obstructedantiquity

[obstructedantiquity]

mirkstrolls‌:

For all their silliness, Riccin has always had a distressing way of seeing to the truth of you. You open your mouth to claim you don’t know what they’re talking about – and shut it with a click of your fangs. Haven’t you built a different Vide for every person who needed it? Or does it count as a different Vide, when it’s the same you underneath? And what do they mean by leaning in that close, when you’re not anything to each other anymore?

“Is,” you say, out of breath and bewildered, and then realize no, nope, you’ve got to try again. “Is it only doubt as hatches error, though? What about o-ver-con-fee-dence?” It’s a word you know, but you draw it out anyway, lilting from syllable to syllable, raising your eyebrows high, high, high. Your tongue dances the way your body can’t, on account of holding yourself very still and very biddable under Riccin’s touch. Not the stillness of a mouse under a snake’s eye, you tell yourself. The stillness of a snake itself, biding its time.

And striking. “The cards?” you ask, sharp, before you remember to watch your tone, girl. “Them – those fortune-telling cards, you mean? Because – because Riccin, you’re joking with me, right?”

Ori gets her cards read. Mister Vadaya gets his cards read. Jerath got his cards read, by the pretty (pretty mean) redblood in the street stall. And now Riccin, apparently, gets their cards read, because the entire world is just full of suckers! 

“Right?” you say again, less sharp this time. “You are smart,” and you would gently bap their shoulder but you don’t think you’re meant to touch them right now, so you just sort of hover your hand above their sleeve instead, “and I know you wouldn’t rely on – on some fortune-teller’s say-so that you won’t get caught. ‘Spect you make a very pretty indigo anyway, enough that no one will catch you, but why? And what happens if that Mister Chiloa catches wind of it?”

Poor thing's gone breathless on you! Rennis stumbles over her words like each one's a mistake, but she sorts it out in the space between one breath and another. Doubt lathers her words, even as her eyebrows go up in the most silent of incredulities, and it's a courtesy to go and move your hands off of her.

Or you would, if she didn't go and hover her hand right over your sleeve, like touching you'll get her bit. You look down at it, eyebrows arched to the barest fucking degree, but she's gabbing away, her tone so much less fretful than her actions.

Laughing's cruel! But what the fuck else are you supposed to do with this? You pull your hands back, shoving them neatly into the pockets of your skirt, and you smirk at her, lip curled just enough to show the edge of a fang. "Nah, sister, ain't no mirth to these tales. But don't you worry none. Got more than just cards on my side, yeah?"

"And Chiloa -" It's your turn to pause. Your ears twitch as you think, and most of you wants to stay loyal. But then your pan drifts back to that conversation, playing like a sour threnody in the back of your pan, and.. nah. "Chiloa can suck it," you drawl, rolling your shoulders in a lazy shrug. "Nobodies gonna catch a hint, girl."

You shouldn't. You /shouldn't/ be making this offer, but that doesn't stop you from adding: "- want me to prove it?"

>VIDELE: Get Down with the Clown

[obstructedantiquity]

@obstructedantiquity I started this last week and only just now had time to finish  (￣▽￣)ゞ 

[obstructedantiquity]

If you’re still accepting these: one for this dork?

/taps microphone

I’ve been digging just sort of basking in the fan troll community since starting this blog, but I haven’t actively engaged with anyone on tumblr like. ever. hmu with a troll and maybe I’ll draw it in the next couple days.

[obstructedantiquity]

mirkstrolls‌:

You were right: the cruel light in Riccin’s eye winks out the second you back down. Doesn’t make you feel great, when what you want to do is nettle them until they laugh, but you can start from scratch, it’s okay. The worst bit is you can’t touch them as much as you’d touch an ordinary friend, or even a stranger! 

You tuck your hands into your pockets, twisting your fingers around each other like . “Oh, no, it would be like kissing a mirror. And–”

Are they saying they’re going to try pretending to be indigo? Try as you might, you can’t keep your face from blanching, your eyes from going saucer-wide again. They’re watching you closely, waiting to see how you react – all you can do is smooth out your features and say, “Same face, just painted! It looks nice, though, it really does.

“But,” you add in a rush, “but aren’t you worried? Don’t you think someone will recognize you? They’re gonna turn you into paint, they find out you’re playing indigo.” Deep breath in. “’Course it’s none of my business. Except as a friend, who is worried about my friend getting in trouble with the law! What are you up to, that you wanna play this?”

See, there, things are settling back in.

