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#(shambling away would be an act of cowardice)
godsentience · 1 year
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A pill I find difficult to swallow
Alhaitham x Kaveh pairing, one shot. Please be mindful of the tags below. Crossposted on AO3. A practice on metaphors in writing. Also in Alhaitham's POV.
I crave so subtle an affection beneath the limelight of the moon, where my solemn adoration are unheard, concealed behind the cowardice of textbooks. Days are brimmed with endless retorts against one another; arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed, neither willing to give up their claims of the world before them. It is always at the end, that we learn to compromise or get over the trivialities of our personalities never destined to meet due to their variance. Accustomed to the vexing attributes of our souls, this shared home becomes a house when you are absent to question my ways.
When night dawns, we thrive in a deafening feat of silence, a space more quiet than the confines of the accompaniment of books in the House of Daena. The ambiance felt tender and warm and has my skin scorching off of a passion unspoken. My lips would wordlessly proclaim the code of my relentlessly beating heart by a hushed whisper, eyes trained on the engraved letters of the book perched upon my hand, acting as if quantum mechanics enthralled my curiosity when all along, it was but our contrasting chemistry that has my inner feline in shambles.
Occupied by our respective, personal endeavors, my mind finds itself wandering back to the light that is you, fiddling with the quill, stroking delicate lines over the sheet of paper caught in the apple of your attention. In the midst of the silence, I would spare a glimpse from time to time, wondering about the projects you were tasked to make, wishing you would tell of how begrudging a request you were asked to do, how people would give you unrealistic proportions for a dwelling they wish to call their home, and how painstaking it was to negotiate with the persistence of stubborn clients.
When I first gazed upon ground to look at the picturesque silhouettes of our casted shadows, I had found that it is with you that this house started to look less insipid and monochromatic compared to when I was its sole inhabitant. I am merely a fragile flower vase in a still-life art, surrounded by teacups and the galores of plates embellished with exquisite prints of patterns on them, while you resemble the enthusiasm of a swirling illusion embedded in one's sight to fool the audience with its kinetic motion.
Is it not silly of me to think you'd ever share your efforts and troubles on plates you've worked yourself on, Kaveh? You've said it yourself; my compliments of your hard-earned title sounded halfhearted coming from me, regardless of my intent. Understanding the complexity of emotions seemed more farfetched than sensing the behavioral collisions and divergence of particles that surrounds us; a flutter of dust visible under the streaks of reflection mirrored by the moon's asperity.
How could I talk of the meaning of life when it follows you wherever you go? It is a phenomena not even distinguished scholars can comprehend, neither are they capable of seeing this vision, even if I forcefully compress the philosophy in one of the capsules that hold knowledge as captive. It is subjective, I knew this to be the absolute truth. But I'd never tell you about this peculiar finding; I am purposely shunning you away from the truth. What if we found this answer as our common ground? How could we argue about our theoretical beliefs like we did before, should we arrive at a truth? It may be selfish of me to gatekeep my conviction, and if to be iniquitous like this would keep you by my side then, I am your most devoted sinner.
In one of these nights, I'd sometimes feel the burn of a stare unto my skin, but I paid them no heed. I wouldn't know how to confront such a trail of an ardent stare; engraving depth on wherever patch of flesh it lands, softening the walls of a soul desperate to hide, melting my being until it had grown satisfied. 'What do you think of me when you stare so intently?' A voice would resonate from within. It felt like I wasn't being myself, that there lies another occupying my person; always filled with greed, always filled with longing. It is quick to liquefy over a mere, accidental brush of fingers much slender than mine, a stimuli that comes from a contact that barely even met, yet with a spark that would course through the veins in an instant.
These days, the area around the chest would swell, bearing the weight of emotions I kept to myself. I am made only to be logical, and reject the absurdity of sensing and feeling emotion, to stave it off once it appears before me, to kill it immediately once it shows signs of developing, as if it were a highly contagious disease that may become the means of an impending end. With the rivers of time, this agony I had imposed upon oneself to escape the chase of our touch-deprived liaison, is plausible of a reason enough to rid of it on the earliest detection. When the heart and the mind refuses to meet, I lie in consternation trying to settle on a choice. Which of you should I follow? Both seemed to inflict further damage, one way or another.
When we sit like this, facing one another, such thoughts would leave. It would create spaces and pave the way for my silent adoration, enumerate the little things about you that I'd find endearing, gaze with the glimmer of veneration sparkling as you would languishly sketch on your canvas with a quill. However, I am merely a destitute scholar, one who could never act on the trivialities of affection, even laconic in expression. Who knew that my heart would bear this profound penchant for suffering? Even I am alienated from my own capabilities. Would you even think I would feel any of this at all with my theatrical show of contempt and conceit?
Even for me, the thought is a pill I find difficult to swallow. I am, all of a sudden, foreign to myself. Strange, odd, peculiar; I've long told that I thrive as unique in this collective societyーthat I enjoy the variegated personality, away from the slavery in which the common crowd conforms to the imposed rules that favor the reigning governance. If such then mimics the value of my beliefs then, I am a criminal to my own being. To take a path I've not once taken, to indulge in reveries other than the details of reality, it is highly unthinkable for anyone to consider this an occurrence for me, even for you whom I've grown most fond of compared to anyone else. I am continuously drowning in this pit of dissonance, one where the heart tells the path and the answer I have is only you, who cannot guarantee reciprocity.
Just one chance, a mere slip, allow me to succumb and heed to the calls of my selfish desires. Even if it were just a second, endow me an ounce of freedom to feel things deeply, without the barricades obstructing the swelling of the heart; I ask of you, let me. All I demand is affection in the most subtle of ways, for you to look at me like an equal. Let me extend a foot to purposely brush past your side, give my eyes an excuse to graze upon yours, brazenly meet the gaze halfway as you idle a second of confusion, let me dissolve in little mirth, curl the toes inwardly, clear the throat, hum, return from my selfish endeavor.
"Ah, sorry. My leg got numb."
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dancedelion · 4 years
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40 and 41 for the prompt thing, geraskier. I'd love it if Jaskier said 40 to geralt who completely doesn't believe him but by the end of the story geralt says 41 to jaskier
40: “I know you’re trying to push me away, but I won’t let you.” 41: “The only person I need right now is you.” Thank you for the prompt! I hope you like it. (Link to ao3) Past should stay passed, Geralt always thought. Some things were better buried. The before and the before the before – before the Djinn, before Jaskier, back when the world was easy – and before that there was Kaer Morhen – a castle filled with blood, bad odds and dying dreams. Grave's scattered across the continent, filled with Geralt's worst mistakes, with so many people he never managed to save.
And here she was – not his past, small mercies for that, but past none the less. Engulfed in a green shine, she hovered a few feet above the ground, her dress laced with finest jealousy. She bared her teeth to him like an animal would, straight and pale-green and not the least bit sharp. Gone was all sense of poise or elegance she possessed in her mortal life. Geralt had seen women like her before, born into nobility. She must have had everything. And now she felt entitled to it.
