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nanoland · 3 years

Text

am writing hellblazer fic asfdfsfff

title: The Cave

fandom: Hellblazer

characters: John Constantine, Chas Chandler, the First of the Fallen

blurb: John gets lost in a cave.

warnings: Depression, covid19, demons getting themselves Extremely murdered.

It was when the death toll had crested 100,000 that he’d snapped and made his way to Number 10 Downing Street with murder in his eyes and a briefcase full of every cursed artefact he owned.

“What are you gonna do, eh?” bellowed Chas, who’d been following behind him in his cab for the last half mile. He’d already tried to physically drag John into it and had received a bite on the hand for his trouble. “Chuck ‘em through the windows? That’s bulletproof glass, John! Fuck’s sake! Be reasonable!”

“Stop sodding shouting!” John shouted over his shoulder, wiping rain off his face. “You’ll spread sodding germs!”

“John, I already had it. Four months ago, remember?”

“You can have it more than once! Christ, does nobody in this city read the papers but me?”

It was fair to say that John wasn’t at his best. In his defence, he’d spent the last year sitting inside his tiny, poorly-ventilated, roach-ridden flat, vividly imagining what a respiratory virus would do to lungs that had suffered over forty years of heavy smoking, two run-ins with cancer, and the actual devil sticking his actual great big grubby clawed hand in ‘em. No fucking thank you.

Chas sighed heavily and climbed out of the cab again, slamming the door as he did. He splashed through a dozen puddles before coming to stand in John’s path, arms folded. “Listen, Conjob. I love you. Even when you’re a complete prick, which is most of the time. And I know you can do amazing things. But mate, hear me out; you cannot assassinate the British Prime Minister.”

“Someone bloody has to!” John Constantine, greatest wizard of his age, screamed at the top of his wretched, ragged, Satan-besmirched lungs.

Eventually, Chas managed to calm him down and get him home for a cup of tea.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” John grunted as his socks dried in front of the heater and the rational parts of his mind re-exerted themselves.

“S’alright.”

“How’s the bite?”

“Didn’t pierce the skin. John, you need a break. A holiday. You need to get out of town for a few weeks. Go breathe fresh country air, do some weird mystical shit with a goat, whatever it is that sorts your head out these days. But you can’t carry on like this, mate. I haven’t seen you this miserable in years.”

He handed John one of Renee’s strawberry-patterned towels. Dragging it across his face, John grunted, “Holiday? At a time like this?”

“Why not? Makes as much sense as any other time.”

“What if you come down with it again? Or Geraldine? Or Renee?”

“John,” said Chas, gently, laying a hand on his shoulder. “You already tried to cure me with magic. It didn’t work. At all. Just wasted a lot of chicken blood and Renee’s best spoons. Get this in your skull: there’s nothing you can do. Alright? I know you hate that, but it’s the truth.”

John swallowed thickly. “Yeah. Yeah. Alright.”

So he went home to his tiny flat, stuffed fresh socks and his toothbrush into a backpack, booby-trapped his front door, and fled London in the dead of night, feeling like one of those gits in Boccaccio’s Decameron.

“It’s called glamping.”

“Some new wizardy stuff, I’m guessing?”

Chas’s voice over the phone was distracted, like he was half-watching the telly. John was relieved; he’d wanted to hear another human speak but wasn’t feeling up to a proper conversation demanding his usual levels of sparkling charisma and staggering wit. Not right now. Not without weed, and he’d not thought to bring any.

Nestling deeper into his teak folding chair and drawing a thick woven blanket up over his knees, John said, “Nah. Not buggering about with any of that old guff until I’m back in town. Promised myself.”

“Right.”

“Don’t sound so sceptical, you git. I’ve done it before.”

“Mm-hmm. What’s your record? The longest you’ve ever gone without doing anything mystical and creepy?”

“‘Bout… hmm. Three days.”

“You’re coming up on the tail end of that right about now.”

“I know. Chas, on my word, I am going to make it to Sunday without so much as sniffing around a graveyard or wanking off a werewolf. I am on holiday.”

“Alright, alright, if you say so. Good for you, mate. So what’s this ‘glamping’ business, then?”

“It’s camping. But posh. I’m sitting up here atop a hill in Yorkshire with a tent the size of a cathedral and me chic woodburning stove and me box of white wine and feeling like the yuppiest old cunt who ever drew breath.”

“Sounds horrible.”

“It does, doesn’t it? That’s why I chose it over a nice comfy bed and breakfast. Figured I’d wake up with a cow shitting on my head and could use that as an excuse to come home early. Actually, though… it’s alright. Quiet. There’s a river at the bottom of the hill where these giggling honeymooners like to have a morning bonk but it’s far enough away that I can’t hear them unless they’re really having fun. And the weather’s been alright. It’s all surprisingly decent.”

“And you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“Yep.”

“Hmph. I should have come with you. You get all weird and introspective when you’re left alone for more than a couple days.”

“I’m not alone. There’re birds. Squirrels. A few ghosts hanging out by the toilets.”

“John.”

“Ain’t gonna talk to ‘em! Mind you, one did give me a wink when I was zipping up. How’s everything back home?”

“Er – look, I won’t lie, it’s shit. It’s all shit. But it’s not any more shit than it was when you left three days ago. Not any worse, not any better, yeah?”

“Right.”

(Stupid to be disappointed. Stupid that a part of him had secretly believed that as soon as he abandoned the sinking ship that was London, things would miraculously get better for everyone, even as another part of him, on the opposite side of his brain, had been convinced – maybe even hoped – that the moment he was gone, the entire city would descend into screaming anarchy, at which he could point and laugh from a safe distance.)

“Listen, John, I’ve gotta go. Renee needs groceries. Be careful, please?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Don’t fuck about with any occult bollocks. Don’t go foraging for brain-melting mushrooms. Don’t do anything. Just stay in your tent and read your dirty books, yeah?”

“Heard and understood, Mum.”

“Bastard.”

“Love you.”

“Yeah, you too.”

John dropped his phone onto the grass and stared up at the sky. A herd of thin grey clouds drifted past. Off in the distance, he could just make out the shape of a barn – or was it a church? Either way, there were sheep next to it.

A squirrel scurried down a nearby tree trunk and then up another one.

Yawning, he scratched his chin. (Getting scruffy. Hadn’t shaved in two days now.)

“Should prob’ly do some reading,” he mumbled to no one.

A few minutes passed.

He dangled his head back behind his seat and sang quietly: “First produced my pistol… then produced my rapier… said ‘stand and deliver’, for he were a bold deceiver… mush a-ring dum-a do dum-a da…”

Heaving a sigh, he stood up and walked around his tent to dispel pins and needles, then went inside to read his book.

“I am not bored,” he muttered fiercely, staring down at pages that might as well have been blank.

“Oh, but you are, John.”