The knit of Rennis's clothes shift. You know your girl, for all that she ain't any longer, and you know the paths of her mind. Her fingers ache to touch, to loop through yours, or to wind her clawtips into the tassel of your braid, or to twist hard into the drape of your cloak. But she doesn't. And you can't begrudge a motherfucker for craving the past, not when it'd been so easy for you to do the same.

Had been. Raphae's gift hadn't crossed your mind much in perigees, not after Chiloa's reprimand, but now you suppose you'll have to go and send your brother some thanks.

"Poor snake," you tease, rolling your shoulders back. Her face's pale, under the dark swathe of her skin, and you oughtn't be doing this. "Ain't you folks all about shedding your skin? Startin' the fuck anew? And yet you come lecturing to me, dripping those fears off your tongue like the most vile kind of venom. Like this shit ain't the way of your kin?" You oughtn't do this at all, but that doesn't stop you from leaning forward, resting a hand on her shoulder as you purr: "- the way of your fucking soul?"

"With doubt comes error, little green." You tap your fingers, light as the thrum of an undiscovered lie, right against the curve of her treacherous fucking jaw. That's the trap of Rennis: green-flushed, blood-bleached, she's still the same snake under all of it, poisonous and sweet-faced enough you almost want to forgive. Do you want her laying fronds on you? No. But there’s that trill of something, over setting the rules and the ways of this interaction, of knowing she’s as sour over this as you. (As you were.) "And I've had enough fucking doubts.

"Don't worry, now. Got this all planned out. A motherfucker will not slip." And, oh, you're slipping now, right into old habits as you add, lids set low, words so sly she mightn't even buy you ain't playin': "- the cards said it was fucking so."

>VIDELE: Get Down with the Clown

[obstructedantiquity]

mirkstrolls‌:

On second thought, this was a bad idea. You see it in the faint slitting of their eyes; you hear it in the low purr in their voice. My, my, in a low rumble that turns your stomach. You’re on shaky ground here! And their next words – oh, you should never have tried to out-shame Riccin. 

You feel the rush of blood go sweep up from your neck to your hairline as they give you a look. “That’s not what I – oh.” You pretend to notice something your skirt and bend to brush it away, just so you don’t have to look them in the eye, before trying to move on with questions about their clothes. 

But your recovery doesn’t recover well – they might have been joking before, but now they’re warning you. You snatch your hands back, fold them together nicely at your waist. “I don’t mean to needle you about Pheres,” you say, trying for more casual. “He’s not my type neither! I mean!” You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Well!” You’re going to have to start again.

Deep breath in, Vide. They went and got that clown to dip his fingers in their pan, and you shouldn’t be surprised that it took. You shake off the memory of how things used to be, pack it away in a little box in your heart.

“I’m sorry,” you say, as frankly as you can. “I didn’t mean to come off scolding you. It is good to see you, truly. And moving up? How so?” You are trying to keep any imperiousness out of your voice. Your hands are back at your waist – you stand back a little, allowing Riccin their space. “I’m afraid I’ve only been drifting here and there – did you get a new rank in the church?” 

The first time you'd met, you'd gotten such a fucking thrill out of teasing Rennis. You'd plucked and you'd nudged at the strings of her feels, drawn them taut and teased them loose, until there was green up to her ears and fire in her eyes. It'd been such a pleasure! You'd sworn it serendipity, from that very first meet, and you've never quite regretted it, no matter how sour the song went in the end.

She's green-cheeked now, but there's no fire in her eyes. She ducks her head, hands flitting to her waist like she's afraid you'll snatch them loose. When her chest sinks in, deep, deep, deeper than she usually ever manages, there's a thrill of guilt to it, enough that you let your head loll back and your eyes drift away. The edge to your words feels unneccessary, now.

Nah, get it right: a lie's a lie, even if it's in your own head. It feels fucking cruel, and maybe Kindra would go nipping at you over if she deserves your goddamn kindness, but your brother ain't here. Your brother's locked away in his tower, 'til you wrest the both of you loose, and tonight's the first step in that, you reckon, if you can just keep on track.