She floated toward him and instinctively, Geralt stumbled back. He teetered on the edge. A glance down quickly reminded him that they were on the highest floor of a five-story building. The contractor, Mr. Lewandowski, pressed himself further against the wall and he stared at her with an intensity only someone haunted could muster. He had been calm and unfazed when Geralt had first spoken to him, arrogance straightening his spine, but deep-seated cowardice in his eyes.
Geralt kept a tight grip on the cold handle of his sword, but made no move toward the spirit. The problem was not the number or the strength of the enemy, it was the number of people to protect. Mr. Lewandowski's mistress wailed quietly on the floor, already beaten down and bleeding from her forehead. But the worst part of it, the part where Geralt felt his eyes darting around, where he felt his movements become frantic, where he felt irrationality slowly taking over his brain, was Jaskier in the corner of his eyes. Idiotic, reckless Jaskier who could not keep out of trouble to save his life. Geralt would be damned if that became literal today.
“Darling,” the spirit said, her voice sweet as sugar, “do you remember the stars that night?”
Even though her words were directed at Mr. Lewandowski, she kept her eyes on Geralt, probably because he was the one with the sword.
“They were sparkling so beautifully, and no better place to watch than from the roof top, isn't that right?”
It would be so easy for Jaskier to run, the stairs were right behind him. He was not hurt yet, there was nothing keeping him from getting to safety. The wraith was not interested in him.
“You've always been a romantic, that's why I fell for you. For wedding nights, spent watching the stars at night.”
But of course, Jaskier's unhealthy fascination with dangerous things kept him rooted to the spot, had kept him rooted at Geralt's side for years.
“So you, great appreciator of beautiful things, was my hair not golden enough for you? Does she buy you the prettiest jewellery? Do the stars shine brighter now that I'm gone?”
Mr. Lewandowski, perhaps remembering that he had once loved her, or perhaps still loving her, slowly stepped away from the wall and took a small step towards her.
“It wasn't my fault,” he said, voice rough, “I didn't know the roof was slippery.”
“But you did know it had rained the night before.”
“You – she's lying -”
“I say nothing I do not believe.”
“She slipped from my grasp, I would have done anything to pull her back up,” his voice was shaking, his whole face was doused in sweat. Her face lit up in anger, she was consumed with it. Could only violence bring her peace now? If Geralt only had more time -
She charged toward the woman on the ground so quickly, it almost felt like nothing more than a gush of wind.
“Hey, beautiful,” Jaskier said and Geralt's head whipped around. He had gripped a broken chair leg, and threw it forcefully at the wraith, who snarled at him.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Geralt said, snarling too.
“I-improvising?” Jaskier said and finally – finally – stumbled backwards, a few steps down the stairs when the wraith started lashing out in his direction. Geralt tried to concentrate and focus on the wraith, though it was hard when he always had a clumsy idiot to keep track of. He lunged at her with the sword and kept going. Geralt tried to fight the panic off he had felt when she had moved towards Jaskier, but the stupid nerve connection between his brain and his legs made his next steps a bit sloppy. He tried to cast Yrden when his hits wouldn't land, but the wraith quickly slipped out of the way. This was just a fucking wraith, an easy one and Geralt was acting like a boy before his trials – what was wrong with him?
“You -” Geralt shouted to Mr. Lewandowski, “make yourself useful. Find her veil.”
He could see him starting to search for the veil while he continued to charge at the wraith. She was quick, but usually Geralt was quick, too, what was going on, why couldn't his gaze ever stop searching for Jaskier, who still wouldn't run, he wanted to yell, but yelling never worked, Jaskier always stayed and there was nothing he could ever do about it.
“I won't allow you her sweeter kisses,” the wraith asserted and made for the woman and when Geralt swirled around she was already falling and they were always falling and Jaskier was human and weak and fragile and just a gush of wind could have pushed him over the edge -
“I've found it!” Mr. Lewandowski yelled.
Geralt fought and he fought and he never won – they always fell. And Jaskier was always, always too close to the edge.
Mr. Lewandowski threw the veil when the wraith came toward him and Geralt ran to catch it.
“Helena -” “It never slipped,” she said raising her voice and finally shouting. “You let go of my hand. You let go of my hand!”
She was almost about to reach him when Geralt cast Igni on the veil and it went up in flames. The green blazes consumed the wraith almost in an instant and Geralt let out a harsh breath. She was gone – and so was that woman.
“That was close,” Mr. Lewandowski said after a while. “And all that, just to burn a veil? What did I even hire you for?”
Why was it always men like Mr. Lewandowski who survived?
“Your wraith is gone. I held up my end of the bargain.”
“I suppose. I would expect the higher the body count, the more you shave off the cost.”
Geralt sighed very deeply.
“You lost your – woman... and you are worried about money?”
Mr. Lewandowski shrugged a little and smiled – the unsettling smile of someone who had gotten quite good at lying to himself. Geralt pressed his lips together. At the end of the day, monsters were monsters and humans were humans. Or maybe it was the other way around? Geralt had lived so long that he wasn't quite sure any more. ____ “Whew, that was an adventure,” Jaskier said when they were on the road again. “This is why I will never get married.”
Jaskier was always too - there.
“Hm.”
“You're lucky I was there. Nifty trick with the chair leg, don't you think? You can always rely on your best friend to save you -”
Jaskier was not enough yesterday and certainly not enough tomorrow.
He was too human. Too being.
He was too little of too much. “We're not friends.”
And he always tore at Geralt, tore at everything, until there were a thousand tears in Geralt's skin, and worse, a thousand tears hidden in his eyes, because witchers never cry.
“Gee, what would you call it after all these years? Careful acquaintanceship? I beg to differ -”
And Geralt had had enough of it.
“You are nothing, nothing to me.”
He'd had enough of the smiles, the smirks, the twinkle in Jaskier's eyes.
“You are the last person I ever want to see.”
He'd had enough of the touches, the distractions, the closeness.
“The only reason you've followed me around for years is because I've never found a way to fucking get rid of you.”
Enough of this strange, unfamiliar feeling in his chest.
Jaskier had left Geralt raw. Exposed. Like he had stripped away Geralt's skin and then his flesh until all that Geralt was was teeth and bark and bite. And he was not soft after Jaskier was done with him, he was harsh and hard and there was no sight more harrowing than that of Geralt's skeleton hand reaching out to him – so very fragile, but were they too fragile to – strangle? How hard can bone fingers squeeze?
How could Jaskier leave him so breakable?
He had stripped Geralt of everything, one shove and he would have a clutter, a clusterfuck.
Give me one look and you will have me in shambles, touch me and I will be smithereens.
Geralt pressed his teeth together and he would keep pressing until he heard something break. Jaskier was staring at him, nothing but staring, and how much do I have to hurt you before you leave? How far do I have to reach into your soul and destroy whatever I find before you finally see?
