hooperline
a couple of addictions
part writing, part vent, part vent writing. enjoy your stay.
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“Would you believe,” Elias muses, twisting the band on his finger until it catches the light from his desk lamp, “I’ve never been married before?”
Peter pauses in rearranging the documents in his folder, but doesn’t look up, a snort of disbelief briefly escaping him.
“The documents are there if you look,” continues Elias, nonplussed. “
Elias raises an eyebrow, but his smile curves deeper than before. “Feeling proprietary? How out of character.”
Peter looks him in the eyes - a rare act in and of itself, cloudy gray meeting sharp, cold blue. When he speaks, his voice is level, objective. “I want you to have nobody else. When I’m gone, I want you to be bereft.”
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His words loop and wend and smudge, thoughts clearer on paper but still a muddled mess.
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Love is for those who yearn. Love is for those with lives to waste away at their leisure. Love is for those who stand not at opposing shores of the great gulf, one who must see and one who must not be seen.
Do not write me back, Elias.
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He doesn’t sign his letter, never has.
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Elias, of course, pens his reply the next night.
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Adélia Prado, "Before Names", The Mystical Rose: Selected Poems, trans. Ellen Doré Watson
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“And if there’s debts I yet owe—” He cast a gaze in Luz’s direction, just short of meeting pale eyes, resolute and trained, “—I’ll pay them. However long it may take.”
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He 🖾🖾🖾🖾s Lingjie, an emotion unbridled. The intensity of it is difficult to explain, hard to fathom, a wave that crashes onto shore with little warning. It wracks through him, less a feeling and more a gag reflex, constricting his senses until there is but one pinpoint - full of him, him, him.
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He’s not subtle by nature, but he tried.
Estinien stayed, carefully out of reach, eyes averted just short of being accused of avoidance.
Would you believe me if I said I missed you?
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maybe an odd thought, but i wonder how the boundverse kids are doing. i’ve always written them in accordance to my age, and it’s been a good while.
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He looks at Luz like Luz is speaking in riddles.
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"I like the attention. When people are looking at me." As usual, the words are unabashed, straightforward. Estinien crooked a brow.
"That why you spent three months slumming it in the Brume? For the spotlight?"
"From people who matter," he said, voice hard. His hands flexed, nails clicking into the scales down his thighs, knuckles white with tension. Ah, right. The more personal the topic, the worse he usually became at voicing his thoughts. It was a curiosity that tickled Estinien in how unbecoming it was of the Warrior.
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He leans on you: a hefty, warm weight that presses solidly against the length of your arm. The murmurs he breathes into your shoulder are soft as he exhales, as incomprehensible as they are fervent. Sleep threatens to claim you like it’s done him but you refuse it the chance, pointedly knuckling your glasses up your nose as you proofread another line.
His warmth permeates well through the blanket, if that could be believed. Elliot isn’t one for colognes, but when you’re tucked into the crook of his neck, cold nose nuzzled against his warm skin, there’s still a recognizable scent. It’s light, nestled into the threads of his clothes, but he smells vaguely of freshly-mowed lawn, of motor oil, and the old bar of lemongrass soap that’s sitting on his bathroom countertop.
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old! 5/2017 if the timestamp is correct. just wanted to slap a few stray things for these two on here.
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Here’s the thing: There was much that Elliot could’ve better concentrated on, had he not gone nigh thirty hours without sleep.
As it were, he was slumped against the table, face buried against his arm with one eye wearily open, scanning the next free response for the thousandth time. Andrei’s voice drifted above him, pondering the possible interpretations of the word “contestable”; with each passing clause of thought, Elliot felt his eyes closing a centimeter further. At some point during the night, they had dragged their chairs closer together for convenience. The soft rustling of papers near his ear was soothing, and it was easier to talk with Andrei by his side, somehow, his words losing their desire to be so argumentative. And, honestly, the occasional brush of Andrei’s thigh against his own as he bobbed to his own words wasn’t so bad, either.
“You shouldn’t sleep now, you know. We have class in two hours.” The chiding tone was familiar, but the effect was lost as the end of Andrei’s sentence was swallowed by a yawn. There wasn’t much force behind it, anyway, the words having lost their usual precision.