There's no cause to be wretched to someone you were ash for, though, no matter how the relationship turned. So you shrug, languid, at her apology, then step forward. Rennis is so fucking small, a single weed amongst the blue-pink forests of Derevnya, and it's a bit of a pain to look down at her. If things were the way they used to be, you'd have plucked up her braid, draped an arm across her shoulder -

- but part of you snarls at what you'd see in her hair if you did, and there's nothing in the idea of contact that seems tolerable right now. Maybe kindness ain't pretending things are how they used to be. But civility, you reckon, is leastways in the truth. "Aw, little green, don't reckon you can needle me," you tell her, but your words are warmer, less poison pressed into the curve of each vowel. "A motherfucker was just askin', that's all. Why, if you wish to go dredgin' in the rust, who am I to fucking judge?"

"New rank. New face. New name," you say, and you watch her face. Kindra had been all fear and froth, choking on all the possibilities, no matter how you'd sorted them. "It's a new sweep, sister. Why not make a change?"

>VIDELE: Get Down with the Clown

[obstructedantiquity]

mirkstrolls‌:

Oh, they are without a care in the world, of course they are. You put aside the small sick feeling in your stomach – at that, at the half-smile touching their mouth – and cross the street to stand nearer them. Goodness, they’re tall. Away from them, with Jerath off raiding, you’d near forgotten what it was like to be towered over like this. Heats your cheeks a little, it does, to be so forward with someone so tall and pretty and clown-clad.

“Yes, you should have!” you say, crisply. “I haven’t seen you in forever, and I’ve never known you to be shy. Unless you’re only here to see Pheres ‘specially, which…” You raise your eyebrows and purse your lips, prim as they come. “Here I thought you’d got over that.”

Which is maybe a little rude! But Riccin’s always liked you feisty, so you hope it’ll slide by. Not that it would be hard to back down! You never flinch from a little grovelling.

“So what brings you up this-a-way, then? And what’s all this?” You twitch one of their strings of beads with two fingers, rolling the carved –bone? wood? – to and fro. “You look lovely! Don’t think I’ve ever seen you in all that paint, though.”

Look at her just stepping on up, like ain’t a thing changed ‘tween the two of you.

A few perigees ago, you would’ve slipped into line, easy as any fish in the mud. You’d been so keen to escape wallowin’, to escape your own wretched tangle, you would’ve kissed her wrists for the grace she was giving, for letting you pretend that nothing had ever gone wrong, for sweeping it all under the fucking rug. Your gratitude would’ve ran so deep.

That was perigees ago. The well’s run dry, and there’s nothing but a sort of flat incredulity sparking in your heart as her cheeks flush green, pretty as a picture, and she bites off each word as sharp as a lecture. “My,” you purr, drawing out the word. “My. Ain’t you just nosy? Gotten over what, sister? My flush ambitions? Any motherfucker should’ve known those were long quenched.”

Dysseu might throttle you, if he knew what claims you were making. But your boy is inside, and you are out, and he doesn’t have a former quadrant nipping at his heels like she’s got any fucking right. “Or you talkin’ about the rest of it, sister? All the ways I might be having a motherfucker to bend?” You raise your eyebrows right back. “Because I just ain’t clear why that’s any of your business, girl, ‘less -” Your shoulders roll back as you straighten up, and your laugh’s sharp-edged as you let your gaze rake up. “- you’re hankerin’ for a front row ticket? Save it, sister,” you purr, sweet as spice, “I just don’t reckon you’re his type.”

All these little fuckers flitting around you, touching away! Dysseu, you threatened. Rennis - the idea’s too sour to do anything but bear, as she rattles away at the carved bone of prayers. “It’s a gift.” The word’s are flatter, more a warning. “And I’m movin’ on up, Rennis. Ain’t we all?”

>VIDELE: Get Down with the Clown

[obstructedantiquity]

mirkstrolls‌:

[ @obstructedantiquity ]

You want to be very clear: you’re not snooping. 

Anyone can walk down a street to market, wrapped up warm with a basket in the crook of their elbow. Anyone can glance at their hate-friend’s shop. And anyone would be interested if their hate-friend, who is rust and makes bad decisions, had a great big indigo leaving their hive! It’s just practical: what if Pheres got murdered by one of his highblood dates?

Plus, something about this tall, lean figure tugs at your attention.When you look closer, they’re in full paint, all swathed in indigo veils and beads, and for a second you think to bow.

Between one blink and another, though, your vision refocuses: sure you’ve never seen but one troll who gangles like that, with those little hooks of horns and ears big as hopbeasts’. Sure you’ve never seen but one pair of eyes corner-to-corner blue as the dawning sky. 

There’s – there’s kind of a little lurch in your heart when you see them! But that’s no excuse, not for you as have grown a relationship in rocky soil a hundred times before. You shake yourself some, straighten your spine like an iron rod, and call out to them, voice high and clear as a bell:

“Riccin! Hey, Riccin! You’re not sneaking off without saying good evening to me, are you?”