England’s greatest wizard jumped up, wielding his novel as though it were a club, and dealt a devastating blow to empty air while screaming something along the lines of, “Raargh die die die!”

Then he waited for a moment to see if the voice returned. Tried to determine whether he could sense anything. Nope. Admittedly, that didn’t mean much these days. Lots of beasties and bastards out there had learned how to hide from him.

“Either I’m hallucinating or someone’s pissing me about,” he concluded, placing his hands on his hips. “Chas, mate, I’m sure you would agree that either constitutes a fine reason to leave this fucking tent.”

And leave he did.

He went caving.

The BBC had published an article a couple years back calling the UK’s cave systems its ‘last true wilderness’. He and Chas had had a good long laugh over that, Chas suggesting that John take the caver quoted on an expedition to Faerie or maybe direct him toward any of the two hundred portals to Hell between Plymouth and the Orkney Islands.

But the article had stuck with him. Perhaps it was the obvious love the caver had for his hobby, the clean and simple joy he got out of crawling around in dark, damp holes. John was always drawn to people like that, and not just because it sounded smutty.

(Imagine if he’d loved something clean and simple; gotten into bird-watching or carpentry instead of magic. Would have saved him a lot of hassle.)

Idly, one evening, he’d poked around on the internet – now that, that really was the last true wilderness – until he’d found a map listing all the cave systems in the UK, along with a guide to which were popular, which were dangerous, which were good for a family holiday, and yes (inevitably), which had been the scenes of grisly accidents.

(Wikipedia said that historically there’d been only 136 fatalities ‘associated with recreational caving’ in the UK and that, statistically, it wasn’t a particularly dangerous hobby. Hadn’t stopped him from having vivid dreams about bodies wedged in tiny tunnels miles below ground, cooling and rotting and bloating, except how could they bloat when there simply wasn’t enough room, what happened when…

Anyway, Chas had eventually rescued him from his maudlin musings and dragged him to the pub.)

And while his memory was a messy old thing, especially these days, that just happened to be the sort of useless information that tended to hang around in his head for years, like the words to every song in Sweeney Todd or the rituals required for an exorcism spell that didn’t actually work, doing nothing but taking up space.

There was a cave only a few miles from the campsite.

When he arrived, he beheld a clumsily painted sign nailed to an oak tree next to the entrance:

CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC UNTIL SPRING

NO TRESPASSERS

HAZARDOUS! ENTER AT OWN RISK

He lingered at the cave’s mouth. Though it was big enough for him to stand up in, it made for an unassuming sight. Squirrels played in the old oak with three sets of lovers’ initials carved into it that stood at its left and the pathway leading up to it was strewn with weeds and wildflowers.

“Am I really this stupid?” he pondered aloud, before correcting himself: “Am I really this bored?”

After five minutes’ internal debate, he decided that yes, he was.

He took a step towards the narrow crevice, before stopping himself. No. This was ridiculous. What was he thinking? Shaking his head, he turned and walked away.

Three hours later he was back, now with a good pair of leather boots (stolen from an arsehole in a nearby village), a Power Rangers backpack (given to him by a kid in exchange for a cigarette and some magic tricks), a cheap flashlight, two cans of lager, and a packet of crisps (paid for with the last of his cash).

“Off we go, then,” he said, and marched into the dark.

Like a well-fed leopard on a low-hanging branch, the First of the Fallen lounged across his throne of vertebrae, long black hair dribbling off his broad shoulders and pooling on the ground. Though he was wide awake, his eyes were closed. This, combined with the corpses of three supplicants dangling from nearby steel hooks, would hopefully discourage anyone from bothering him for the next few hours.

“My liege?”

Shit.

He kept still. Said nothing. Perhaps they would go away.

“Um… my liege, I’m terribly, monumentally sorry to disturb you, but…”

With a wave of his claw, the messenger exploded into red mist.

When, ten minutes later, a second messenger summoned up the courage to approach him, he realized that it must be very serious indeed.

“You have five seconds,” he said cordially, holding them up by the neck.

“Con… constantine!” they croaked.

Brightening, the First set them down. “Indeed? What’s the little bastard up to this time, eh?”

“Nothing, my liege. He’s dead.”

A few minutes later, a fourth corpse hung from a hook and the throne of Hell was empty.

To the First of the Fallen, caves were still a novelty.

Confined spaces, in general, were still a novelty.

At 13.6 billion years, he was only slightly younger than the universe. While solid planets had come into existence around the same time, he’d not actually visited one until the emergence of homo sapiens and his subsequent quarrel and falling-out with God – a mere 300,000 years ago.

Cast from Heaven, naked and freezing cold, he’d stumbled into a rocky cranny by the shoreline and wedged himself between its slimy walls. That was his earliest memory of ever being ‘indoors’. No surprise, then, that he avoided such places when he could. He had built no castles in Hell; his throne sat atop a mountain beneath an endless red-gold sky.

But right now, it wasn’t the cave that had his attention, dark and chilly and, yes, slimy as it was.

“Stupid turd,” he grumbled, glowering at the corpse. “Ow!”

He’d bumped his head on the cave ceiling again. It was too low for the average human to stand upright, much less an eight-foot primordial being.

Constantine stared at him, blue eyes blank and glassy. His body was unmarred save for the dent in the left side of his scalp, which had stopped leaking some time ago. As far as the First could tell, his nemesis had simply tripped and fallen onto an unfortunately positioned, unfortunately sharp rock.

The First spat on his tie and snarled, “Pathetic! What the fuck are you even doing here, eh? And – God’s hairy bollocks, when did you last bathe?”

His soul was still dangling off him, like drool from a dog’s mouth. Heaven, obviously, had no interest in him and the First hadn’t yet authorised his admission into Hell.

Because he wasn’t ready, dammit.

He’d not been expecting to welcome John home for at least another thirty years.

“Always have to make it difficult, don’t you?”

When he reached down to take hold of the soul – such a grubby, tattered thing – it bit, blazing gold for a sliver of an instant before he snatched his hand back. Stuck his index finger in his mouth until the sting abated. Fumed.

He tried again, grasping it firmly, as one might a snake. It thrashed. He gave it a disciplinary shake before opening Constantine’s mouth with a claw and forcing it down his gullet.

Coming back to life was never enjoyable. Constantine spasmed and gurgled, legs and arms contorting as pink foam gathered at his lips. The First, bored, sat down beside him, reclining against the cave wall with one knee crooked. Surveyed their surroundings. The ground was – oh dear – littered with crisp crumbs, an empty foil packet, two cans, and dozens of cigarette butts. How foul.

“Disaster in your wake, as ever,” he commented, tutting.

Constantine groaned, eyelashes fluttering.

Belatedly realizing that he wouldn’t be able to see in this subterranean gloom, and very much wanting to afflict him with the identity of his saviour, the First snapped his fingers. A dozen lit candles appeared across the cavern, hovering ghost-like in mid-air.