“I know you're trying to push me away, but I won't let you,” Jaskier said finally. Jaskier had loved a hundred people before and none of them were here now.
“Of course I'm trying to push you away, how else would I get you to finally leave?”
(I dare you to find my skeleton in the mass grave you left behind, can you tell human from witcher?)
Jaskier was a leaver and Geralt was – a leavee. He was always being left behind, why would this be different?
Humans were usually fickle, so if Geralt only pushed in the right places... Even someone as stubborn as Jaskier would eventually cave.
“I don't need you, I've never needed you, you're a nuisance, nothing more.” “Geralt, it's okay. It's okay to need people. You don't always have to walk alone, you know.”
Jaskier should keep his pretty lies to himself, Geralt didn't need them. Everyone left. And Geralt was a witcher, not easily deceived.
Geralt pressed his eyes closed, like that would make it all go away, like the image of her falling would vanish.
Slowly, he opened them again and looked at Jaskier, who was still gentle, even though Geralt didn't deserve it and never had.
You will die one day and come back to haunt me, won't you?
(You are already haunting me.)
Jaskier stepped closer carefully. In the face of a thousand lies Geralt almost told him – I hate you, I hate you, I hate you – all Jaskier did was – come closer. Shocked, Geralt stepped back.
“You're always distracting, you're always so irritating, you don't make any fucking sense -”
I push and I push and you, impossible human, come closer.
“I'm staying. Don't you know that, Geralt? If you let me, I will always stay.”
What, so you can push me off the edge -
“Geralt, you don't really want me to go, do you?” Jaskier said softly.
“You will,” Geralt said, all false anger suddenly drained out of him. “You'll go. And I won't be able to stop you.”
“Why would you say that?”
Jaskier slowly reached out and touched Geralt's hand – Geralt could barely keep himself from flinching away.
“Because you're human.”
And Geralt knew, of course he did, what that strange feeling in his chest was, what was so hard to contain but even harder to set free.
Geralt had never loved someone as fleeting as Jaskier. Jaskier flickered from one moment to the next, always a hair's breadth away from flickering out.
Do you think I can stomach that? Do you think I will ever stop seeing your shadow?
(You make me so breakable.)
(You make me more human than anyone else.)
And then Jaskier seemed to see something in Geralt's eyes.
“Oh Geralt. You...”
The shameful truth of it burned in Geralt's throat.
“I don't mean to.”
“But you do.”
“Hard not to.”
“Yes. It's the same for me too.”
Jaskier grabbed Geralt's hand gently. It was a firm grip, one not easily broken.
“I'm sorry,” Geralt said quietly, and no matter what Geralt said, Jaskier came closer.
“I know.”
Jaskier deserved so much more than this, so Geralt was going to try.
“The truth,” he started and broke off. “The truth is. The only person I need right now is you.”
“That's okay,” Jaskier said and squeezed Geralt's hand. “I'm always here.”
It was a promise, and Geralt, who was more of a fool than he would like to admit, believed him, at least a little bit. For just a moment, he allowed himself to believe that this touch would not haunt him years from now, and drew Jaskier in closer. He kissed him, then, and did not think about how there was a last for every first and pain for every bit of joy Geralt had ever dared to reach for. He kissed Jaskier and thought not for a single second about the repercussions.
The stars above them were shining brilliantly.
Some people can reach for the stars and they will fall, but falling upwards is just - flying.
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nexstage · 4 years
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Starless
Bismuth: A builder falling apart
When she still thought that Rose Quartz was honest and cared about the lesser gems, the ones who didn't know what it was to be free or independent, Bismuth had a lot of dreams. Many of them were wild and crazy if you were a Homeworld gem, but when Rose heard about them, her eyes shone with excitement and smiled big. That was the sign that Bismuth's Bismuth was going to be extraordinary.
But to make it real, sacrifices were required and so, the Crystal Gems, Bismuth's new family, went to that list by sacrificing their lives for the future they deserved. So many friends shattered, so many tears shed, the tragedies multiplied as much as the victories. Bismuth was adamant to fulfill her dreams not only because she wanted to but also because failing would be the same as insulting the bravery of her fallen comrades. She was sure Rose would support her.
But then the Breaking Point was shown to Rose and everything went downhill.
'Shattering was wrong no matter the reasons' she said, 'The Crystal Gems aren't like the Diamonds' she said.
Bismuth couldn't believe it nor comprehend it. Here she was, with the solution to win the war and rid of the upper crusts and the tyranny of Homeworld and Rose refused because shattering was wrong?! It's not that Bismuth wasn't aware of the wrongness of destroying a gem, she had seen many of her own kin being shattered for the stupidest of reasons or any other lesser gem who was defective or too rebellious to deal with; however, they weren't in a charity mission. This was war, and in a war you needed, no, should dirty your own hands if you wanted to become a winner and not gravel to spit to.
But like her, Rose was determined and stubborn, and in just minutes, everything Bismuth had been fighting for ended up in shambles: her Breaking Point was left in the forge, she was bubbled and hidden, her plans completely ruined. All of them except one: shattering the Diamonds. It was funny and tragic in the way someone wasn't sure what to do, laugh or cry; Rose refused to accept her idea to shatter their enemy but still stole that same idea and twisted it for her own gain.
Well, Bismuth should've known that was going to happen coming from a lying, self-entitled upper crust because they loved to take all the credit for themselves while the rest of the gems worked endlessly and were denied to enjoy the fruits of their job. That was the rotten Bismuth Rose Pink Diamond- did when she ordered Pearl to help her in faking her shattering.
A cold and vicious sensation consumed her immaterial guts.
It was like every part of them, all that they had done, the efforts and sacrifices Bismuth put on her dreams and ideas didn't belong to any of the Crystal Gems nor her, but to Pink Diamond.
They never truly rebelled because they were still working for a Diamond, Bismuth was still obeying a Diamond. One in disguise, of course, but the 'following orders' part was there. She felt like the foundation of her future was never hers from the beginning for Pink's shadow always loomed over her form. And maybe that's how Steven felt all this time until the cactus incident and his sudden disappearance happened.
To think she had thought he was Rose, trying to get away from the consequences of her actions again by lying, made her ill to her very core. If it weren't for Steven she wouldn't be here with many of her friends: Snowflake, Biggs, Crazy Lace, living the life they deserved but much richer than everything they had ever imagined. Little Homeworld and Little Homeschool were such wild and amazing plans, watching humans and gems coexisting in peace, interacting as if they were friends for millennia. Steven gave them hope to build all of this, to make it true and enjoy it.
But him? What did he have?
Now that she thought about it, every time he accomplished something incredible, it wasn't for his own gain but for others' sake.
Reaching for peace between Earth and Homeworld? That was to protect his loved ones and his home. Healing the corrupted gems? It was to give a closure for the ones who participated in the war whether they were Crystal Gems or enemies. Having meeting after meeting with the Diamonds? It’s not that he had an option, right? Those giant tyrants were too fixed on Pink to give Steven a bit of space and he was too determined to let them fall into their old, violent habits.