"You look like a bit of a fool," Pheres had told you, tugging you down by the ears to look you in the eyes.

Poor little wretch! He thinks you won't bite, that he's got you as tame as his auspistice or former pale. But the both of you know how the latter went. If you were less unkind, you could remind him, but your friendship's slanted straight pity, as of late. He's a wretch, but he's yours, so all you do is tilt your head, let your lip curl up. "Brother," you purr, all conversational-like, "you reckon my fang's thicker than your wrist?"

He lets go all at once, and he's still reassuring you that he meant that as a compliment when you slide out the door.

It's been nights since you went and plucked Loxias from the depths. Your palms are still scabbed clear over, curdled strips of healing over each line, so you'd kept the gloves from that night, and the shawl to go with it. Some of the townfolk had brought Li gifts, after, and that's what you've added to the outfit since: prayer beads around your throat, and your waist, and your neck, heavy enough that they sing with good intent every step you take. And when you're all dressed up like an indigo, why..

Don't you, of all trolls, deserve to wear the fucking paint?

It feels like a new skin. It feels like peace, the sort it's been too long since you've had, and when someone calls out your name from behind you, you ain't even frazzled as a result. Not even when it's that familiar catcry, so high and plainative even after fucking months away.

"Evenin', little sister," you call over your shoulder, and you spin, lazy as a top, around to face her. Ought there be a tightness to your chest when you see her? Probably, but Raphae did his shit well: the knowledge of a feeling's like moonspots in your eyes. It doesn't mean nothin', if you don't want it to.

You don't. "Ain't no call to go fuckin' plainative on me." It's half a scold, half a mock, and your lips curled in something that ain't quite a smile as you take her in. She looks the same as she always does, but of course she fucking would. "Why, should I have gone rapping on your windows? Kicking down your door, just to ensure you heard my sweet fucking sound?"

>VIDELE: Get Down with the Clown

[obstructedantiquity]

Trying to remember how to draw digitally! Messy @obstructedantiquity and @skegulium‘s Orivar

[obstructedantiquity]

you can take colors from any palette. just remember that what you make of them is yours.

[obstructedantiquity]

cw for discussion of sex / trauma

RICCIN KAYATA | 8 sweeps, 19 years old

PHERES DYSSEU | 8 sweeps, 18 years old

“Rust - Pheres,” you clarify, rolling your eyes. Last time you used an epithet, he’d said something about knowing who you’re with, like it was a joke, then sulked for days. “What is your problem, even?”

He blinks at you. “What?”

Knees balanced on yours, a hand braced on your shoulder: even leaning back, he’s only about of a height with you, nose level with yours. This close, you can smell the olive in his hair and the mint on his breath. This close, you can actually see the fine wrinkles of his face, and the way his mouth pinches. “I don’t know what you’re -”

He pauses when you settle your hands on his hips. There’s a sliver of skin where his shirt’s pulled up, right above the hip-bones, and it’s amazing what a single touch can do: you hook your thumbs there, and you can feel the wave of tension spreading through him, pulling him up and away.

“That,” you say, dry, “is what I’m talkin’ about.”

“I don’t -“ It’s just a shift back at first. Then he shimmies, just a little, and you know the routine. You lift off your hands, palms exposed, before he can slap them off, and flare them out in front of you:

Look. Not touching.

Keep reading

[obstructedantiquity]

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 

“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?”

Keep reading

[obstructedantiquity]

rebatrolls‌:

You think for a moment that you’re getting through to them. Their breath is cool against your wrist, but you’re used to the unnatural chill of them by now, adjusted over time as Shep added the coolants to their blood. You remember being upset over it at first, the change between both of you.

But burnout had never been your problem, not in a way that coolants could have helped. You’d needed the improvements to your pan to shoulder the memories.

Their laugh is a bit weak, but it’s a laugh. Your mood lifts a bit as you grin at them, even when they can’t see it. They still sound all clogged up, but it’s an improvement. You’d take that, and you’d just have to build on it for them, until they forget all about their tears.

At least that’s the plan. You resist pulling them back in when they straighten, and your breath comes out a little shaky when they rub at their eyes. The gravity of what’s going on is just hitting you har, how this would look to someone else. How pale it would be, but… You know Riccin. They don’t do pale, so none of this is anything but two friends helping each other out.