“Urgh… fffu… whu… oh, Christ Almighty.”

Watching him sit up, the First assumed a lordly expression, tilting his head. “And what do you have to say for yourself?”

Unhealthily pale skin and facial muscles stretched and twisted to an indeterminable end.

Then John Constantine set his jaw.

Growled: “I’m on holiday, you bellend.”

And passed out.

He awoke to the smell of slightly burnt waffles.

Better than burnt flesh, which was what he’d anticipated after His Infernal Bloody Majesty had popped in for a fag and a chat. Certainly better than sulphur.

“For you,” the First of the Fallen purred.

A white plate – averagely-sized but rendered absurdly dainty by the dimensions of the clawed fingers holding it – was set down in front of him.

He frowned at its golden-brown contents. “The catch?”

“No catch. I was peckish. I imagine you are, too.”

“Come on. Not in the mood. Did you piss on ‘em? Did you mix a baby’s blood into the batter?”

“Honestly, John.”

Scratching his chin, he reviewed the facts. Still in the same sodding cave, albeit far better illuminated than the last time he’d been conscious. Alive, but with that unmistakable stiffness that he’d come to associate with having recently been dead. Cold. Irritable.

Hungry.

His archenemy’s smug smile was almost enough to make him spit the first bite back out. Instinct borne from months of extreme poverty forced him to swallow instead.

“Tastes like shit,” he remarked, wiping his lips. “But I suppose you usually have minions to prepare food for you. Where’s the syrup?”

A regal sigh, before a bottle appeared beside the plate. He emptied a third of it and spent the next few minutes in delicious, sticky silence.

There were, as ever, consequences to allowing the First of the Fallen centre stage. The moment the big smelly git realised that John really wasn’t in the mood for banter, he waved a hand and conjured up a thin hardback with Into the Underworld: The Amateur’s Guide to Caving in Britain on the front.

As John rolled his eyes and stuffed another waffle into his mouth, the First cleared his throat and read: “‘According to the National Speleological Society, the minimum number of people required to safely embark on a recreational caving expedition is four – at least one of whom should have prior caving experience.’ Did you know that, John?”

John chewed sullenly.

“I did. I’d wager that most people do. At least, I’d wager that most people know that going caving in groups smaller than two – going caving alone – is wildly inadvisable. Caves are dangerous, John.”

Where were his cigarettes? Had the bastard nicked them?

“And… let’s see – ah! Here we are. ‘There is a great deal of commercial equipment available to a first-time caver, some of which is necessary, some of which is not. Two items, however, that are absolutely non-negotiable are a helmet and a helmet-mounted light.’ Do you have either of those, John?”

“Do I criticise your fucking hobbies?” he exploded, knowing better, knowing it would only encourage him. Sugary crumbs flew everywhere.

“You do, in fact. Often. And quite understandably. My favourite hobby is murdering your friends, after all.”

John threw the plate at his head.

He’d had a good sense of direction even before he’d learned how to see psychic residue coating streets and walls, left behind by previous travellers. Always scurrying around in places no kid should; subways, sewers, dirty basements, any haunted house his greedy little eye fell upon.

When he’d reached sixteen, burgeoning schizophrenia had muddled him up now and then. Occasionally, it’d even left him standing in streets he didn’t recognise with no earthly idea how he’d got there. PTSD had compounded the problem.

Even so, at fifty plus, he didn’t make a habit of getting lost. Meds, practice, and years of experience meant that he could walk from Chas’s house to Saint Paul’s with a blindfold on.

Long story short: This was embarrassing.

“I’m fairly sure we’re going in circles. That stalactite is very familiar.”

And he certainly wasn’t fucking helping.

(The floating candles, following them like ducklings, were. John’s torch had broken when he’d tripped. Still, he didn’t need the First of the Fallen for light. Could conjure it up himself, no bother. It just made sense to avail himself of a primordial being’s infinite magical resources before dipping into his own, far more limited stockpile.)

“Do you know the way out?” John asked, not breaking his stride.

“I do.”

“Will you tell me where it is?”

“I will not.”

“Then shut up.”

In his defence, John hadn’t thought the cave was big enough to get lost in. It hadn’t looked it from the outside.

But he’d wandered, then crawled, down at least a mile of twisting, increasingly narrow tunnels before getting himself killed. He’d kept meaning to stop; said to himself five times, ‘Okay, Conjob, this is getting stupid, let’s trot our arse back to civilisation’. Then he would notice another crevice wide enough for him to squeeze into.

“Curious place for a holiday,” the First of the Fallen commented after bravely keeping his tongue still for an unprecedented five minutes.

“Curious times we’re living in, innit?”

He hummed in agreement. “Are you really not here for any particular reason? Not – I don’t know – trying to find a missing child abducted by the fae? Searching for a wicked spirit who’s been cursing the local shepherds? Treasure-hunting, perhaps?”

“No.”

“You’re just here.”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“I told you. I’m on holiday. Taking a nice long break.”

“John. We’ve known one another for some time. I am familiar with the ways in which you ‘take a break’. You either go to the pub or you go to several pubs. Attempting to reconnect with nature is hardly your style.”

“Being oblivious to current events – especially shit ones – is hardly your style. Been too busy shaving your chunky arse to pick up a newspaper lately?”

“Print is dying. Besides, you try managing an entire dimension. See how much spare time it leaves you. Honestly, I’m run off my feet most days.”

“So quit.”

“Don’t be silly. What else would I do?”

“I dunno. Could be a camgirl. You’ve got the legs for it.”

“Stop trying to change the subject. Why aren’t you at home?”

John stopped walking and spun to face him. “There’s a plague, you gormless, oblivious prick. I can’t go to the pub. I can’t meet up with me mates. I can’t visit people’s homes to perform exorcisms. I can’t do anything but sit indoors, on my own, for months on end, just watching everything get worse, and that… and that’s not an option. Not for me. I crack too easy. So I got out. Before I killed someone. Now, for the last time, shut up and let me concentrate.”

He bent down to tug off his shoes and socks.

Telepathic magic tended to work best when you were naked. But sod that. Not with the First of the Fuckheads watching. Waffles or no waffles, he did not deserve a treat.

“Oh, is this what we’re doing now? Marvellous! I do love watching your quaint party tricks,” he oozed with a mocking round of applause as John dropped to his knees.

Ignore him.

Taking a deep breath, John let his awareness expand.

It was hard, with the First standing right there. His presence was staggeringly heavy, weighing on the ley lines like an iron ball on a lace hammock. And so alien; elements found nowhere on Earth, bones and muscles formed before Earth had been a glint in God’s eye.

John sneered into the darkness. Piss on that. On him. This was child’s play. Buggered as his brain might be, John Constantine wasn’t going to falter at the sound, scent, or sensation of a mean-spirited old cosmic relic.

