You’d scoffed at him then, still fresh off the high of Raphae fixing your shit, but - you can almost see what he means when you think of crawling into a pile with one of the clowns. Of the risk that they might just reach past your cheek, and straight into your goddamn mind.

Cu would do that. Cu wouldn’t even hesitate, anymore than Raphae ever did with Ico, or with Iphige, or shit, probably even with you.

The rustblood was laughing, at first, but her mirth dies in her throat as she takes in your expression. It must be doing something queer, because her expression softens. “Aw, man. Wait, I’m sorry, that came out wrong. Are you -”

She pauses, wets her lips. “Do you actually, like, want to be here?” she asks, gentle, and she watches you for your response.

It’s a good question, really, because you don’t quite know the answer.

The silence sits. She’s content to just watch you, for all that there’s unease building in her shoulders, the lines of her neck. If you said no, would she go and fight Cu on your account? This little slip of a troll, with her flat orange eyes and her frame that’s more fat than muscle?

“.. I didn’t get hogrustled,” you say, and it’s close enough to a lie that it sits sour on your tongue. So you pat the bag next to you instead. “But shit’s a story, if you want to talk about it.”

As far as solicitations go, you haven’t said shit that stilted since you were four fucking sweeps and still tongue-tied over Sipara goddamn Nzinga. It’s a marvel that she doesn’t turn her back and walk the fuck away. You would’ve! What sort of an image do you make right now, sprawled the fuck out on this bag, your limbs askew and your face every shade of discomfort? It’s not the sort of sight you’d go for. There’s being pitiable, and then there’s being pathetic, and you’ve never swung towards the latter. There’s nothing to make your nook wither shut like a goddamn pityparty.

But this ain’t about bulges, or nooks, or anything close to the either of ‘em. And this girl’s better at remembering that shit than you, because she cocks her head to the side, eyes considering, before she takes a seat next to you on the bag. She’s small enough that she fits perfect against the crook of your arm, her hip a dead ringer for the curve of your ribs. And she’s warm enough that you actually lean in.

“You’re cold,” she says, surprised, shifting in nearer. “What caste are you? And what’s your name, not-hogrustled?”

“Riccin Kayata,” you say, and that earns you another laugh afore you can continue.

“I said your name! Not your age, chrome, and ID. I’m Harley. Harley Boston, if we want to be formal. And, for the record, I’m ten. You’re..” She pauses, tilts her head to the side. Her hair’s long, thick, and heavy enough that it’s pulling what ought to be tight curls loose. The cascade of it on your shoulder ought to be a little much. There ain’t a fucking purpose to this. You’re not getting laid.

But it’s nostalgic. The scent of coconut and shea’s familiar as heartache to you, and you don’t bother to try not breathing it in. “You’re nine,” she tries, squinting. Then she reaches out, presses her hand to your neck, slow enough that it’s a question.

Her thumb brushes the steady pulse of your neck, gentle as a kiss. “And teal?” she hazards. “I don’t think you’re jade, sorry.” Her fingers trail the line of your throat. “You’re a little big to be a jade.”

“Nine’s right. And castes as good a guess as any, sister,” you say, because ain’t it true? It’s hard to say you’re yellow. What is yellow, save the chrome in your veins and the spark in your eyes, when you don’t have the colour, you don’t have the size, you don’t even have the heat of your goddamn peers?

You don’t have the fucking life of a yellow. You’ve spent the last nine sweeps swathed in blue, and there’s barely been a night you haven’t played the part of one. You’ve tried playing yellow. You’ve tried wearing your chrome, and flashing your symbol, and it’d felt like a lie, all the way until you’d re-dabbed your paints.

Ain’t saying

“We’ll call you a cusp, and be done with it,” she decides. “I’m a cusp, too, y’know? Brown and maroon, right dab in the center. The cavern couldn’t decide what I was properly, so they just said -”

“Might as well round up?”

“Exactly!” Her smile’s full of fangs, and - oh. The sight of ‘em makes you pause, because you thought they’d be sharp, but nah. They’re small and nubby, uneven in their spacing, not near as flat as Pheres’s, but coming awful near. “How’d you guess?”

.. of course they’d be nubby. The fuck were you thinking? (You know what you were thinking - of who - and you could hate her for it.) “Just a guess,” you lie, because apparently, it’s just becoming a goddamn habit.

Harley doesn’t seem to notice. She doesn’t seem to know, and that’s for the best, really, ‘cause you’re sick enough with the knowledge of it. Is this what a pile is? Flub after flub comin’ out of your mouth, ‘cause you’ve got the wrong kind of girl stuck in your fucking head? This ain’t Sipara, no matter how close she looks, or how familiar she smells. This’s Harley, angling for a different kind of quadrant already, and it’s the rankest sort of disrespect you’d ever mix up the two.