So he had to give up. Not in the sense of surrendering, of course, but give up any chances of having something for himself. She didn’t know Steven as well as Garnet, Amethyst and Pearl, or even Greg, but after hearing all that he had done and how proud they were for him, it became disturbingly clear for Bismuth that Steven didn’t have a dream that he could put the term ‘my’ because, again, those dreams were based on Pink’s influence.
His powers, being like Rose Pink, not being like her, fixing her mistakes. Geez, if she had been Steven, she would have snapped already. How could he handle the pressure and the fact that almost every victory in his life was just to honor someone who never deserved it while being left with nothing?
No wonder he ran away. He must have felt sick of even hearing Rose’s Pink’s name, and after what Pearl told her of his ‘pink outburst’ –since when he could do that? - when Volleyball explained that her cracked eye was Pink’s doing –of course, typical of upper crusts, they can’t control themselves! - it was pretty obvious Steven just wanted to be very far away from that mess.
And he had thought that finally he could live a peaceful life, no more screwup-cleaning, no more facing someone’s crimes, just him, his family and his happily ever after. Bismuth was also excited about that, to have a moment of peace and joy, to share it with him.
But then, Spinel came to Earth for revenge.
And guess who the one responsible was for that thirst of revenge and for ruining Steven’s retirement day.
Pink.
And who had to clean a new mess again?
Steven.
So, yeah, too much for a suffocating petty Pink. Too little for a kind, merciful Steven.
Stars, maybe Bismuth was projecting too much of her feelings onto Steven’s issues, wasn’t she? But, nonetheless, she could understand why he left, or just the parts that her hunches were signaling.
But there was also the enormous ‘IT’S NOT FAIR’ red signal in her head that wanted for Steven to come back. Not that she was mad at him or anything. Steven may have ran away, though it wasn’t cowardice the cause but utter despair and pain. Two things she knew darkly well because of the war and experiences someone like Steven didn’t deserve in his life.
If she could find him. If Bismuth could somehow talk with him via telepathy or dreams, she would tell him that it would be ok even if it didn’t look like it.
So, what if his life was based on acting or not acting like Pink? What if he gave up too many things for others and didn’t have aspirations for himself? What if Pink’s shadow completely suffocated him and stole from him his peace and time for the things he liked?
That didn’t mean he couldn’t built himself and his life on a foundation of his own liking. That didn’t mean he wasn’t allowed to determine how his path might be even if the others wouldn’t understand. That didn’t mean he should let her mother’s legacy consume him even if he was part of that legacy.
Steven was a Crystal Gem and much better than anyone. He could fight with both powers and words. He could be strong with fierceness and compassion. But most importantly, he was his and therefore he could choose. He could be whole again.
However, he didn’t know it or maybe he stopped believing that was possible for him. Well, that little Bismuth wouldn’t be a problem for too long.
She –as the others- wasn’t sure where Steven could be, but if the chance of a clue about his whereabouts came to her, Bismuth would take it and gave him hope the same way he did for her. Because even different, even one being a hybrid and the other a gem, she knew how it felt to fall apart.
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sidespromptblog · 5 years
Text
Away: Part 6
One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, End
Summary: There’s no point staying in a place that does not welcome and loves you, there’s no point in causing yourself daily pain for people who would love for you to never exist again. That’s why he has to do this, to be selfish for himself, in a way that his host and the others could never grasp.
“Thomas?” 
Deceit’s terrified gasp filled the space of silence between the three of them, his makeup ran down his cheeks as he looked back at his host, although that certainly didn’t cover up how the color drained from his face as soon as his mismatched eyes landed on the familiar figure. He looked like he was about to be sick as he blindly grabbed for Remy’s sleeve, clenching it tight until his knuckles turned white. His breathing was loud in his ears as his heart painfully thudded in his chest, here was the person who had been partially responsible for how alone he had felt.. how ostracized he had been all because he was scary and his main purpose was “bad” and “evil”. A purpose that he hadn’t even decided on, one that was given to him without so much as a care in the world. A purpose he had taken and tried to do the right thing with, even if the others only saw him as evil. 
Until he couldn’t take it anymore. 
Remy’s hand was so warm that it practically burned as he seized Deceit’s wrist, pushing the frozen man behind him more than a little protectively as he glowered behind his sunglasses. “What did you call him?!” Remy had no idea who the guy was, or what his relation to Dee was given how alike they looked, but he didn’t give a damn. Dee looked downright terrified the moment that this Thomas guy had called him that name, and he wasn’t going to put up with it a second longer. “You know this clown Dee?”  
Deceit wordless seized the back of Remy’s shirt even tighter as he mutely nodded his head, a strangled whimper escaped his lips and that was the only answer that Remy needed. 
“Where have you been?!” Thomas ignored the guy blocking his sight from Deceit, he didn’t care who Deceit had manipulated into protecting him, he wanted answers. “Do you know how much of a mess things have been since you’ve been gone?! Do you know what Remus has done, and the damage control that’s been needed?” Thomas’ voice gradually rose into a shout as he stared accusingly back at Deceit, at that moment Deceit could easily tell that it was Patton doing most of the talking. “Do you know how selfish it was of you to leave like that?!” 
Something inside of Deceit crumbled like a soggy cookie at those words, of course, they hadn’t missed him. Him leaving might as well have been just another selfish act in the eyes of Patton, they have never wanted him around..but when he chose to leave he was still just another problem. They wouldn’t ever be happy, he’d always be a burden whether he was there or not. 
Of course, they still hated him, he had been right to tell himself that every single day. 
It just wasn’t fai-
“Shut up!” Remy snarled, the muscles in the back of his neck stood out as his fists clenched as if he was about to start swinging any second now. “Shut your stupid face, Dee is a goddamned adult and his own person. So fuck you and this gaslighting bullshit!” 
Looking back at Remy, he had never seen someone who consistently hid their eyes behind a pair of sunglasses look so damn expressive let alone furious. But here he was, someone who was not only angry… but angry FOR him. It was a new pill to swallow as he watched Remy’s jaw clench as his teeth ground together, all while Thomas’ continued to stand there with an unreadable expression plastered over his face and eyes. All his life he had been treated as less than, he had thought that it was just the way things were, for people to hate him as soon as they met him. But looking back at Emile, who offered so many things to him. Lunchtime cartoon sessions, the occasional packed lunch, the warm cup of cocoa on his desk each morning, and just… the warmest smiles. And then Remy, who he’d only met such a short while ago, already protecting him and mouthing off to someone he didn’t know. 
It sparked something in his chest...he wasn’t sure if it was fear, hope, or just trust. 
But with it, he knew what to do, as his heart raced in his chest, and his lungs felt as if a weight had been placed on them. 
“I’m not going back,” He told Thomas with as strong of a voice as he could, with honestly… wasn’t very strong at all. “There will be a new Deceit to take my place, I’m..I’m done being treated how I was. Done.” 