Okay, let’s see what we’ve got.

Seven years ago, three people came this way. A family. A woman; her sister; her daughter. They were having fun. The sisters had done this before; the daughter had been begging to come along for years. Afterwards, they were going for pizza. It was a good day.

Two years ago, four people came this way. All friends from work. Well – ‘friends’. One was the company CEO, the other three wanted promotions. Everyone but the boss was miserable. One was arachnophobic.

Eight months ago, a… sheep? Yeah. A sheep. Barely more than a lamb. It was lost. There was a storm and it came down here looking for shelter. Went too deep. By the time the shepherd found it, it was half-starved.

“John? What are you-…”

Ignore him.

Ten years ago, another family. Fifty years ago, a frightened child running from a monstrous father. And others – a hundred others – a thousand. The cave had a rich and storied history. Almost against his will and entirely against his better judgement, John followed its threads through the rock layers, chasing faded ghosts, brushing up against magic so ancient it had fossilised.

“John!”

Ignore him. Ignore him. Ignore-

His head was ringing. His blood was on fire.

Fuck, I’ve gone too far, too bloody deep, fuck, oh fuck.

“Constantine! Heed me!”

His eyes snapped open.

“Ah,” he said.

“Precisely,” said the First of the Fallen, who was holding him up by his coat collar like a jizz rag in need of a bin.

The cave had changed.

It was brighter, thanks to a small, well-constructed fire in its centre.

The walls were covered in paintings. Deer. Hogs. Great red and brown bulls.

A woman sat in the corner, wrapped in furs, adding detail to what might have been a fox. She didn’t seem to have noticed them.

“Did you mean to do that?” the First of the Fallen queried.

“In thirty thousand years, a monk will come down here and find them. He’ll be horrified, believing that they’re the work of… well, me. So he’ll leave and return with water in buckets and scrubbing brushes. As he lies on his deathbed, he will be firmly under the impression that this great good deed will grant him entrance into Paradise.”

The First of the Fallen paused for effect, then added, “Alas, he will be mistaken.”

Without looking away from her work, the woman spoke several words in a language miles removed from any contemporary tongue John had ever heard.

“The young lady says she doesn’t mind spirits wandering her caves, but requests that we don’t chatter while she’s trying to concentrate.”

Crouching next to freshly-etched cow and her calf, feeling uncharacteristically dazzled, John said, “Ask her if I can take a picture. Ask her!”

“Homo neanderthalensis, John. She won’t have the faintest idea what you mean.”

Rolling his eyes, he fished his phone out of his trenchcoat pocket and waved it at her. When she deliberately ignored him, he shrugged and took the shot.

The flash won her attention. She stood – revealing a faded seashell necklace and a long, curving scar across her left thigh – and approached them, limping slightly. John held out the phone to show her the picture and, after a resoundingly unimpressed inspection, she uttered a terse sentence.

“She’s unsure why the sickly-looking spirit thinks shrinking her beasts in any way improves them,” said the First of the Fallen.

The woman raised her head (hard to tell how old she was; younger than him, definitely) and looked John in the eye, squinting. Another few sentences followed, some of which sounded like questions.

Sarcastic questions, unless he was mistaken.

“She asks if you shrink them because large beasts frighten you. She speculates that, if the only beasts you can bear to approach are scrawny ones, it’s no wonder that you yourself are such a measly creature. She says that she too was scared of bulls when she was a child, but that her mother taught her not to be. She wonders why your mother failed you in this regard. Should I tell her your mother died in childbirth, John?”

“Stick your head up your own arse and choke. But ask her name first.”

Tossing back his thick black hair, he scoffed. “Why? What does it matter? She’s a primitive, doomed creature and she’s not even really here. This is just one of the cave’s memories.”

“Christ – are you jealous I’m talking to her more than I’m talking to you? Because that’s fucking inane. This is a one-in-a-lifetime type deal. I’ve never spoken to a legit bloody Neanderthal. I speak to you all the blasted time, more’s the pity.”

Yellow eyes narrowed. “Maybe I’ll kill her.”

John laughed. “You said it, squire; she’s a memory. You can’t kill her. She’s long dead. Now shut up.”

He wasn’t able to learn her name. Still, via pantomime and pointing, he eventually managed to convey his desire to find a way out of the cave – or so, at least, it seemed.

She took a bundle of sticks from beside her fire, lit them, and walked towards the nearest inky-black tunnel.

“See?” he said to the First of the Fallen as they followed her. “Politeness. All it takes.”

“Don’t act like you have any real idea what’s going on. She could be leading you straight into a trap. You’re aware, I’m sure, that archaeologists generally agree Neanderthals practised cannibalism? Ten muscular relatives might be waiting right around the corner with clubs and a cooking pot.”

“For fuck’s sake – I have literally stood and watched you slouching on that colossally pathetic bone throne of yours and nibbling the edge of someone’s pelvis like it was a turkey drumstick. Loathsome bloody hypocrite.”

“That doesn’t remotely count as cannibalism, John. That was a human pelvis. I’m not a human. I’m the prototype. A species of one. Which, I suppose, means it’s technically impossible for me to commit cannibalism. Hmm. What an interesting philosophical notion.”

Walking a short way ahead, bare feet soundless against the rock, their new self-appointed guide said something.

“What was that?” John whispered.

“‘If you must burden my ears by bickering like children, you could at least do it in a language I can understand’. Then she called us a rude word.”

Then the First of the Fallen spoke several sentences in his usual bored, drawling cadence and, to John’s surprise, she laughed.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” the First of the Fallen said, innocently.

“I’m serious, bastard. What’re you saying to her?”

“Nothing important, John, really.”

More than once after that, he caught her glancing back at them and snickering.

The artist and the twisting stone galleries through which she led them – it couldn’t possibly have all been hers; the monk had destroyed the work of generations – were insufficient to keep John’s mind from straying back to important matters.

“Hey. Ponce. What’ve you done with my cigarettes?”

The First of the Fallen had plucked them from his trenchcoat pocket while he was unconscious. When it came to his sorcerer, he’d learned, you always wanted a bargaining chip to hand.

“We’re in the company of one whose lungs are as yet unsullied by the Industrial Revolution, Constantine. Are you really planning on exposing her to second-hand smoke?”

It was a prospect John, it seemed, hadn’t even considered. Obviously angry with himself for that (oh John), he snapped, “No! I was – it’s – look, she can’t get lung cancer, can she? She’s dead. Doesn’t matter what she breathes in now.”

Smothering a smile, the First of the Fallen said, “Oh? So the fact that she won’t actually perish upon inhaling your fumes is all that matters, is it? Never mind her comfort or dignity, I suppose; as long as you don’t have to clean up another corpse.”

Nostrils flared. Fists clenched. Blue eyes gleamed with something hotter and even more violent than divine wrath.