To her, and to yourself. You’re better than quadrant smearing. You’re better than a whole lot of things, and weren’t you raised to always keep that shit in mind?

“Tell me about yourself,” you tell her, half an order, and at least she’s happy enough to oblige.

She tells you about her lusus, and her quadrants, and her problems back hive as she traces the lines in your throat. The girl can’t hold the fuck still, but you can’t complain, not when the warmth of her blood is seeping into you like moonlight. “And that’s how we met! Unfortunately, like.. my kismesis still hates my matesprit, even though it’s been perigees,” she admits, “because I think they used to pail? But they won’t tell me. I think, like, they’re worried I’ll get jealous. Why would I get jealous? That’d be stupid..”

And at least, this sort of thing, you know how to respond to. It’s like creche natter. Folks know you’re always in and out of relationships. You’re a fucking expert on the ways trolls work, and it’s easy to dredge up the sort of responses she’s after. What you’re sure she’s after, because she’s collapsing more ‘n more bonelessly against your side, and she’s letting you wind your fronds into her hair, playing with the oil-sleek curls and tugging at the strands. Between the warmth of her, and the smell, and the steady, breathy thrum of her purr once your claws hit her hornbed..

It’s relaxing. Oh, you’re still stiff, but it’s not as bad as you figured it ought to be. It’s downright pleasant, in a sleepy sort of way, which’s why you’re surprised when she lifts her head and says, all at once: “- oh, but we’re not talking about you.”

You blink at her. She was tucked into your side. But now she sits up in a waft of jojoba, shrugging her hair over her shoulders as she leans forward, braces her hands on her knees. “I want to hear about you, too, Riccin,” she says, earnest. Her ears flick up. They’re long, angular things, rounded to your points, just as familiar as the rest of her. “If you want to talk about yourself.”

You know how a pile works. It ain’t like you’ve got much to talk about, but you know how one works. And sitting here - relaxed, almost, listening to her purr - it almost feels like it could work. “Alright,” you say. Isn’t the point of this that you’re supposed to try? Ain’t this why Cu’d hauled you out here? You’re not some rustcushion, to handle her business and refuse to let her at your own.“Alright, girl. Where the fuck do I start?”

A moment later, she’s climbing on top of you.

Harley tucks herself into your lap, neat as any meowbeast. Sitting like this, her shoulder fits neatly into the slope of your ribs. Her chin settles into your collarbone, her cheek cushioned against the hollow of your throat. When you swallow, she’s near enough that it’s fucking hard - and maybe this is serendipidity, the perfect way her body fits against yours, and the way you can’t seem to ignore that. “Start at the beginning,” she demands. “I want to hear about your pupahood! Your adolescense. Like, your awful, weird pre-molt sweeps. Your darkest secrets! Oh, don’t choke, I’m just, like, joking, I’m - ah -”

You spit out a chunk of her hair, clearing your throat, and then you push her head down, gentle, so the masses farther from her face. She shrieks, jolting back when she realises, then pivots to face you. Her face’s gone as bricky as a stop sign, practically shining in the dark. “Oh no,” she wails. “I’m so sorry, holy shit.” She’s going redder and redder, moment by moment. If anymore blood comes flooding to her face, you think, it’ll just up and explode.

So you do the only thing you can think of. You reach up and rest your palm on her cheek, gentle as you can. “Shoosh,” you say, a little rough, but maybe it works anyway, because she stills, staring at you.

You haven’t really stopped to appreciate Harley’s face before. It’s all freckles and pigment, skin pale enough to set all of that to stark relief. Her eyes, even wet, are bright as a sign outside. She’s adorable, is the thing, from the tip of that button nose to the soft jab of her chin. It’s striking you that she might be one of the cutest trolls you’ve ever fucking laid eyes upon, and she’s soft, too. In her features, to her neck, to the hands she presses on your shoulders, to the body she’s got curled against yours.

She leans in close, dropping her forehead against yours. This close, you can’t stop thinking of all the ways she’s pressed against you. That bust, you have to admit, remains fucking amazing. “You’re so nice,” she says, voice hitching in a laugh. “Even if I did just make you eat hair. Especially when! Thanks, dude. And, like, despite the choking attempt, I wasn’t lying! I do want you to tell me everything.”

“Girl,” you say, “I’ll tell you anything.”

Because you would. Shit, you will. Pressed up against you like this, you can’t think of a single way you’d ever fucking deny her. You’ve always liked softer trolls! You can see the beauty in all sorts - you have, you’ve never been real picky in your partners. But Sipara was your first quadrant. She’s always been your most distinctive one, and some nights, when you see a troll shaped just right, it feels like she ruined you on everything else.

On everyone else, because Harley looks close enough that -

- that -

Oh, fuck.