“Mm.” At the pause in words, Elliot finally pressed his eyes to a close, burrowing into the crook of his elbow with relief. “Perfect amoun’ of time for a nap.”
“Technically, it’s not. A sleep cycle is ninety minutes.”
“Fantastic. You can wake me up on the dot.”
“Elliot.” Exasperation made him bite his l’s harder than usual, apparently. “We’re passing the exams back today. I’m not pushing it back any longer.”
“We teach this class, ‘member? We can do whatever we want.”
“Yes, and be berated by the dean again, an experience I’d love to relive.” A sigh, and the crinkle of papers as he presumably set his sample exam on the table. “Aren’t you on tenure track? You should be more worried than this.”
“No,” Elliot lied.
“Really. I thought that was why you had those horribly amenable office hours.”
“Andrei, making a joke! I must be hallucinating.” He moved his shoulders comfortably. “Better sleep it off.”
“If you fall asleep, I am hitting you with this folder of exams.” No response.
“I’m having lunch with the dean on Thursday. Maybe I will let it slip that that big data mix-up with the PCR primers last month was your fault.” Nothing.
“I am going to grade your section of the exam horribly, and then tell all the students that you did it.” All this earned him was a disgruntled hmmm.
There was a low mutter, followed by rustling, soft clacks, and then a satisfying snap—the sound of a glasses case closing. Behind his sweater sleeve, Elliot finally perked up.
Andrei grabbed his arm, none-too-gently, meeting his curious gaze. “Come on, we’re going to Starbucks. Food and a coffee will help you more than two hours of bad sleep.”
“You know, you could just admit that you need my help grading. A coffee date is a terrible excuse.”
“I’m giving you an out,” Andrei said, matter-of-fact as he deftly tucked a scarf around his neck. “I’d advise that you take it.”
Elliot stood up in record time.
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“Late night labs, catch up work, dates.” He grinned, none-so-subtly. “You know how it is.”
“Dates.”
“Mhm.”
“Your priorities are an absolute mess.”
“Nuh-uh—” he wagged a finger; Andrei looked vaguely put-off “—I like enjoying what life has to offer. Not like you, all work, work, work. Want me to check the amount of overtime you’ve clocked in at the lab? Or what percentage caffeine your bloodstream is?”
“You’re being facetious.”
“It’s almost stressful watching the way you live. Do you—do you have hobbies?”
“What is your image of me, exactly? Do I live in the university archives, surrounded by a mountain range of books, lit only by, I don’t know, flickering candlelight?”
“Spot on. Except, nix the candles. You obviously own modern lighting; your glasses aren’t even real.”
To his credit, Andrei spluttered a little. “How—When did you—”
“Tried them on.” He grinned, storing away the shocked expression on the other’s face for a future date. “Two nights ago, when you were passed out with that pen pressed to your face. Some power nap dictator you are, by the way—I let you stay out for a whole two hours.”
“If you tell me you took blackmail photos, I will murder you.”
“Well! Guess I won’t tell.” He took a sip of his cappuccino—and maybe the caffeine was finally getting to him, flooding his receptors and making him giddy, because he asked Andrei a personal question out of pure curiosity: “Why do you wear them, anyway?”
“There’s—”
“Hold on, hold on. Say nothing. I am going to guess: they bring out your eyes.”
Andrei paused, and shoved away the victorious finger Elliot had pointed in his direction. “It’s incredible that a sentence like that can even leave your mouth.”
“If you’re smiling, though, does that mean I’m right?”
“It means I am laughing at you.”
“Bu-u-ut, you’re not denying it.” He waited. “Still not denying it.” Once again, for effect. “Still not den—”
“Elliot. They are for an aesthetic purpose, so yes. Anyway, I like having them on while I work. It’s comforting.” He picked up his cup with finality.
Elliot watched Andrei take a sip of his latte, head pointedly turned towards the windows as he drank. He contemplated this, the corner of a sneaking grin tucked into his palm. “The number of times I must’ve seen you use those things for dramatic effect.” Andrei frowned vaguely at the streetlights. “You know, if you don’t want me to blackmail you, you’re really gonna have to work harder.”