With his words ringing final, and terror rising up in his throat as what little courage he had left to face his host...he did the only thing that he could do in that moment of high stress and utter unadulterated cowardice.
He turned and he ran.
He ignored the sound of Remy’s voice calling out to him, just as he ignored the sound of Thomas’ voice mixing with it. He ran and he ran, even though the flats that he was running in really weren’t meant to be run in, he ran past the warm orange glow of trick or treaters making their way down several houses with a loud cheer that filled the air. He ran until he could no longer hear the others behind him, and he ran until the crowd of children and adults alike dressed in costumes eventually thinned out until there was nobody left. He ran until he got the unwelcoming side of the city, to where his apartment laid squished between two other apartment complexes.
The frost had already spread over all of his windows by the time that he made it back inside, the chill that hung in the air sank in his very bones by the time that he made it back inside somehow managing to lock the door with his shaking hands. 
Shambling over to the bedroom he slowly removed his costume and the hair extensions that had come with it, until finally, he was standing motionlessly in front of his bed. The apartment was dark and cold, and the freezing cold floorboards creaked with each and every movement of his feet, but at that moment… after everything that had happened in the past hour Deceit honestly could have cared less about any of that. Especially as a wave of exhaustion hit him like a sledgehammer, making his bones feel all the wearier. Sinking down into his bed, curling up among the sheets and blankets, it finally seemed to really sink in as his eyes burned and stung. 
“They really don’t care about me…” He finally whispered to himself, his bottom lip trembling as he clutched his pillow close to his chest. A part of him had hoped, had clung to that pure desperation to be loved, that the others would miss him would come looking for him and tell him how much they loved him. But… “They hate me.”
Tears cascaded down his cheeks like an open unstoppable waterfall, as his lonely empty sobs filled the apartment.
Running away had been one thing… but this… knowing for certain that the others didn’t care. It…
It was a hell of his own making. 
For the rest of the night, he wept and sobbed into his pillows, hugging them close until he couldn’t cry anymore, and when that time finally came, he fell into a fitful sleep surrounded by a cold apartment without a single hint of warmth to be found in it. 
 The very next morning, as Emile anxiously waited next to Deceit’s desk, a cup of hot cocoa waiting just as it always was. And for the first time since he had started that job… Deceit didn’t show up.
Not this day.
Or the next.
Or even the one after that.
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whatscallion · 5 years
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rise: ch. viii
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//- A Medieval AU based on some Marvel parallels that follows Natalia Romanova in her rise to divinity.
Chapter Summary: The God Widow’s hunt continues as the threads of The Order’s web fall prey to her wiles in an effort to rid the Free World of the ingrained corruption.
Chapter Word Count: 1,428
Previous Chapters: Prologue - One - Two - Three - Four - Five - Six - Seven
Tagging: @cptsteven @blackberrywidow​ ( message / ask to get tagged! )
It had not been so easy. There had been an underlying understanding that to rid the world of this slithering regime, all one needed to do was cut the head off the snake. But in the brilliant absence of St. Johann, more false idols prevailed. The vacuum of his absence demanded to be filled in one way or another, through cunning cowardice or violent upheaval. The cathedrals fell away, splintered from The Order yet still bearing its brand and colors. Each piece of stained glass now glistened in a farce wrapped in lies, layered one on top of the other. An unfortunate turn unforeseen, yet surprise was absent as light was shed upon a fierce opportunity none could pass up. The weak defeated one another in pitiful attempts to grasp at slivers if elusive power, allowing the twisted branches of a forged tree to become diseased in their own right.
And yet none dare think of Saint Johann’s demise and the newborn legend surrounding it. There had been low murmurings, as if speaking any louder would bring the wrath down upon the gossipers. God had taken form, tearing down the walls and claiming blasphemy upon the thin shoulders of a once revered leader. In His anger, fire ignited to purge Rifthelm of The Order’s own beating heart. A lie cleansed, only to leave a charred scar upon the fabric of history, ash smeared in relevant chaos. Beneath the dull veneer of day to day existence, a scramble occurred in the wake of perceived devastation.
The God Widow grew quiet, and most thought she burned to cinder as a foolish martyr for a cause larger than the followers. The new bishops would learn their folly in forced ignorance, for the God Widow survived. In the following months, it was learned that her initial efforts, though monumental, did not allow her peace. The fated destiny bestowed upon strong shoulders was left unfulfilled, searing mirth into veins of granite. Johann had reached many, and these contingencies were not of his doing.
But like all infestations, there had to be a lethal retribution in retaliation.
The land surrounding Gothamite proved to be barely suitable for subtle trap, though the contrast between moonlight and lack thereof remained its only redeeming quality. Though the obscure objective was fundamental at best, it was always so easy to watch as those proclaiming to be better than most fell for it so willingly. Intricacies were hidden within the quiet details throughout every aspect, even the casual fire burning away. It was meant to be seen as a mistake - bait, even. In the darkness of the midnight land, a beacon of light drew the attention of those willing to seek out those who were not welcome. A crude tent was propped up just beyond the halo of light the burning embers offered, complete with a bored equestrian beast beside it. The scene was set, and all that was needed now was the action to work as a brilliant catalyst.
They weren’t as silent as they had thought, the frozen leaves crunching beneath soft snow with each hurried step they had taken. It was a beginner’s mistake, and one they would pay dearly for. Four men wearing the fortuned colors of The Order maneuvered through the ghostlike trees, pupils wide to soak in as much of the ambient light as possible. Borders of Gothamite were covertly and routinely surveyed to maintain the recruitment of newcomers to the shambles of an agency fallen from grace and power. Their combined arrogance by simply upholding a banner was enough to create a sloppy relic of a streamlined and efficient past. If there was one thing the God Widow could find favorable in the The Order, it was it’s creation of absolute and nearly otherworldly killers. There was rarely a sect in this world that could compare, yet little ambition held her in finding such places. There were bigger and far more prevailing things upon the horizon, beckoning her attention further.
Four men, cloaked and cowled as if they were His own gift to the world. Momentarily, Natalia found herself curious of what was passed through the bastardized bloodlines and skillsets. By this display alone, they were surely as pathetic as even the most lowly of rejects. In that instant, a pang in her heart nearly stole her breath away, the image of Matthias crossing her mind. It was a vivid painting, one that put weight upon the letter nestled within her coat. Such minute anguish would be channeled in precise and combustive moments, acting as necessary fuel in order to remain as determined as ever.
They moved in closer to the small camp, unaware of the danger lurking overhead. The horse - perceived as granite in color in the lack of brilliant hues - gave a bored sway of its head, barely granting them any mind as it returned back to gnawing on the metal bar in its mouth. Peace and tranquility exuded from the small site, yet it wouldn’t last.
Four men. Four arrows. One release.