You don’t mean to be rough when you push her off! She yelps all the same, her ears yanking down like she’s been shot. “Um!” she says, loud, but your face’s heating up to match the chrome in hers. Oh, fuck. You’re not - but nah, you apparently are. Mind over matter, when push comes to shove, apparently means jack and goddamn shit. “Hey! Riccin! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” When your voice cracks, you wish you could rip it out and strangle yourself with it. In lieu of that, your face just darkens all at once, flooding with the ugliest shade of goddamn gold this side of the spectrum as you turn on your heel, away from her. Oh, god, you’re a quadrant smearer. You’re a fucking deviant. Leave some room for the Messiahs, Chiloa’d always said, but you never -

“I’m fine! I just - I - I need to go,” you blurt out, and you flee.

There’s three bathrooms, and the first you find, you bolt inside and slam the door shut.

You wash your face with the coldest water you can manage, like that’ll do anything to still the blood flooding it. You catch the back of your neck, too, and then, upon consideration, you splash water on the rest of you too.

And then you splash colder water on the rest of you, just to make sure. You don’t know how the fuck your bulge got so interested in a goddamn pile, no matter how warm the girl crawling on you was, but you’re not dealing with it right now. It can just join the list of things that you ain’t dealing with, like the fact you can’t stop thinking of Sipara’s fucking face.

You hate this. You hate this entire fucking quadrant. It ain’t like you need Cu to leave: you could just go, right now, and nobody would ever be the wiser. Nobody’d ever care. Go try pale, everyone’d told you, and you did! You’d tried it, and you’d proven you’re not anything more than a fucking quadrant smearing fuck, too stupid for quadrants, too stupid to remember that there’s a difference between paling and pailing.

You don’t see why anybody would ever want to do this shit. It’s stupid, and it’s complicated, and you just -

When someone knocks on the door twice, you don’t bother to give more than a snarl. It cracks open all the same, and when you don’t sound off again, it pushes all the way, because of course you forgot to lock it. ‘course you did!

The fellow in the doorway’s just scarcely smaller than you, just big enough that he has to turn his chin up to see you, but not so huge it feels like a threat. His eyes are soft and heavily lidded, with lashes dank with ink. Under them, the colour’s purple, and his face’s bare.

‘course he’s a faithless wretch. Have you ever met a fellow you liked that wasn’t? And you do like him, you think, just from the way he’s looking at you. He’s soft-lipped as a kitten, his ears tilted back in the most wretched kind of acquiescence. Ain’t ever done anything for you, motherfuckers scrapping for your attention, but there’s something to be said, isn’t there, in this sort of wordless request? “Hey, dude,” he says, and his ears tilt, apologetic enough to match his words. “Um. Sorry to interrupt, but, like.. you okay? Couldn’t help but see, like, you seem kind of stressed.”

“Kind of stressed,” you repeat back, and his lip quirks up.

“Maybe stress’s an understatement? I’ve been to a few of these, but..” He’s all lean-limbed and sharp-edged, gentleness wrapped up in a bag full of knives. It’s a queer combination, but something about it feels comfortable in a way you don’t quite grok. When the light catches his horns, thin and high in the fluorescent light, part of you balks --

-- but the warmth in your chest ain’t got nothing to do with that kind of fondness, this time around, and there’s nothing in the planes of his face that sets you to thinking of Dysseu. Nah. Motherfucker’s gray-eyed and young, with cheeks just round enough to leave a name unspoken at the tip of your tongue. “II don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody straight up bolt before,” he says, gentle.

If life was a pale porno, you think, this would be the defining moment: him, standing in the doorframe of the bathroom, sun-bright against the dim of the room behind him. You, half-lounging over the sink, water still dripping down off your nose, watching him through the mirror. There’s a sort of distance to be found in the abstract of him watching you, ‘n you watching him, all distorted through the heavy lense of the glass. You don’t want ‘em touching you. But maybe you could talk, him leaning against the far wall and you sticking to this one, keeping to the mirror.

Keeping facing the mirror. You fucking hate bodies sometimes.

His face’s soft. His voice is easy. His hands are long-fingered and soft. When he lifts one up, palm bare, and places it ever so carefully to the back of his neck, the gesture’s so calculated to draw the eye that you have to fucking admire it.

Maybe you could almost stand a pacifying touch, if it came from hands like those - but his claws are short and blunt. Kindra always takes care of his claws. They’re meticulously filed and polished. They look fucking refined, with no rough edges, and no cuticles running astray. This brother looks sloppy in comparison.

If some motherfucker can’t even take care of himself, how the fuck do they expect you to let them try to take care of you?

“I’m fine,” you say, clipped, and that easy smile falters just a touch.

“Alright! Well, if you want to talk, let me know.” He pauses. “I hope you feel better,” he says, earnest enough that it just misses pointed, and he pulls the trap door shut behind him as he goes.

This time, you lock it.

Twenty minutes later, you decide you can’t call Kindra.