“Like you give a shit about her,” John growled.

So much in this miserable world reminds me of Heaven. The grass. The sky. The beauty. You alone remind me of the time before Heaven; that bizarre, unpredictable time when there were no rules, no beauty, only feelings, only sudden bursts of light, fierce and erratic, cutting through the void.

“Or anyone,” John continued, gathering steam. Nicotine withdrawal, the First of the Fallen suspected, was kicking in. “Remind me, what was that you said the day we met? ‘To be mortal is to be stupid, proud, conceited – and ultimately pathetic’. You showed your hand, idiot; you loathe us all. Ergo, any taunts that depend on you concealing that are a total bust. Forget about the ciggies. If they’ve been anywhere near you, I don’t want ‘em.”

For years, the First of the Fallen had secretly hoped John had forgotten his, in hindsight, ill-considered words.

(He’d meant every one of them, but at the time he’d been trying to come off as a Gentleman Devil, the quintessential Man of Wealth and Taste, affable and urbane, not a bitter, angry old monster.)

Should have known better. John was so foolishly protective when it came to humanity as an abstract concept, even while his attitude towards actual humans tended to be far more variable. He’d probably been furiously gnawing on that phrase – ‘ultimately pathetic’ – like a dog with a bone for thirty years.

Thirty years.

Was that really all the time they’d known one another? John Constantine, his Constantine, He Who Was Most Hated… a mere thirty year acquaintance?

“What’re you laughing at?”

“Heh. Nothing, John. Reminiscing, that’s all.”

“About what? Poor old Brendan?”

Brendan, Brendan. Who -? Oh yes. John’s friend. The one who’d sold his soul. The catalyst, in fact, for their meeting. Pity the bastard was in Heaven; he’d have liked to thank him.

“You see these?” said the artist, holding up her torch to illuminate a painted wolf pack. “My grandfather did these.”

“What’s she saying?” John demanded.

As the First of the Fallen translated, he gazed dispassionately at her.

The first time he’d encountered a human, they’d looked much the same. Small. Unremarkable. Clad in skins and hardened from a life exposed to this planet’s weather (he personally hated weather and had made sure there was no such thing in Hell).

Mind you, the ones he’d run into while naked and terrified and still injured from being swatted down to Earth like some insect had been much less hospitable. They hadn’t known what he was; only that he was wrong. When he’d tried to approach their campfire, they’d thrown stones at him. Slaying them all hadn’t even occurred to him. Father had said that they were precious and at that stage, he’d still given a toss about His rules. Instead, he’d slunk away.

Catching food wasn’t a problem. He was faster than any buck or bird. It was loneliness, not hunger, that drove him to try again, and again, and again. In time, they grew used to him. Even showed him kindness. They had an extraordinary capacity for that. (For all that it was so often conditional and withdrawn the moment one became too strange or too frightening.)

But he’d never grown used to them. They were, at heart, creatures of community. And he simply wasn’t. He was a species of one. The prototype. He’d always been alone but for God’s company, and adjusting to life as a member of a tribe had proved impossible. Their norms, their traditions, their complicated etiquette – it had all bewildered him, then intimidated him, then irritated him. That, combined with his ageless body and supernatural strength, had driven an inevitable wedge between them, and he’d returned to the wilderness to wander alone.

He considered telling John that story.

(Why not? He’d told him everything else and the idea that his nemesis might have an incomplete view of him was, for some reason, concerning.)

Then he considered John’s likely reaction. The curled lip. The scornful snort. “What, you looking for pity? ‘Boo-hoo, my rotten childhood turned me into a git’? Hah! Jog on, squire.”

No. John’s hatred was a hard-won prize. John’s contempt was to be avoided at all costs.

“You realise most people aren’t allowed down here,” the artist said, glancing his way. She was shorter than John, who himself was slightly shorter than the average man; her eyes were level with the First’s navel. “Only elders and those who’ve earned the right. There are grave penalties awaiting any who sneak in.”

“Really?” he replied, interested only in John’s furrowed brow and silent, aggravated attempts to work out what they were saying.

“Yes. Because this place is important. Sacred. When I was young, I spent years dreaming of being allowed to venture this deep. I don’t know the ways of spirits – but I’ll not pretend it doesn’t rankle that you spend more time studying your sickly friend than your surroundings.”

“You’re still young. Compared to me, everyone is.”

“He doesn’t even seem to like you very much. Why are you travelling with him?”

“I don’t know. Why do urine and semen come out the same hole?”

“‘It’s none of your business’ would have sufficed. Are you always this rude? Is that why the sickly one doesn’t like you?”

“No. No, he dislikes me for other reasons.”

“Well, well, well. Hullo,” came John’s voice, and they both realised that he’d stopped walking.

Turning, the First of the Fallen spied his nemesis standing with his hands in his pockets, studying a man dressed like a thirteenth-century peasant.

“Eh? Where did he come from?” the woman asked.

In quavering tones, the peasant said, “Are you angels?”

The First of the Fallen laughed. “John! He’s asking if-…”

“Just because I can’t speak Neanderthal doesn’t mean I don’t know sodding Middle English. Give me an ounce of credit. I’m only a cocking wizard, after all,” John snapped, before addressing the new arrival: “No. Just travellers.”

The peasant’s shoulders slumped. “Oh. I thought maybe God had sent me angels. I’ve been requesting them for several days.”

John shuddered. “Bad idea. Trust me. You don’t want to mess around with that lot.”

“But I need guidance. Protection.”

“From what?”

Eyes wide, the peasant took his hand and clutched it. “My friend, can’t you see? I am being pursued.”

“By who?”

“By demons.”

(to be continued)

#hellblazer #john constantine #chas chandler #first of the fallen #fanfic #my fic

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luninosity · 4 years

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fanfic writers tag game!

I was tagged by the marvelous @musette22 for this lovely fanfiction tag game that was devised by the clearly very brilliant @thewaythatwerust, to discuss some of the fics I’ve written over time! Thanks so much! 💖

Let’s see, I shall tag... @thebestpersonherelovesbucky @turtletotem @gerec @whtaft and @ninemoons42 <3

Which of your fics…

* Did you think would get a bigger reaction/audience than it got:

Ah, a tricky one! I feel like I never really have expectations - I just write words because I can’t not! But maybe lines of light, which was my Steve/Bucky Fake Character Death Trope fic - it’s sort of a weird little fic, but I wanted more of that trope, but maybe that’s just me!

* Got a better reaction than you expected:

Oh, goodness - just about all of them! I remember being so shy and so nervous to share any of my writing, years ago, and now I write things that people seem to like...I think probably never mind the why and wherefore surprised me most, though! That’s my TJ Hammond/Johnny Storm fic, and when I started writing it mine was literally the third fic on AO3 for that pairing, and for that small a fandom, I’ve just been amazed.