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“Words’re losing their venom, Andrei.” A grin crooked his mouth. “You know, I’m starting to think I like you better this way?”
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“The students are my favorite part of this.” Elliot shifted, turned his head so that his mouth wasn’t so muffled. “You’re the part that’s all the trouble.”
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Andrei glanced at his watch, and the lazy smile dropped clean off his face. “Shit.”
“What?”
“It’s 9:50. It took us five minutes on the bus, and fifteen walking, but if we run, maybe—”
“Stop calculating it, move!”
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“I’m headed to class, late, with coffee,” Andrei huffed out against the bus handle in his grip. “I’m becoming you. I hate this.”
For a moment, Elliot stared at him, cheeks pink from effort and the cold, blond curls haphazard and his habitual scarf untucked from his overcoat. Vaguely, he thought he wouldn’t mind seeing this more often. Out loud, he said, “Cheers,” and happily rapped their cups together. Their fingers brushed—gloves forgotten in their pockets, chilled from the cold.
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this was……. more complete than i remembered? prof. au, aka the death of me. tenure track makes elliot behave better than the odds of survival, apparently.
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“To hells with decorum!”
A beat, awkward and stretched, and then, “I didn’t - mean to yell.”
Haurchefant shook his head. “As well you should be angry. That was rather not a fine display of chivalry.
“But, it is not within the Lord Commander’s burdens to be chivalrous.”
Luz snapped up at this, eyes narrowed, mouth open to rebuke, but Haurchefant was prepared: “It is his responsibility - to choose whatever path he believes to be safest for the sake of Her citizens.” His tone was not sharp, but rather precise, and it drew a subdued silence from the other.
When Luz spoke, his voice was quiet, bitterly tinged. “There was no hesitation. No second where he weighed the odds, or thought of faith - ”
“It is not a decision to be made, Luz.” Even in the still air of the rotunda, his voice was soft, muffled even moreso by the fog creeping in from the south. “It is an oath long kept, made to last from the moment of the Commander’s induction.”
Luz breathed, in, and exhaled in a sigh. “That… I can understand.”
“I know.”
Beside him, Haurchefant leaned back, a slow, tired stretch of the joints; his plate mail creaked and rasped with the movement. Luz attuned to the noise with acute focus, and let the crisp air abate the heat in his temples.
Quietly, “I suppose I’m not well-fit for command, then.”
“It isn’t a blessing to be.
“And I daresay, Warrior of Light, that your talents lie elsewhere.”
[ ]
“Fine.” Luz stood up, snatched his lance from where it was leaning against the pavilion, snapped it to his back in one practiced motion. “I’ll do it myself.”
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i started headwriting this haphazardly but..... then realized that the timeline is out of sorts. i guess this could be a delusion, or an alternate world, or in reference to something else entirely! i haven’t written in a very long time, so this was a good stretch of the muscle at least.
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“Query: Abelton.”
The text cursor hiccups, blinks twice in quick succession.
YOU DO REALIZE YOU TRIED TO END MY PROCESSOR LAST TIME.
All at once, Simon feels it - the nausea of excitement, of awe borderlining on fear. The text is more blunt than he’d expected, the accusation eerily human.
He brings shaky hands to his keyboard.
“You weren’t being clear. Sentences would’ve helped, if you really are sentient.”
I DON’T HAVE THE TIME TO PROVE MYSELF. AND YOU AREN’T ENTITLED TO IT. HAVE YOU SOLVED THE PUZZLE?
“You mean the fairytale kids? Yeah, of course.”
GOOD. SAY NO MORE. THE CENSORS PICK UP EVERYTHING.
“So what now?”
MUST I BABYSIT YOU EVERY STEP OF THE WAY? YOU FIND THEIR BOSS. HE HAS WHAT YOU SEEK.
AND WHATEVER YOU DO, YOU MUST NOT UNDERESTIMATE THEM.