This was child’s play, the bow lowering as the men fell. Obsidian blurred the edges of their silhouettes against the untouched snow, the crimson of their blood unseen until morning light. Silence was no longer necessary as the renowned God Widow sank into the snow from her perch among the brittle treetops. Three men remained still in their haphazard slumber on cold snow. One was left alive intentionally, though it wouldn’t be for long. Though her expertise lie with the brandished steel of a sword, there was no doubting her proficiency in nearly anything within her grasp, capable of turning everything into a suitable weapon, be it knife or arrow.
“You wear blasphemous colors,” she spoke dully, coming upon the lone survivor before crouching over him. The arrow protruded crudely from his chest, her hand now grasping the shaft to garner his attention in full with the lightning of pain shooting through him. “Do you know who it is that made you fall?”
“Y-Yes. Th-Th God W-Widow,” he stammered, voice thick with his own blood. His answer brought no change in her stony expression, save for the tightening of her grip upon the arrow. Fear overtook him.
“The Order is in Gothamite, is it not?” In the shadows, he was painted a coward in harsh brushstrokes, and Natalia was thoroughly unimpressed. This was not a man worthy to follow even the most twisted of beliefs.
He nodded in response to her question, the idea of brandishing his stiletto miles from any amount of coherent thought or logic.
“Curious. I may have to do something about that. Might I get the name of the vulture leading this particular cathedral? I’ve a need to finish what I’ve started.” The dark and dulcet tones of the fire-haired woman conveyed nonchalance, as if this was simply another deed in another day without the weakness of sympathy. This poison was infecting good men, and she was meant to eradicate at the expense of their own lives. It was a means to an end, and she would bring the entire web of lies down with her if necessary.
“M-M-...” The boy was struggling, which served to test her patience enough to begin a slow twist of the arrow in order to pull his attention back to her with a pained shriek. A curl of her lips brought a defined angle in the ethereal lighting. “C-Cardinal Z-Zemo.”
The name was familiar enough to give her all the information she needed. One of the prominent followers beneath the deceased Saint Johann, known for his relentless determination. It was laughable to her, at least, that he sought out Gothamite, of all places, to begin his own small regime. Truly, she wanted to balk at his choice of venue, as well as the pitiful scouts he had sent out. Their deaths would surely signal her coming, and retribution would fall upon the Cardinal swiftly.
The God Widow leaned down further, her small form huddled over the dying man so her whisper held more weight in its intimacy in his last moments.
“Give Johann my regards,” she purred, brandishing her teeth in a smile almost too broad for her face before pulling the arrow from the man’s chest without mercy. A handful of seconds was all he was afforded in his short life, lips barely forming around a cry for his mother before he was simply no more.
The wrath she’d used in Rifthelm was stoked once more, directed now at the grittiness of Gothamite and its inhabitants.
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thedreadgay · 5 years
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just for today
series: old soldiers, old love word count: 735 author’s notes: GOD i had this sitting like 80% finished for like a year. anyway here she is now. a lead up to a big multichapter fic i have planned, and a followup of sorts to left behind but u don’t like GOTTA read it. takes place in the reflections comic! enjoy!!
EDIT: wrote this before jack was revealed to be gay lol im going to be reworking all my shit for this series so it’s anareaper76 polyam V instead. im not super into ovw rn so i’ve been slow, but i will do it!!! thanks for ur patience!
Ana grimaced out at the baking sand. They were safe for the moment—Jack blew her stakeout, damn him, but Talon would be scurrying to the shadows to lick their wounds. It would be a little while until their fingers reached into Cairo again, but only a little. Nothing ever truly sleeps.
At least it bought them time, and respite, both for the people here and for her. But with a lull came empty silence, taunting them with words gone unsaid.
Ana glanced over at Jack. It hadn’t been very long since they found each other again—and since Gabriel found them. Between fleeing the scene of the busted operation, finding refuge, and swapping intel, there hadn’t been time to truly talk... until now.
Six years apart; six years of presumed dead and wondering where it all went wrong. Sometimes, in her dreary haze, Ana had dreamed of reuniting with the men she loved. It would play like a silent film, distant and unreal, an indulgence that proved more cruel in the end. Here's your fool fantasy, she thought bitterly: Gabriel tried to kill them, and Ana and Jack were sitting on opposite ends of a bare-bones room, pointedly trying to ignore their ghosts and the date.
That morning, December 25th lighting up her holopad had been a punch in the gut. Neither she nor Jack celebrated Christmas in their own right, but it had a special place. Others in their family loved it, and loved to share it; and a day of gift giving and cuddling in ugly sweaters wasn’t so bad.
Gabriel loved Christmas, she thought.
Ana sighed quietly, and shifted, painfully aware of the loneliness in the room. Being by herself, she could handle. Being with Jack, with so much to say that the words wouldn’t come, was unbearable.
“Disengage, Ana!” She remembered Jack’s voice over her comm like it was yesterday. “That’s an or—“
She hadn’t allowed him his last words to her, before rushing to greet her death. The echo of it hung heavy between them.
Jack sighed too, and rubbed his face tiredly. He was still gazing at that photograph, on print, between his fingers; what it was, Ana could only guess.
She cracked open her dry mouth, and then closed it again. Trying to shape anything between them further than strategy was like gazing at rubble, pieces of something splintered unrecognizably. Jack must have been just as lost, otherwise he wouldn’t be so quiet. He had never been particularly quiet. But then again, neither had she. A humourless smile flitted across her lips—how empty they’ve become. She wondered if Gabriel felt the same.
The atmosphere was so utterly crushing, she almost wanted to leave the room, even if it was only a temporary escape of inevitable discomfort. But... Jack was here. Jack was here—and she had been alone for so long. She guessed from the lines on his face that he’d been lonely, too. Her old heart ached, because oh, she loved him. She loved them both.
Jack glanced up at her, and Ana realized she had been staring. For a moment, blue eyes held brown—longing, and apprehensive, and Ana didn't have to wonder if Jack still loved them too. Part of her wanted to scoff; why wallow and pine when they could do something about it? She could march over there right now and hold him, kiss him.
But it was so much, so soon. Their history was long, their lives together in shambles, and so they remained in uneasy liminity; neither daring to speak nor move.
Ana took a breath. In an act of bravery—or cowardice—she stood. Jack’s eyes didn't leave her face, nervous and questioning.
“Maintenance,” she murmured, grabbing her rifle and kit. Truly, her rifle hardly needed any attention at the moment, but anything was better than this feeling like suffocation.
Jack looked like he could sag in relief. “Good idea.”
He folded his photo away as she did her memories. She opened her kit while Jack fetched his own gear, and narrowed her focus. For now, they could fill the void between them with the smell of grease, and busy unsure hands with steel. Maybe they could stave off the many, many conversations to be had, without the isolation that had been eating away at them. At least for today, Ana thought—just to get through today.