Also, of course: I’m constantly amazed by how much people love Like Sugar! It was the biggest thing I’d ever tried to write, and it made me a better writer along the way, and I suspect it’s the Evanstan fic/series people might remember most, from my fics? (Also also, if original-fic-inspired-by-an-Evanstan-drabble counts: the love for Character Bleed has been overwhelming!)

* Is your funniest:

...am I funny? I don’t know! *waves hands about* I feel like I never set out to “write something funny,” but then again I like terrible puns and wordplay, so there’re probably funny lines in most fics? I hope?

Honestly maybe every inch of north and south, which has the Chris-turned-into-a-puppy plot, or Now That I’ve Found You, Stay, because giant patriotic dildos, or some of the banter in just a couple lovebirds, because I love Chris and Seb in that one. Or some of Bucky’s pulp fiction stories in tales to astonish. Or all the TERRIBLE autumn-related puns in the current Evanstan fic, A Place Not Far Away!

Or we could go REAL old-school and pull out the McFassy semi-crack fic in which James gets magically cursed to turn into a kitten. There’s that.

* Is your darkest/angstiest:

Ahahahaha. Um. *stares in Characters Having Emotions*

Okay, okay, um... Aside from certain specific chapters of Like Sugar and Amateur Cartography, it’s either The Tones That Tremble Down Your Spine (Bucky needs all the softness, after this! of course so does Steve...) (sometimes I think about adding a chapter, because it ends a little abruptly, but I also wanted it to - not everything’s 100% resolved, but it’s clearly on a healing trajectory!) ...

...or, over in Cherik-land, I hope we rise to the occasion, which does have a hopeful ending but is painful, or the balancing act stories (also Cherik) which were...personal in many ways (also originally written over on Livejournal, because I’m old).

* Is your absolute favourite:

Impossible! *laughs* It’s always the current story I’m (actively) writing. Which at the moment is the Evanstan autumn fluff-with-porn A Place Not Far Away. I don’t know if it’s my favorite-favorite, but it’s nice to get back to Evanstan and I love fall.

* Is your least favourite:

Also impossible! There’re things I love about all my stories. If I have to...maybe It’s Time To Bring This Ship Into The Shore, mostly because Michael’s such a dick to James for a lot of it. Which is also true in Loving Days (why was that a plot point in a few of my McFassy fics?) but I think I did a better job with his redemption in that one, and showing how much he changed and tried harder. And with Ship & Shore I wasn’t super-knowledgeable about the soul-bond trope (it was a request-fic) so I never felt quite sure I’d done it well enough!

* Was the easiest to write:

Amusingly, considering how epic and glorious and long the whole series became, I’d say Like O, Like H - the first Like Sugar Evanstan story. It just flowed. It knew what it wanted to be, and I tried to keep up. (Lovebirds was also one of those, as was the TJ/Johnny fic, never mind the why and wherefore.)

* Was the hardest to write:

the sound of rain on tin. It’s been the fic I’ve had the hardest time with ever. It’s my own fault for trying to do too much in terms of plot - sort of AU, an Evanstan-Stucky crossover, Lovecraftian elements - and then starting to post before I had it all properly sorted. I do know how it ends in general terms, I promise! but resolving plot/action has never been one of my strengths, and we’ve hit the point where I actually have to figure out How To Fix The Magic Portal-Thing, and I don’t feel like I’ve got it worked out well enough.

I mean if you all just want me to write the emotional Sebastian talking to Steve Rogers (and maybe a little curious kissing) and Chris talking to Bucky, and then *poof* suddenly Seb and Bucky are back in their respective universes and we get Emotional Reconciliation Scenes and Love Confessions, that part’s easy. I’ve had stray bits of those scenes done for years.

* Have you re-read the most:

Like Sugar, in part for continuity as I worked on later stories and in part because I’m really kind of proud of it.

* Would you recommend to someone reading your work for the first time:

Depends on what genres they like! I’m probably best known for - if anything - Like Sugar, and I think it’s pretty representative of my writing in terms of loving tender kink-with-emotions! But the person would have to not mind Evanstan RPF and soft Dom/sub kink and arranged (sort of) marriage tropes.

Other than that, for Evanstan, maybe Sweet Disposition (the third version of the clothes-sharing fic!); or (baby won’t you please), which is the Chris And Seb Go To A Sex Club For Research For a Role fic, or tempt me, tease me, which is...Sebastian leaves an unsatisfactory date with someone else (brief and random) to go pick Chris up from a bar, and then there’re lots of revelations about Feelings, and also porn-with-emotions. Those last two ‘feel’ similar in my head for some reason - mood, maybe, or story arcs about revelation and discovery.

...for Stucky, maybe when and where our eyes meet (Bucky falling asleep! soft blankets!)...or tales to astonish, because it’s such fun!

...if you want to go a bit older, I have weird affection for my first-ever Cherik fic, Know That It’s True, which is a Cerebro hurt/comfort fic, and then I love the slow development of the McFassy in No Wonder, No Wonder, which I occasionally still think about trying to revise as original, but it’s so character-driven that it’d be hard, but I love the feel of it, the hints of magic and the setting...

* Are you most proud of:

Like Sugar! At the time it was the biggest story I’d ever tried to write, both in terms of length and in terms of world-building and planning and characters growing closer together. Character Bleed got more complicated in terms of needing multiple outlines and plot, eventually, but I couldn’t’ve done that if I hadn’t done Like Sugar first.

* Has your favourite line/exchange/paragraph (share it):

Too hard to pick! There are so many!

I sometimes say it’s this one, from tempt me, tease me, though not always:

“If you’d like,” Sebastian offers, “we can even tell them I borrowed your key and lost it, if you don’t mind asserting small untruths to hotel personnel.” Big blue half-plastered Captain America eyes stare at him some more. “…Chris?” “You…” One hand waves, a partial gesture, pulled back at the last second. As if Chris has meant to reach out, and thought better of that. “You really would? You wouldn’t, y’know, mind?” Sebastian half-smiles. Thinks of cars with broken-glass windows in Romanian capital-city streets, thinks of students waving flags and cheering with feral glee, thinks of saucer-eyed childhood memories and songs of revolutionary fervor and desperate upheavals of optimism like birthing-pains. Chris Evans is beautiful and genuine and real, and Sebastian would do far worse things, would splinter his body and perjure his soul, to give Chris one more day in which to eat pizza and laugh and clap friends on the shoulder with a broad happy hand. “No,” he says, “I wouldn’t mind.”

Or, from the WIP - the next chapter of A Place Not Far Away - because my favorite is often what I’m currently working on, there’s this! Enjoy? <3

They both watch Sebastian for a second; he’s nodding, jotting down a quote, hair bouncing with the motion. His fingers are quick and tanned, gathering notes; his jacket’s casually open, and dirt’s left a scuff on his right boot.