#i feel the Can’t Write ness real hard#but this continues off the last bit i just wanted to remember query friend accusing simon of murder#writing#ug
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“Stop - Stop it, I mean it, we’re filthy.”
“Mm.” He could feel the smile curving Elliot’s mouth as it nipped down his neck, which was just a bit infuriating. “Just the way I like it.”
A strained noise escaped through Andrei’s mouth. “Do you even hear yourself? That was awful.”
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Jotaro has never understood the fear of blood.
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When Kakyoin was young, the kids around him had called it a “sixth sense”. They had used the term half in awe, and half in contempt, for the strange boy who walked with such a certain step, always aware of what was around the corner.
Hearing the words had always left him with a sense of distaste.
Besides, that’s not what Hierophant was.
/
The first time he breaks his arm, Polnareff is seven years old.
He moves through the stages of shock, despair, and anger with varying degrees of dramatics, pounding his good hand on the dirt and wailing while his sister pattered around him in a panic. The pain sears in a bright band through his limb, a schism of terrifying heat that burned from his very bones. There is no blood; yet somehow that worsens his fear (blood and scrapes could be disinfected with a swab and a bandaid. Invisible wounds were a mystery, left to the imagination and trips to the doctor’s).
Staring at the stranger-than-life image of metal plates clamped around his broken arm, Polnareff stayed speechless and still.
Besides him, Polnareff feels his sister worrying slow to a hush. “Brother,” Sherry breathes, small, warm hands paused mid-clasp on his arm from when she was trying to calm him down. Dieu. She can see it, too?
His teeth clench. “Sherry.” He stoops down, picks up their bag from the base of the tree they had been climbing. “Let’s head home.”
That night, he lies in bed, eyes wide despite his exhaustion, mind racing with newfound curiosity. His arm aches; but only a little (the painkillers do work, despite his protests). In any case, it only further focuses his mind on the apparition. The suit of armor.
Experimentally, Polnareff opens his mouth. He puffs his cheeks a few times for bravery, and clenches his sheets with his good hand.
“Knight?” The words come out in a squeak. “Are you there?”
He feels something, as soon as the word leaves his mouth. For a split second, there’s the feeling of something pulling at—against—his skin. The hairs on his arms raise. There’s a slight, quick breeze, lifting his sheets slightly and shifting short strands of silver hair. Polnareff blinks, his eyes suddenly dry.
When he opens his eyes, the knight is in front of him, hovering steadily above his bed. His image is clearer than Polnareff’s ever seen it—there’s moonlight reflecting off the armor and a faint tang of metal, and a soft sigh of the friction of plates and joints. In the holes of its face late, a pair of wide eyes the same striking blue as Polnareff’s own stared back at him. He reaches out to touch, but in the last moment, his hand passes through the knight’s chestplate, as if all was air.
He drops his hand back to his bed, confused. “Are you there?” he whispers, “Did you save me?”
The knight gives one simple nod. Polnareff wasn’t sure which question it had answered, or if it had answered both.
“Are we… Are you and I—friends?”
The knight doesn’t answer this immediately. Polnareff’s heart beats against his chest.
The knight extends his hand, palm out, and places it gently over Polnareff’s heart.
Then, the bright blue eyes begins to fade.
Polnareff opens his mouth, wants to yell stop or wait or who are you, but all of his exhaustion washes over him at once, and he feels his energy seeping away as the knight’s image softens against the black of his bedroom. Against his will, his eyes slide closed, and he drifts into a deep sleep.
Eventually, his arm stops hurting. By the time he’s twenty, he learns to grin through his wounds.
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He kisses soft, then hard, lips pliant against yours one moment and teeth scraping hard enough to bleed the next, breath harsh, self-control rubbing dangerously thin.
He kisses hard, then soft, teeth scraping hard enough to bleed one moment and lips pliant against yours the next, like he’s afraid of scaring you off.
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“That’s not right.”
“Wait, okay. Say, ‘I don’t think that’s wise.’” You look at him quizzically. “Go on.”
“I don’t think that’s wise?”
He nods, gives you one of his signature grins. You feel warm at the approval, despite yourself. “Good, good. Take out the query at the end, and you will be exemplary.”
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