You just can’t. What the fuck would he think of you? Brother practically fainted when you’d pulled out the auricular pale videos, and that’d all been sound: some girl shooshing in your ear, someone rustling a bag of chips, someone pretending they’re brushing out your hair or scraping you off the concrete. When you and Sipara had watched Raphae’s filmography, he’d only lasted until the first piling scene, and then he’d shrieked like he’d been fucking shot. He hadn’t been able to look your clademate in the eye for perigees, never mind fucking Shepherd.

If you told him you were at a party, he’d want to know what sort. If you told him that you were at a fucking cuddle party, there’d be questions. And if he found out why you just fled the goddamn pile he’s been pushing you towards --

You groan, burying your face in your hands.

There’s only one other person you can call.

Pheres’s muggy when he answers the phone, five calls in a row. “You been drinkin’?” you bark, and you can practically hear him startle.

“No!” Messiahs fucking above, a brother gets so defensive. He should, the little lush. “Why would I be doing that?” he says, waspish. “Honestly! I have hobbies, Riccin. And I was on a date.”

You’ve seen the sort of trolls he goes after. You roll your eyes towards the ceiling, mouthing a curse as you slouch back against the sink. If you close your eyes, with the phone against your ear, the din in your soundflaps almost makes him sound like he’s in the room with you. “What, a good date?”

“.. no,” he admits. “They’re a bit of a bore. And they’re old. I don’t know how I used to do it! Or - no, that’s not fair. They’re only fifteen sweeps..”

“Then they can hit sixteen. I gotta steal you for a bit, little rust.” He makes a noise like he’s going to protest, so you drop your voice, add in that plainative kind of purr that’s always snatched his attention right to you: “- it’s an emergency.”

Sure enough, it works.

Two minutes later, you almost wish it fucking hadn’t.

Pheres has to be the most expressive fucker you know. You don’t need pictures to know what he’s up to: you can hear his eyebrows raise, in a queer sort of way, as he leans forward. Is there a cord twining around his finger? Nah, you decide. It’s like as not his hair. “You’re at a pale orgy,” he says, marveling like this is the best gift you’ve ever fucking given him. “And you’re telling me, Riccin? Really? Heavens! I know you’re a little, ah - mm - adventurous, but isn’t this.. a little much? Even for you?”

“Like you ain’t done worse,” you sniff. There’s some regret in your pan! But not much. Pheres’s contempt is an easy sort of comfort. Poor brother: it’s hard being that small, you think, and you know there’s never been naught personal in his constant fucking teething. “Twice over, fucker.”

“I have not!”

“Really?” You laugh. “Really? You gonna play that on me, little rust? ‘cause, shit. Last I checked, you were still dressing up as a heiress, brother, and playing out all sorts of fucked up -”

His breath catches. Then the phone clatters. There’s a clap of air right over the speaker, like he dropped it, and - yeah, motherfucker did, because there’s the clatter. Claws scrabbling on plastic. Then:

“We’re not talking about that!” he shrills, several octaves higher than you like to deal with.

There goes the regret. There’s something so satisfying about getting him riled like this. You could’ve gone flush for this boy, you think, if he’d ever been willing to fucking commit. “No shit, Dysseu,” you purr. “I’m talking about it. You’re shrieking.”

“I will hang up --”

“Shoosh,” you mock, and this time around, the sound comes almost natural. And the spluttering he makes in response soothes all the feathers you didn’t even know were fucking lifted. “Little rust, I am at a goddamn party, getting up to all sorts of sin. You tryin’ to hedge in on this? Get a little pacification? Because my, oh my, I just don’t know if I’m ready for that sort of goddamn commitment 'tween the two of us --”

The hollow ring of the dial tone really, in hindsight, shouldn’t have surprised you at all.

At least he picks up when you call back. “If you try and get - get - raunchy with me,” he snaps, all ruined dignity dressed up in a wet cat’s sulk, “then I will hang up again! See if I don’t!”

“Nobody’s gonna get raunchy, brother.” Soothing Pheres’s easy. All it takes is the right tone, really. You’ve never met a troll long for serenity the way he does. “And I’ll set aside the teasin’. I just..”

He longs for serenity, and he’s good at bringing it. You’ve seen the way he’s hauled that feral of his under his thumb, and Dauths, and Nzinga, and every other scoundrel he’s ever encountered. He puts on his faces, and he says whatever folks need to hear, and then he cleans up the pieces afterwards. It’s the sort of thing that ought’ve netted him more than dates.

It’s the thing that has, but it’s no wonder Dysseu can’t keep a quadrant. Motherfucker’s like a caterpillar: if you want to get to the soft bits, you got to reach between all the thorns. It’s the sort of personality that only appeals ‘til the first time somebody gets stabbed.

But your skin’s always been too rough for his thorns. “It is an emergency,” you say, letting your voice drop towards a chirr. “Can you help?”

He only hesitates for a moment. “.. I was getting tired of them, anyway,” he decides. “Give me a moment.”