He’s a New York City reporter in a black leather jacket and a stylish sweater, but he’s also a reporter who doesn’t mind getting dirty and will run through a corn maze and helped set out signs the first day Chris ever met him.

Carly pats Chris’s shoulder, says, “Enjoy yourself,” and heads off to supervise some historical blacksmith demonstrations. The sky shimmers in clouds and satin and magic and unfallen rain.

Sebastian bounces back over. “That’ll be fantastic, she was so excited, she’s already thinking about next year, which is so perfect for a pull quote, and it’ll get people thinking ahead about coming here then!”

Would you come back, Chris doesn’t say. Would you come back next year, next month, next week, even if your story’s done? Would you stay and not leave?

He can’t ask that. This is Sebastian’s job.

He says, “That’s awesome. You want lunch?”

“Absolutely. I haven’t eaten my way through your menu yet. Recommendations?”

“Classic Oktoberfest? The whole German sausage, potato, onion thing? That one’s popular. And, um, baked apples. In maple cream sauce.” Food. He can talk about food. Promoting their menu. Not getting down on both knees and promising to bring home every pumpkin Sebastian likes, if that’ll make those happy eyes stay at his side.

“Sounds good.” Sebastian’s eyebrows go up, beckoning Chris into the joke. “And I do like sausage.”

“I like your sausage,” Chris tells him, and Sebastian’s laugh is a splash of sunshine through clouds and cold and tree-branches that stretch to the sky.

#fanfic ask thing!#meme thing #musette22 #yay!#my fic #evanstan #stucky #cherik #mcfassy

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descaladumidera · 3 years

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Tag Game

I was tagged by @kiki-shortsnout. Thank you, darling!

1. Why did you choose your url?

Long story short: My ex came up with it by accident by making fun of (in good spirit) people giving characters in MMORPGs weird names. I liked it, so I kept it. He thought it was funny.

2. Any side-blogs? If you have them, name them and why you have them.

Since I had to make a new blog (yes, I’m still a bit pissed Tumblr deleted my old blog without warning or reason) I only remade one of my old side-blogs: @iamdoctorstephenstrange. It’s a Doctor Strange ask-blog that answers asks with little drawings of Stephen answering to the asker.

3. How long have you been on Tumblr?

Uhh … I think since 2015 or 2016, because I was a sheltered little German only using German fandom sites before that (except for FFN, which, I realized soon enough, is a dumpster fire). Yes, I know. No need to drag me.

4. Do you have a queue tag?

No. If I queue something, it’ll have the usual tags I use when simply reblogging stuff. Also, I rarely use the queue. You either deal with my reblogging sprees that occur every blue moon or you unfollow/block me.

5. Why did you start your blog in the first place?

Because Tumblr seems to be the only website to connect with fandom folks nowadays, except for Twitter. And New xKit makes it way easier to curate your experience than the block and blacklist function on Twitter. Even though New xKit is kinda fucked since the last big Tumblr update. Also, there was pr0n when I joined. And I draw pr0n occasionally. So this was a website where I could upload my stuff. Until I couldn’t. Yes, I’m salty.

6. Why did you choose your icon/pfp?

Because I’m here, I’m queer, and I don’t care. I also art occasionally, so it seemed like a good idea to draw my own icon.

7. Why did you choose your header?

Because I’m here, I’m queer, and I don’t care. I also art occasionally, so it seemed like a good idea to use one of my fanarts for my header.

8. What's your post with the most notes?

This one. On my old blog I had a few that got a few thousand notes. 😭

9. How many mutuals do you have?

I really don’t know. And I’m not gonna start counting as this tag game is taking enough time as it is.

10. How many followers do you have?

As of now 472. I’m still trying to rebuild my follower base from … before.

11. How many people do you follow?

29, because I’m an anxious gremlin who would probably log out of Tumblr and never log in again if my dash was flooded with too much stuff every day. There’re also not that many IronStrange blogs I’m interested in following, so there’s that.

12. Have you ever made a shit post?

Yep.

13. How often do you use Tumblr each day?

Uhh … Considering that my laptop is running most days all day and Tumblr is one of my permanently open tabs … A lot.

14. Did you have a fight/argument with another lot once? Who won?

Not on Tumblr. I don’t count the hate anons that occasionally crawl into my inbox, because, frankly, Idgaf anymore. I’m also far too old and tired to fight.

15. How do you feel about "you need to reblog this" posts?

I ignore them, because this shit usually has the opposite effect on me. I don’t like being guilt-tripped. I also want to keep my blog my happy place with as little negativity as possible.

16. Do you like tag games?

Depends on the tag game. Currently I feel guilty, because @kiki-shortsnout tagged me multiple times already and I think I never did one of the tag games she tagged me in. I usually like them, but I simply … don’t have the energy. Depression and executive dysfunction are bitches I never needed in my life, but they’re here anyway. Like parasites.

17. Do you like ask games?

Usually yes, but they need to be specific. If there’s only one question in them that I can’t answer/am not comfortable answering, I won’t reblog it. Which limits the ask games I actually reblog drastically. Not that I get many/any asks anyway whenever I reblog an ask game.

18. Which of your mutual do you think is Tumblr famous?

Uhh … Considering that I don’t exactly know who my mutuals all are and by only assuming that my friends are also my mutuals … probably no one, lol. But some of them are fandom famous! Not that I care about that, because all of them are lovely people and that’s all that matters to me.

19. Do you have a crush on a mutual?

I don’t do crushes.

20. Tags?

No. Whoever wants to do this—feel free to do it. I think everyone I would want to tag got already tagged anyway.

#tag game

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fulcrum-agent · 6 years

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Shipping Meme

Answer the following for your muse so people know how shipping works on your blog.

WHAT IS YOUR OTP FOR YOUR CHARACTER?:

Ashla is currently in a formal courtship, though it's a bit tricky because the person plays a character using the same name and concept on both Balmung and Mateus, but they're not the same timeline - the one on Mateus was a sort of reboot, so to speak, while the one on Balmung has history dating back to the start of the game. We're still trying to figure out how to handle the new server visiting thing, since the Ashe on Balmung and the Ashe on Mateus are the same person, from an RP standpoint.

WHAT ARE YOU WILLING TO WRITE WHEN IT COMES TO SHIPPING?

I prefer longer term build-ups than a lot of people do, and they have to be organic. I'm willing to pre-plan some things for shipping RP, but most of it still has to stem naturally from the RPs.

As far as sensual/sexual RP goes, that really varies from partner to partner, and usually takes a long while to happen, as I have to really know the person OOC before I'd be comfortable with it. Till then, if such is supposed to occur from RP, it's fade-to-black and handwave discussions.

I'm also favourable to non-romantic ships. Not everything has to be a romantic paring to be fun.