No matter what dumb feelings you might have. “I know, Riccin,” you tell them, reaching for their wrist to tug it away from their face. “And I wouldn’t forgive you if it was anything I felt I couldn’t, okay? But all this was just… A bit of embarrassment, nothing more. Nothing that can’t be repaired, right? So it’s all chill, Cuz. My toes are intact, we’re fine. So what about that food, huh? We’ll order tea too, less likely for any of us to have an accident that way.”

Sometimes you think if you went and died, it'd be alright, because Kindra would keep living. Orpheo's your brother. Kindra's your.. everything, when it comes down to it. You've got nearly the same face, the same soul, the same /thoughts/. The hitch in his breath's a match for the quaver in yours.

Even his fingers are a match for yours, and when he tugs at your wrist, you twist your hand to twine yours through his. Even through the gloves, he's as warm as you should be, if there wasn't coolant in your blood, and when you pull his knuckles up to your lips, you can almost pretend the warmth of him comes from you, too. "Alright," you sniff, swallowing around the lump in your throat. You've been a mess all over his kitchen. It's a wonder he hasn't fucking kicked you out.

Most folks would've, but the two of you ain't ever been most folks.

"Alright." You clear your throat, letting go of his hand, and you pull your arms behind your head instead, stretching them out high. Something in your back cracks. The sound's so sudden that it makes you laugh, and the sound unravels some of the tension in your spine. "Alright, brother, you're the boss."

"Tea it is. Since your kettles are a goddamn /menace./"

> RICCIN: make a nice jester.

[obstructedantiquity]

[obstructedantiquity]

This Twitter Bot Replaces Every Instance of “God” in Joel Osteen’s Tweets with “Your Dick”

[obstructedantiquity]

rebatrolls‌:

For all that Riccin has never had a lack of trolls willing to fall in to bed with them, you’ve never seen the appeal of them like that. Maybe it’s just because you’re so close, though that never seemed to dispell this ache in your chest over them. So many trolls willing to accept their offering of pailing without seeing how badly they needed someone to balance them.

Maybe it’s because so few other trolls seem them like this, teartracks still damp as they press their face against your palm like it’s a lifeline. Your pulse is right there, but never have you entertained the idea of Riccin hurting you. Your trust in them is nearly absolute- why would they ever want to cause you pain? Other than the pain they’d caused tonight.

“You just burned yourself, you don’t need to worry about cooking,” you tell them, pitching your voice louder when they have your palm in their face, blocking their view of your face. “We’ll order takeout, how about that? Pizza, or Eastern- maybe some sweet and sour noodles? And we can both calm down and just… Put this behind us.” Your voice wants to waver over the last part of that, maybe a bit too desperate- but you hate to see them crying. Hate to know that you’re the cause of it, even if you weren’t truly at fault tonight.

Your breath comes out in a shaky exhale against Kindra’s skin. There’s nothing more you want to do then not to be like this right now, but there’s a relief to it, too. You can unwind as much as you want around Kindra. Show whatever face of you needs to be shown, because he’ll always have your back about it.

How could he not? He’s yours, in the same way that you’re his, and he’d no more rip you open than he would rip himself. So when he pitches his voice louder, just at the right pitch that it cuts through the rush of noise around you, you can’t help the choked laugh it spurs. You don’t even have to say anything. He just knows, because he knows you. “Yeah, brother,” you say, and the words barely stick at all.

But.

But.

You pull away, forcing your ears up and straight, and you press a palm to your eyes. When you drag it to the sides, meticulous, maybe it doesn’t even smear your mascara. You can hope, leastways. “We’ll put it behind us,” you say with a sniff. “It’s fine. But - y’know - I’m harpin’. Sorry, brother, but -”

“If you didn’t want to. Ever. That’s fine. You know that, right? If I ever stepped on your toes, or trod on your intentions, or - or - anything, I don’t give a damn if I wept seven nights, you don’t -” You’re turning this into more of a mess. Still, you persist: “- you don’t gotta forgive nothing, you hear me?”

> RICCIN: make a nice jester.

[obstructedantiquity]

rebatrolls‌:

Riccin will be fine, in a few nights- if that. The goos in your med kit were some of the best, designed to seal you up without any marks and to do the job quick. After all, the more things you had to do to a wound you got, the more memories you had to deal with. It was easiest for everyone if you didn’t have to deal with all of that, and of course you’d share that right along to Riccin.