Ten minutes later, there’s wind in the phone and he’s walking. “So you wanted to get piled?”

“Maybe.” You’re fumbling in your pocket. You’d packed a cigarette and lighter, just in case things turned out wretched, and - there! Dried sopor’s never been your thing, but it’ll do in a pinch, and while the familiarity of Pheres’s nipping has been soothing most of your nerves, the first drag is what really lets you ease back against the wall, and all the way to the floor. You pull your knees up against your chest, and you breathe deep. “I don’t know what the fuck I want, Pheres. Thought shit was going well, and then it was just -”

“Sproing?” he says, helpfully, and then dissolves into titters a few seconds later. Going by his fucking hysteria, you can imagine the hand gesture he just made, for all that you wish you couldn’t. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, that was - ah - mmm. Unhelpful. That was deeply unhelpful, wasn’t it? Heavens. Don’t be so - it - well, it doesn’t mean you’re a deviant, Riccin, it just.. happens, sometimes. You didn’t follow it up by pailing her, right? I mean, you’re on the phone with me. I should you aren’t. Please tell me you’re not, actually.”

You should’ve brought something stronger than a cigarette. “I don’t quadrant smear,” you snap.

“Oh! Oh, of course you don’t. What was I thinking? Just because - well. That doesn’t mean you’re smearing. That’s what I was saying.” He pauses to take a breath. There’s still laughter chasing the ends of his words, but he’s recovering, now, and when he speaks, it’s evened out. “All you need is practice,” he says, brisk. “That’s all! So we can practice. Platonically, of course.”

“.. practice piling,” you say.

“Yes! It’s like - oh, don’t give me that tone, Riccin. And put your ears down! You look like an exclamation mark when you do that.” Begrudgingly, you drop your ears, and take another drag of your cigarette. “It’s like - oh - practicing pailing, or kissing, or anything else. It’s perfectly normal. It doesn’t mean anything, it’s just.. two trolls, helping each other out.”

“Platonically,” you say.

“Platonically,” he says, cheerful. “I’ve slept with you entirely too many times for me to want to actually pap you, don’t worry.”

That’s fair enough, you decide. When has Dysseu ever fucking quadblurred? Sure, he bites, but brother bites at everyone. He’d never swung properly pitchways on you, all the times the two of you were together. And he’s got a point. You’ve fucked around with plenty of trolls without it ever actually meaning nothing. There’s been a lot of folks that you’ve tried checking serendipity against, but it’s not like it’s always been about that.

Sometimes, it’s just been about stress relief. A lot of the times, really, even if you hadn’t quite realised it at the time. “.. alright,” you say, and then he says, prompt: “- alright! So tell me about yourself. That’s how piles start, you know, typically. One of the participants has a problem, and the other solves it.”

He waits.

“.. are you going to say something, Riccin?” he prompts, and you blow your next exhale of smoke straight into the speaker. “That - whatever that was - is not an answer. Or are you saying you’re just, ah - full of hot air? That’s remarkably plausible, but that’s not really something I can solve, you know.”

“I don’t got anything personal to say,” you huff. That’s a lie. You’re batting a hundred tonight on immoral fucking behaviour, and Orpheo’d disown you in a heartbeat if he knew. Good thing you’re not plannin’ on tellin’ him. And that’s - Messiahs fucking above, that’s another goddamn lie. So you correct yourself: “I ain’t got nothing I feel like saying.”

You can practically picture Pheres’s reaction. There’s that poignant pause, like he’s hoping it’ll bait you out an answer, then he huffs. There’s a crack of static that’s probably him tossing his hair. The rustle of cloth that must be him bouncing up on his toes. Then he hits the ground, heels cracking neatly onto - is that pavement? Must be. “Fine,” he says, “then I’ll start. Did I.. well.” He pauses. For a moment, you think the phone’s gone dead.

Then he says, so casual that your ears prick: “- did I ever tell you why I hate Iconic?”

You’d caught on. The name’d come up a few times, and each time, Pheres’s been.. well. He wears his masks, but it’s easy enough to see the cracks in ‘em, if you know what you’re lookin’ for. He’s always gotten stiffer when the name came up, when he’d seen something that shade of yellow in your hive. And you knew he’d known him, back in the day.

Sipara had always refused to let you near her moirail. But she’d never taken the same precautions with Ico, and you’d heard snips and pieces of him over the sweeps, just enough to paint a picture that turned out not quite accurate. Ico’d called him a frail slip of a troll, the sort of fucker always one day from a culling. He’d said he was the sort of fickle, insipid fool that didn’t deserve more’n being paint, and he’d said he’d chased after pails like he didn’t realise he belonged in them.

But Ico’s always been nothing but a mean streak, and you’d known it even then.

“Nah,” you say, and he exhales.