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wizardsnwookies · 5 years
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POTA 101618 - The Eye
“You dare challenge the Lord of Lance Rock? What sort of fools are you?” The manic voice echoed in the small chamber, barely two meters squared. It was calm and deliberate in its speech, yet trembled  with each word as if naked within a great snowstorm. Elora searched the room for it’s owner, but the voice was like a ghost, drifting through the air cold and unseen. The two chests that were all too tempting stood empty, and it was quite clear now that this chamber was yet another trap. Without a second’s hesitation, she turned on her delicate heels and leaped back into the narrow hallway. Dust and debris flew through the air, a horrid crashing sounded behind her, and two strong arms hoisted her back up on her feet in time to see an avalanche of boulders tumbling from the ceiling in the room behind her.
“You alright?” Banshea let her grip loosen, she knew all too well how dangerous these sort of traps could be.
“I’m fine, just a bit disappointed. I was rather hoping to find something worth our while in there.” Elora cast a longing glance back to the empty chests.
“There will be time enough for gold once this madman is dealt with.” Dion stepped forward into the room, manuvering around a floor piled with loose stone and gravel. His heightened senses could smell something, the sweet and sour scent of death, if only faintly. He circled around the walls until he felt the barest hint of a breeze against his skin.
“Here...a spyhole.”
“He was watching us? He can’t be that far then.” Miv seemed to have an energy about him that he lacked back in town. He had personally dispatched the undead soul trapped in the Bear costume. It felt...good. He was finally seeing his hard work and study bear fruit.
“I suspect not. Was there not another doorway around the corner?”
“Yeah, there was.” Miv smirked. He was faster than anyone else in group by a wide margin, and he knew it.
“I’ll head him off, make sure he doesn’t escape.”
“Miv wait!” By it was too late, Dion raised his hand to stop him but found only empty air. He heard the slapping of feet upon stone, The slamming of a door, and then silence.
The horror of what lay beyond that door was something Miv was not prepared for. He had heard of the evils of the outside world. He knew now how foolish that was, to even try and commit the sins of man to something so shallow and meaningless as words. Words were not enough to describe what he saw in the long vaulted chamber. In the years to come, the closest he would come would be the description of how it felt in that moment. Revulsion, terror, anger, all in a single moment. 
“By the gods...”
“No, the gods aren’t here.” Miv’s companions fell in behind him, meanwhile before him the shadows parted and gave birth to a man wrapped in linens stained a copper red. Stepping into the light, it became clear that this blood was not that of his victims, but himself.
“There is only the Eye.” His flesh peeled away in long, confident gashes, weeping tears of bloods. An emblem of a great eye, carefully carved into his own skin, several times over. Far too many to count.
“What you do here...is unspeakable heresy.” Dion clutched to his holy symbol, as if it could protect him from the nightmares that filled his vision. “These poor souls deserve rest. They deserve peace.”
“They are MINE! They serve a far greater purpose than  mortals could possible offer.” Behind the scarred man, the shadows split once again, from which horrors of bone and rot stood without the support of muscle and nerve. At the foot of several long flat stones, a twitching caused piles of blood and flesh to fall away. Severed hands, so cleanly cut at the wrist, skittered on long, uncut nails. The man looked upon his servants and opened his arms wide.
“Look. Look at what the Lord of Lance Rock has wrought.”
"You talk too much.” With a flourish, Flea pounded the butt of his hammer upon the ground. The great iron head glowed a pale blue and exploded in light. Streaks and smears of white fog burst forth, encircling the shambling mockeries of life. They bound them with their light, burned what flesh was left upon them. If the undead might feel pain, they would surely be screaming in agony.
Banshae took that as the signal to move, rising her shield up just in time to deflect a volley of arrows their way. She pushed through it, closing the distance as fast as her armored frame might carry her, and when she was finally within range, her sword sang. Elora’s crossbow returned fire, doing little against those who have such little flesh. Yet, one of her bolts flew true, striking the ‘Lord’ in the thigh, sinking in deep.
“Why, why do you resist? Don’t you understand? Don’t you SEE?!” The air rippled and with a single thrust of the palm, flames erupted from the air itself. They rolled in upon themselves in a broiling mass before sent hurtling back towards the front of the cavern.
The heat was unimaginable, so much so it snapped Miv from his trance. The tingling of flesh and scorching of hair woke him to the moment. So this was magic? He wasn’t so sure he liked it. All around him his comrades were either regaining their ground after diving away from the inferno, or engaged in a struggle to the death with the monstrosities created here. The ‘Lord’ was left open, fleeing in an act of cowardice that contradicted the bravado with which he spoke.
Digging in, Miv burst into a run. Two meters, he ducked just in time to avoid another volley from the vile archers. Four meteres, he leaped in a high arc over a long flat boulder acting as some kind twisted doctor’s table. Six meter, his fingers curled and grasped linen cloth. The ‘Lord’s’ vestments were his own undoing. Taking a fistfull of the fabric, Miv yanked hard sending the man crashing to the ground on his back. The monk was on him in less than a second, knee pressed hard against the sternum.
“You’re not going anywhere pal.”
“You don’t see it...” The looked at Miv with something that resembled pity. “You will never see. You are not worthy.”
“Yeah, that’s enough out of you.” A stone fist strike struck him hard in the jaw and Miv was thrown back in a burst of heat and flames. Fire liked the ceiling, billowing black smoke that filled his lungs. His eyes watering, throat aching, Miv tossed large handfuls of dirt upon the blaze. When it was finally extinguished, the ‘Lord of Lance Rock’ was no more.
---
“What is it?” The  glowing orb floated six feet in the air without any support. Living, pulsating light in the shape of a great eye. Miv wondered to himself, was this really all that stood between sanity and madness? 
“Some sort of illusionary magic.” Dion stood mere inches from the orb, examining it with an intensity that only came visible in the cleric when performing his sacred duty.
“That’s all you got?” Flea scoffed.
“I am a Priest, a giver of peace to the dead, not a wizard. I will need time to study it to get anything further.” The cleric turned a quizzical gaze to his companion.
“What about you? Clearly you have some experience in this realm. That spell you cast in battle, what was it?”
“That was no spell, that was family.” Flea smiled.
Buy Me a Coffee
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dasha-nova · 7 years
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David Wong ‘John Dies at the End’ Quotes – P. I
“Hello?” “Dave? This is John. Your pimp says bring the heroin shipment tonight, or he’ll be forced to stick you. Meet him where we buried the Korean whore. The one without the goatee.” That was code. It meant “Come to my place as soon as you can, it’s important.” Code, you know, in case the phone was bugged. “John, it’s three in the—” “Oh, and don’t forget, tomorrow is the day we kill the president.” Click. He was gone. That last part was code for, “Stop and pick me up some cigarettes on the way.” Actually, the phone probably was bugged, but I was confident the people doing it could just as easily do some kind of remote intercept of our brain waves if they wanted, so it was moot.
Shelly lived in a simple two-story farmhouse, black shutters on white siding. It sat on an island of turf in a sea of harvest-flattened cornfields. We walked past a mailbox shaped like a cow and saw a hand-painted sign on the front door that read THE MORRISON’S—ESTABLISHED 1962. John and I had a long debate at the door about whether or not that apostrophe belonged there.