So when they cry out, you know that this whole situation is just the straw that broke the humpbeast’s back. Your ears pin at the sob, pumper squeezing even as you could hear the chirps from your lusus, left on the couch. A glance shows that he’s propped himself up on the arm of your furniture, head bobbing this way and that to search for a cause for his psuedo-charge’s alarm.

You don’t think he’ll come charging in though. Riccin is all flavors of despair, deep enough that you just want to fix it despite your own feelings. It’s not like you ever wondered if they cared, you knew they did. That they’re so worked up over their mistake just proves that.

So you chirr at them, low and soothing. “Been a long night,” you appease, trying to force your ears up so you don’t both look miserable. You don’t want them thinking you’re upset all over again. “Can’t go blaming yourself for an accident, Cuz, c’mon..” You have a free hand, and it just seems right to reach for their face, wipe at a tear. It doesn’t have to be romantic, you’re just… Consoling a friend. That’s all.

The water's in your ears, loud as a drum, and this -

Everything's awful right now. If they'd ever let you install some fucking drums in your ears, you could hear what Kin was saying, easy as shit. You could catch his words without having to watch his lips, and you'd be able to do more than just see the hitch of his throat and know he's chirring. But they'll split you open every way, your fucking proctors, except the one you want.

No unnecessary surgeries, they say, and then they pump your veins full of coolant, and they fill your spine with ports, sweeps and sweeps before you were even allowed near a helm. That's vital. But not hearing your best beloved, and that train of thought's doing absolutely fucking nothing for the orange streaking your vision, flooding the world a sickly green-gray.

Maybe that's why when Kindra reaches up, pressing his thumb against your face, you nuzzle your face promptly into the crook of his wrist, letting his palm rest against the flat of your brow as you breathe in. You can feel the pulse of him like this, steady in a way that you aren't, and match up your breathes to that.

"I'm sorry," you sniff. "Messiahs above, brother, I'm just - I'm a mess. Can I do anything for you? Cook? Anything."

> RICCIN: make a nice jester.

[obstructedantiquity]

rebatrolls‌:

Riccin slips in to the kitchen, and you take a moment to try and compose yourself as you stroke your lusus’ scales. Things feel somehow worse than they had when they’d first arrived and you hated it, hated that this all fell back on you and your dumb mouth.

But maybe you could gain a second wind here, figure out what to actually say to make this all better. You weren’t usually so bad with Riccin, they were the best friend a troll like you could ever ask for. Even f you sometimes wished you could ask for more. But that wasn’t on them either. You wet your lips as you try to come up with the right words to say when they came back, but Riccin’s yowl rips you out of that faster than anything.

The kettle lands hard but you’re not worried about it, far more concerned about your friend who is scrambling for the sink. You’re moving as soon as you realize what’s going on, heading for their side to help turn the faucet and guide their hand under. “Careful, let me see-”

Did they burn easier, with the coolant chilling their skin? You never thought about it before, but now you’re worried. “We’ll chill it here, check the damage and then we can go dunk it in my coon. Sopor’ll help it, and I got it chilly already. Only way to sleep in this damn heat. Are you okay?” Nothing like an accident to put a baseball bat to your anxieties.

What's a little pain? You've been cut open ten ways from hell. Every piece of flesh in your bod's been peeled back, one time or another, and it's just a miracle of Shepherd's work that your hide's as unmarked as a piece of fresh canvas. She's never believed in leaving scars. Everything your proctor did was exacting, and everything she created, she never accepted anything less than perfection: in the way you worked, in the way you acted, in the way you looked.

The fact your belly's cut through with fucking scars is the sort of mark that'll get comments, if she ever sees.

It's not the pain that makes a sob rip out of your throat, as wailing and petulant as any wriggler calling for their parent. Nah. It's the - it's everything, from the way Kindra's fussing right next to you, from this entire night, to the fact you shot everything in the face over your brother's friendship with a fucker that tried to /cull you/. But here Kin is still, despite all that, nattering so rapid you can't catch the words. It's all natter, too low and too fast for your ears to catch as more'n a buzz.

So you let him guide your hand under the faucet, hiccuping as you try to reign it back in. "Kin. Brother." You're a wretched, stupid, hiccuping mess. Would any motherfucker be able to tell you're nine right now, insteada six? "Fucking Messiahs, I'm -"

Your skin's turning a bruised orange under the water. You whine at him, ears pinning back so low they brush your shoulders. "I'm sorry," you admit, and then with a strangled sort of laugh: "- shit, I ain't doin' nothing right tonight."

> RICCIN: make a nice jester.