“Right! Well. I hate him, because -” Another pause. His breath rasps. “Well! We slept together. Back before he -- well. Before he -”

“- wnet on his murder spree?”

“- yes. That.”

Ico and Pheres is.. you don’t know how to turn over that thought. Something about it sticks. But when you think of his cavern-brooding matesprit from back in the night, with his long hair and the halberd covered in blood.. “Flush,” you say, taking a drag.

“Ah - no. Pitch,” he murmurs, and you choke on your cigarette.

He waits patiently while you splutter, your coughs echoing through the bathroom and his receiver. It takes longer to recover than you’d like. Your stomach’s curling in on itself, and there’s bile rising in your throat, more than just the burn of the sopor going down your windpipe. You were never a proper auspistice, the way that Sipara was. You couldn’t handle Ico, the way she did, and so you never really tried.

He’d never hurt you. He’d never have hurt Sipara, either - up until the fall of Wisdom, that was the only fucking thing you’d ever been certain of towards him. But it’d only ever been you. He was cruel to Raphae with the same ease that he breathed, and he and Iphige treated each other like their presence only opened up old wounds.

And his pitches..

Sipara’d always stopped him from culling them, at least.

“Pitch,” you rasp. “Pheres, what the fuck?”

“And I was seven,” he says, all in a rush. “And I didn’t think - well! I thought he was attractive, and we could be quadrants, maybe, and he’d be less - him, if we were. All the things pupas think, really, because I was seven and seven eighths, and he was ten, and - everyone was older, but they were nicer, usually, after. If I provided a service. The right sort of service. So why wouldn’t he be? And -”

He inhales, a little unsteadily. “It didn’t change anything. He just - took advantage, and told me I was still cullbait, after,” he says, brittle bright. “Just to make sure I didn’t get any ideas! Isn’t that something? And now he works with me, and I have to see his face every night I’m on that campus. I wish he’d died in Wisdom. I’ve told you before - but - I’m sorry he injured your face.”

You don’t know what to do with this information.

“So!” There’s a rustle of movement. Him pushing back his hair, probably, and you can picture it in your head: him bright-eyed at some psibuggy stop, lips thin, his face pulled taut like he’s got Andora’s box clasped in his jaws. “That’s something from me, Riccin. That’s how piles go, usually. One person goes and makes a positive fool of themselves, admitting something vulnerable, and the other one says something comforting.”

“If I could split ‘em open, brother, I would,” you say, and - it’s not right, that your voice is the one going ragged. “That’s - shit, Pheres, that’s fucked up. You don’t go pailing seven sweeps.”

“Technically speaking,” he admits, “Meukit’s scarcely older than I was --”

“You’re half a sweep older’n London’s ass.” You really, really should have brought something stronger than a cigarette. You hug your knees, burrowing your face between them as best as you can. It was easy enough to go about solving problems when it was just Harley’s relationships. You don’t - how the fuck is anyone supposed to solve a problem like this?

How the fuck can anyone solve this?

But you’re not supposed to solve it. He’s opening himself up wide, baring out his soul, so you can go and practice, and he even had the grace to give you a fucking script. “Shit’s fucked up,” you rasp. “No two ways about it. He shouldn’t have fuckin’ touched you, brother. Shouldn’t have touched you, and shouldn’t have gone rattlin’ at you in the first place - not even ‘cause you were clade. Shit’s just -” Your rattlereeds are trying to kick off, blur right into your words and run ‘em ragged. “I wish I could cull ‘em for you.”

But at least Pheres sounds a little less sharp, when he answers. “.. I appreciate the thought. Ah. Sincerely.”

“Where was your ‘rail? I mean, what the fuck - Sipa didn’t know?” You’d seen Sipara at seven sweeps. She’s looked the same at seven as she does now, all rounded cheeks and pale scars, but you’ve seen pictures of Pheres, too. You’d known Ico, but..

“She didn’t know,” he says, brisk, “and you aren’t to tell her. It’s none of her business.”

“Don’t you -”

“It’s none of her business, Riccin. This isn’t a discussion.” His voice’s edging up in pitch again, bordering on something shrill, and you don’t know why. But you chirr at him all the same, ears dropping for all that he can’t see them, trying for something apologetic instead of just fucking wretched. And that’s all it takes to deflate him, same as always. “.. I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “That was. A bit brisk of me. But please don’t.”

“.. it’s your life, brother.” She didn’t know. That’s a relief, at least. Your girl’s always been a mess. But she’s never been callous, not towards her moirail, for all that she’s been cruel to the rest of you. (But Ico’d never been callous to the two of you, either, until he’d gone and let your face get gashed open.) “.. you two still talking?”

“No,” he says, steady. “Not for a perigee, now.”

Say something vulnerable and make a fool of himself, he’d said. So you open your eyes. You let your body ooze forward, slow, until you’re laying spread straight on the bathroom floor. The tiles are cold under your back. The smoke trails sopor-green up towards the ceiling, drifting in sticky strands all the way into the vents. “You know why we broke up?” you ask, setting the phone on your chest.