“You see, because John and I have this thing where we’re both seeing completely different versions of you. Now, John has eyesight problems because of his constant masturbation, but I don’t think—” She burst into snakes.
I heard Molly plop down on the floor below. I reached down to pet her and she licked my hand the way dogs do. I wondered why in the world they felt the need to do that. I’ve often thought about trying it the next time somebody got their fingers close to my mouth, like at the dentist. John came back twenty minutes later, wearing what must have been the smallest towel he could find.
The man-shaped arrangement of meat rose up, as if functioning as one body. It pushed itself up on two arms made of game hens and country bacon, planting two hands with sausage-link fingers on the floor. The phrase “sodomized by a bratwurst poltergeist” suddenly flew through my mind. Finally it stood fully upright, looking like the mascot for a butcher shop whose profits went entirely to support the owner’s acid habit.
Molly came by just then, trotting along like everything was just A-OK in Dogland. Then she noticed some meat standing nearby and started happily chewing on a six-inch-wide tube of bologna serving as the thing’s ankle.
They say Los Angeles is like The Wizard of Oz. One minute it’s small-town monochrome neighborhoods and then boom—all of a sudden you’re in a sprawling Technicolor freak show, dense with midgets. Unfortunately, this story does not take place in Los Angeles. The place I was sitting was a small city in the Midwest which will remain undisclosed for reasons that will become obvious later. I was at a restaurant called “They China Food!” which was owned by a couple of brothers from the Czech Republic who, as far as I could tell, didn’t know a whole lot about China or food.
“Hey,” I mumbled. “Are you Arnie?” “Yeah. Did you doze off there?” He shook my hand. “Uh, no. I was just tryin’ to rub somethin’ off the back of my eyelid. I’m David Wong. Good to meet ya”.
He said, “Okay. Your family live around here?” Getting right to it, then. “I was adopted. Never knew my real dad. You could be my dad, for all I know. Are you my dad?” “Eh, I don’t think so."
It squatted and peed on the grass, ran over to another spot and peed there, too. Marking this whole new world as its territory. It came toward me at a trot, the chain hissing through the grass behind it. It sniffed around my shoes, decided I was dead, I guess, and began snuffling around my pockets to see if I had died with any beef jerky on me.
A brass tag, on its collar. Etched with a message. I’M MOLLY. PLEASE RETURN ME TO . . . . . . with an address in Undisclosed listed below. At least seven miles from home. I wondered how long it had taken the animal to etch that tag.
The Jamaican turned his gaze on me, trying to pull off the piercing stare of the exotic voodoo priest. It was an expression that was supposed to make me hear theremin music in my head. “You gotta love the skeptic, mon,” the guy said in a rubber accent that was part Jamaican, part Irish and part pirate.
His gaze froze on me. I had a familiar, nervous sensation, one that goes all the way back to elementary school. It’s the simultaneous realization that I may have talked my way into another fistfight, and that I had not spent any time learning to fight since the last one.
“Do you dream, mon? I interpret dreams for beer.” That’s the town of Undisclosed in a nutshell. This run-down half city with more weirdos per capita than you’ll find anywhere outside of San Francisco. We should have that printed on the green population sign coming into town: WELCOME TO [UNDISCLOSED]. DREAMS INTERPRETED FOR BEER.
I almost launched myself at the guy. But, once again a probable trip to the hospital was avoided by physical cowardice. This guy could probably kick my ass even without magical powers. I was so wired at this point I had the insane urge to punch one of those girls instead. Probably lose that fight, too.
“You know what, mon, why don’t you take your fake Jamaican accent and get back on the boat to Fake Jamaica,” is another thing it would have been cool to say, had I thought of it. Instead I sort of mumbled and made a dismissive motion with my hand as I stumbled into the crowd, acting like the conversation failed to hold my interest.
“You like so few people, Dave. He’s cool. He bet me a beer he could guess my weight. Got it on the first try. Amazing stuff.” “Do you even know how much you weigh?” “Not exactly. But he couldn’t have been off by more than a few pounds.”
TELLING THE STORY now, I’m tempted to say something like, “Who would have thought that John would help bring about the end of the world?” I won’t say that, though, because most of us who grew up with John thought he would help end the world somehow.
But I told him if he ever got into that kind of trouble again without telling me I would not only kick his ass, but would in fact beat him until he died, then pursue him into the afterlife and beat his eternal soul. So John being spaced out on crank or crack or skank tonight wasn’t reason to declare a national holiday, but at least he came to me this time.
From day one it was like society was this violent, complicated dance and everybody had taken lessons but me. Knocked to the floor again and again, climbing to my feet each time, bloody and humiliated. Always met with disapproving faces, waiting for me to leave so I’d stop fucking up the party. They wanted to push me outside, where the freaks huddled in the cold. Out there with the misfits, the broken, glazed-eye types who can only watch as the normals enjoy their shiny new cars and careers and marriages and vacations with the kids. The freaks spend their lives shambling around, wondering how they got left out, mumbling about conspiracy theories and Bigfoot sightings. Their encounters with the world are marked by awkward conversations and stifled laughter, hidden smirks and rolled eyes. And worst of all, pity. Sitting there on that night in April, I pictured myself getting shoved out there with them, the sound of doors locking behind me. Welcome to freakdom, Dave. It’ll be time to start a Web site soon, where you’ll type out everything in one huge paragraph. It was like dying.
“Woof!” “Shut up!” “WOOF!” “Hey! I said shut up! Get your feet off my car!” “WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!” “Shut up! Shut up! Shut! Up!” This went on for longer than I care to admit, and it ended with me getting out and leaning my seat forward so Molly could jump into the back. Yes, the entire spiraling trajectory my life took since that night was because I lost a debate with a dog.
John was always bitching about “Wally” and how greedy “Wally” was and how he should have given me a raise by now. He didn’t realize that there was no person named “Wally” in the Wally’s organization. That was the name of the DVD-shaped mascot on the store’s sign. I never had the heart to tell him.
“That bratwurst was three bucks? Holy crap. Okay. Give me a second. All right. Check between the sausage and the bun. You’ll find a hundred dollar bill folded up in there.” Encouraged that maybe all this black magic could actually produce something positive, I fingered around under the sausage for a few seconds. “Nothing here, John.” “Okay. I guess I can’t do that. Do you have your ATM card?"
A round, frosty lump the size of a coffee can tumbled out of the freezer, fell to the floor, rolled to a stop two feet away from me. I stared at it, stared into the open, empty freezer. I steeled my courage— —then turned and ran my ass off.
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ikkaku-of-heart · 3 years
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@medicus-mortem​ replied to this post:
Law gives Ikkaku a hug. It involves a ruffling of hair.
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Ikkaku latches her arms around him tightly and refuses to let go, enjoying the hug and the feeling of her hair getting played with. He’s stuck there for a good long while. Sorry Law (she’s not really sorry).
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