At that distance, his voice’s tinny. “No.”

You can count the cracks in the ceiling. They’ve got stucco in here, unlike the exposed rafters of the rest of the place. It’s old, you think. Older’n anything else about this building. “Found out one of her ex’s was in the culling pits,” you say, slow. “I was seven. So you were six ‘n a half, just ‘bout. And Sipa’d taken to ignoring me, yeah? You probably remember that. Shit, we were on the outs all the time back then, but - that was when it got real, and I thought, fuck, she’s gonna leave the program, and she ain’t ever gonna look back.”

“And I didn’t want her to go. And she said she wasn’t, but - shit, brother, you know Sipara. Better’n anybody else. You know how she is.”

“She lies like she breathes,” he admits.

“Yeah. Y’know what the church rats do? We do everything the jugs ain’t willin’ to waste their times on. We wash, ‘n we clean, ‘n we sing, ‘n we man the culling pits,” you say, and he’s gone quiet.

You watch the smoke. You listen to Pheres breath, and the sound of your own slow exhales, echoed through the phone. It’d be easy to leave it there, you think.

But pale’s about vulnerabilities. Pale’s about saying what needs to be said, not what you want, and so you say: “- so I took on culling duties for the girl, ‘n I gave Nzinga the footage, after. And she came over, and she tore just about every fucking port out of my back.”

Pheres has gone very quiet.

“It was a little fucked up,” you tell him, and you take a drag.

“I’m sorry she did that,” he finally says. “She’s always - part of it is that -” His voice’s gone strange on you. The sopor’s keeping your anxiety low, and for a moment, you think it’s that.. but nah. His voice pitches up, and then you realise he’s just laughing. “I’m starting to think - we’re all very bad at pitch.”

“Gliese ‘n me are fucking serendipitous,” you huff, but he’s laughing, each one tinged just short of hysteria, and - fuck it, you’re laughing too, too drained for much more than hysteria. The sopor’s leaving you feeling boneless, and the laughter feels like it’s reeling out the tension that’s laced itself like wires through your body, one inch at a time. “Messiahs fucking above, we’re all goddamn messes.”

“We are. Take a deep breath, Riccin. You sound like you’re choking.” He inhales, slow and deep, and you shift your breathing to match. “There,” he says. “That’s a little better. Sipara.. never mentioned that. She just said you’re dangerous.” A beat. “And you are.”

“I am,” you agree, mild. “But I’m less than she is, little rust, and we both fucking know it.”

“.. you are,” he admits. “You do know.. the important bits of pale, don’t you? Even if you’ve never had one before?” When you don’t answer, he continues. “You’re supposed to be kind. That’s the most important thing, I think. Kind, but.. to the point. You don’t enable them. You aren’t cruel, and you don’t hurt them.. but you make sure they know, when they’re doing something hurtful to themselves or others, and you let them know they can do better, and you will support them in doing better.”

“Wait, brother -”

“Please don’t interrupt me,” he says, firmer than you’ve heard him in perigees, and surprise, more than anything else, quiets you down. “Sipara.. didn’t manage that. I’m not surprised she - mauled you - because. She’s always done that, I think. I stopped her from doing it very much, physically, when I could, but.. you can’t really stop someone, if they really want to do something. She’s only.. well.” He pauses. “She’s only learned better since she met Hadean. I suppose he’s a better moirail than me, in that.”

“And you can’t be unkind, because -” All of the cracks on the ceiling keep joining up into little pits. They’re dark holes in the white of the stucco, big enough for a pinkie or a nail to slide clear on through. It looks ugly. But that’s what happens, you guess. Enough fractures, and bits of a motherfucker are just apt to fall out.

In a ceiling, or in a troll. “Ah. You know my scar?” Pheres’s brisk, matter-of-fact, despite all the shit he’s saying. “She left that back when we were five. She’d just lost her arm, and we were arguing, and.. she wanted to make a point.” You wish this wasn’t over the phone. You wish you could see his face right now, because for the first time, you don’t know what he’s thinking. His voice’s so bland and even, like -

- the first time you’d met him, when he’d thought you might cull him to make a point.

You said you were dangerous. It’s a fact. But you don’t think you’ve ever managed cruel, not for just for the goddamn sake of it, not the way Nzinga does.

“I’d provoked her,” he says, mild, like every word out of his mouth isn’t vile. “And she was hurt, and she was afraid, and she’d just lost everything for me, and she felt as if I didn’t appreciate it. So she wanted to make sure I didn’t do it again. It was unwise of me. I understood it, even then, but - you can’t do that, in pale. It doesn’t matter if you’re only five. You can’t slip, and make that sort of mistake, and.. leave someone afraid of you, or it ruins them worse than some mark on their face. It doesn’t heal.”

“You have to be kind. I think that’s the most important part of the quadrant. If you’re going to try it.. if you remember that, you should do fine. You’re not a bad troll. You can be better, but..” He laughs again, but there’s no hysteria, this time. He just sounds as tired as you do.

“Can’t we all?”

Your cigarette burns out.

It’s an unceremonious end to your high. You stub the last embers out on the edge of the sink and toss it into the disposal unit, letting the dregs of smoke trail out of your nostrils. “Folks shouldn’t hurt their moirails, Pheres,” you tell him, closing your eyes. You’re tired of staring at cracks, suddenly. “Ain’t gotta lecture me on that shit. Everybody ought to know that. Yours - are just all shit folks, that’s all. And you shouldn’t be dating a fucking fifteen sweep old, either.”

“Did you come for advice,” he sniffs, “or did you come to lecture me?”

“Welcome to the goddamn pile, brother. What can I say? Motherfucker, I pick shit up fast.” You can’t say that you wish he’d been hatched in the program like Kindra. It’s starting to settle in for you that there’s no protection there. Would Chiloa have stepped in between him and Ico, if he’d been a churchrat? Would anybody have stepped ‘tween him and Sipara? Or would it have just been a different set of indignities? “That’s all fucked up. I wish - well, shit, if fishes were wishes, we’d all have slits up to our ears. But wish it hadn’t happened.”

“It’s fine,” he lies, his voice easy, and you guess those really are just part of the pile.

You push yourself up from the floor, all too aware, suddenly, of how filthy it’s likely to be. At this rate, you’re going to have to go hive and wash your fucking scalp. How long’ve you even been down here? “So here’s my lesson plan, prof,” you drawl, scrubbing at your eyes with the back of your hand. “Since you were so kindly as to drag me through a fucking pile. Pale’s all about.. shit. You’re supposedta fucking care about them. What they’re doing, what they’re going through. And you’re supposed to keep ‘em on the right track, and support the motherfuckers all the way through that, not because you have to, or because someone’s got to, but because -”

“- because you want to. Because you love ‘em, and you want the best for ‘em, and you don’t want ‘em getting hurt. Not by anybody else. Not by fucking you,” you bite off, thinking of the groves on his face. A moirail mark, he’d told you, that first night you’d asked, and he’d let you trace the pattern along his skin. “You’re supposed to protect ‘em. And they do the same for you. It balances out. You balance each other out.”

You’ve always disliked the quadrant. But when you think of it like this.. it almost makes a sort of sense, in a way it never did before.

“And you’re not supposed to engage in conjugal affairs with them, either,” Pheres chimes up. “Or, ah, non-affairs, I suppose. Activities..? I mean! Sometimes things just happen. Physical contact is very nice, and it’s quite easy to get wires crossed, you know, if you’re not careful. Someone just, oh, hops on your hips, or you slip and fall, and maybe parts become unzipped, and. Well!” He clicks his teeth, all faux-sympathy. “Well! Maybe it’s understandable if, mm, bits of you start getting the wrong idea, and, ah.. how d’you say.. start.. adventuring out from their phantom zones, but..”

“Did you just call your fucking junk a phantom zone?”

“We’re not discussing that,” he say, prim as if he hadn’t brought it up himself. But isn’t that always the fucking case? “It is a perfectly accurate euphemism, and I am not discussing it further. You understand what I’m saying here, Riccin. Try not to let people accost you in personal regions, or whatever mishaps you were getting up to, and things ought to go just well. Pale romance does not usually, by the way, involve that sort of positioning. I find a nice over the shoulder cuddle is about as intimate as one really should get! Or just, I don’t know - maybe don’t pale people you’d rather pail…?”

“Present company excluded, of course,” he bites off, amused. “Now! Ah. As cathartic as this was.. I do have to go, now.“ A beat. “And I won’t,” he says abruptly. “Go on another date with this troll. I think - well! You might be right. They are.. maybe. A little old. For me, at least. Ah. Good light!”

By the time you open your mouth, the phone’s sounding off its dial tone.

You put it in your pocket and, standing up, you stretch. If this is what a pile feels like, you.. can see the appeal, almost. It feels like someone dragged you through the ringer. It feels like someone’s stripped a weight off of your shoulders. It’s a strange combination, all together, and one you’ll have to contemplate later, but --

-- it’s not a bad one, all things considered.

It gives you things to think about, at least.

But that’s for later. For now, you ought to go and find Cu, and think of how the fuck you’ll explain this to Kindra.

#riccin kayata #iconic conetl #pheres dysseu #disasterclade #[prose]#[drabbles]#SLAMS THIS ON THE TABLE #NEVER SPEAK TO ME OR MY 9000 WORD GODDAMN DRABBLES AGAIN I FUCKING GUESS #this is cut on desktop - hopefully mobile cuts are fucking owrking by now #inktober #lowblood problems

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