HOW LARGE DOES THE AGE GAP HAVE TO BE TO MAKE IT UNCOMFORTABLE?

Given that Ashla is an adult, ten or eleven years is about the upper limit, though something close to that could be negotiable for a romantic ship. My own parents in real life were midway between that distance in years (10.5-ish), so it's not a wholly foreign idea to me. A lot of people on my dad's side of the family had similar age gaps.

Non-romantic ships are way more negotiable, especially if there’s a hardset “it’s not going to become romantic ever” involved.

ARE YOU SELECTIVE WHEN SHIPPING?

Hellaciously.

Primarily, my concern lies in communication between partners, as all too often, there's not enough communication, and someone gets burned. Often, both parties end up feeling burned, because the lack of communication inevitably leads to some sort of argument. This, of course, makes it harder and harder for a person to be willing to do any kind of ship, with romantic ships becoming too dangerous of ground to walk on.

This post here that I reblogged covers a lot of how I feel about shipping/having an RP partner. If you can't live up to this, then it just won't work.

HOW FAR DO STEAMY MOMENTS HAVE TO GO BEFORE THEY ARE CONSIDERED NSFW?

Near the point where clothes start coming off. There're times when even some sensual RP where the clothing hasn't come off will cross into NSFW territory, depending upon the actions being done.

WHO ARE OTHER THE CHARACTERS YOU SHIP YOUR CHARACTER WITH?

A courtship between Ashe and my RL boyfriend's character on Mateus was started, but it's sort of in a stalled state right now. He's long been on Balmung with a character of the same name, and their stories are completely separate. The one on Balmung is even married, with a kid or two, and his mind has been shattered a bit.

Given that I was playing the Ashla on both servers as the same character, that's become rather complicated rather fast. With the upcoming server visits, it'll become significantly more complicated and weird. He's talking about changing the character's name, so once that's done, this may work out better.

There's some sort of ship going on with Ashe and Jurien Ashur. They're becoming good friends. But interesting overtones are happening there. It sort of oscillates and melds between Estelle and Yuri from Tales of Vesperia, Kōsei and Kaori from Your Lie in April, and Rapunzel and Flynn from Tangled.

DOES ONE HAVE TO ASK TO SHIP WITH YOU?:

There's this thing about consent and role-play, and this'd fall underneath that. While shipping can occur during RP, if you turn up and have that intention from the beginning, for the love of all that his holy, you better tell me about it. I don't mind if it's something that develops organically from two characters who we don't intend for that to happen to. But if that's the premise from the start, please own up to it.

HOW OFTEN DO YOU LIKE TO SHIP?

I'm not entirely sure how to quantify that question, because the first near five years I was around in XIV, I had a steady RP partner who had three of four characters shipped with two or three of mine. I've had one actually played, predominantly platonic, ship since then (prior to sort of starting something with the boyfriend's character, and the new thing with Jurien).

Prior to that, in GW2, I didn't really have much of a ship going on; my Sylvari chilled out with this other Sylvari, but we never had it go anywhere - it was mostly to keep people from hounding us for relationship RP. In SW: TOR, my main character (I didn't really play any other much) was with the same person for my time in the game, and the two and a half years leading up to that, when we were creating backstory and our guild there (the character was played by my ex-fiancee). Aion I started something with someone I knew from EQ2, but they got immensely weird OOC, and that ended by the time we were working on TOR stuff. Prior to that, I had a like two ships with the same player on different characters, and then I had a two ships over the entire first three expansions of Star Wars Galaxies. I didn't really have much of one in EQ1, because I was kinda often too busy for it.

It either could be considered "not often", or more like frequent "steady, long-term" ships?

ARE YOU SHIP OBSESSED OR SHIP MORE-OR-LESS?:

I'm not to preoccupied with getting characters into a ship - the fact Ashe keeps falling into them is super weird to me. I can get a little hyper focused on a ship (platonic or romantic) due to weaving into my storytelling, but it's not some sort of goal I have. I've kept most of my characters out of them, especially since the abusive ex was tossed out.

ARE YOU MULTISHIP?

I'm going to assume this question is about romantic shipping.

I've done it before. My original main was in a relationship with two of the abusive ex's characters (one male and one female character). She later had a relationship that was heading towards a Buffy and Spike dynamic, that started before the ex was kicked out, but didn't go far due to not playing much after the breakup.

Generally, it'd depend on the character, and the people involved. If things pan out with the guy courting Ashe, and ICly he doesn't want her to see other people, then that's how it'll work. If not, then it'll be more open-ended.

Now, if we're talking more than romantic ships, I'm chill with multiple platonic ships, so long as the communication is good, and they don't conflict unless it's something hat makes sense and is fun for everyone. Should anyone not be having fun, then things get changed so everyone can still have fun. That kinda goes for either type of ship.

WHAT IS/ARE YOUR FAVOURITE SHIP(S) IN YOUR CURRENT FANDOM?:

I always loved the "Haurchefaunt is adventurer sexual" thing. Where basically, Haurchefaunt has a thing for adventurers in general, and since the WoL is the consummate adventurer, he falls hard for the WoL.

I also really liked Ysayle and Estinien, and I will never forgive SQEX for that kick to the feels.

FINALLY, HOW DOES ONE SHIP WITH YOU?:

As mentioned above, if you're interested in that from the beginning, please just be up front about it. If the interest develops after RP, but the RP itself hasn't gotten that far or given much signs of it, talk to me about it. If it starts looking like it's heading that way, I'll talk to you about it - possibly even mid-RP, if the RP suddenly takes that turn.

Tagged by Stolen From: @alisaie-leveilleur

Tagging: Anyone that hasn’t done it and wishes to.

#a moonlit original #prompt answers #ashe heiral #the princess of the heart

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heavenknowsffs · 8 years

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The Dome

this is based on true facts and people and it’ll be a bit long i guess but if you like stories then here you go

about: drama, mystery, romance?, no fandoms

warnings: mentions of mental illness (dissociation)

August 25, 2016

Dear Daniel,

I am writing to you because tomorrow is the first day for enrollment at the university. It’s best not to let too many days go by before we enroll ourselves, otherwise we’ll waste too much time, seeing as everyone here likes to enroll at the eleventh hour.

I was wondering when you are coming to Bramton and if we could meet then. I am going to enroll with Andie, but if you come tomorrow you can meet us at the University’s entrance.

Please write to me soon, so I know if I need to write to you all that’s been going on or if I can just tell you in person.

Love,

Sophie

Dear Sophie,

Yes, I am coming to Bramton tomorrow!

I’ve been packing all day, but I’m becoming increasingly frustrated because I can’t take my guitar with me and I feel like I’m going to be really bored while I’m there. But I guess it’s cool because you’ll be there. You and Andie must have some stuff that you guys usually do, seeing as you live in a town with no cinema and all...

I can’t believe I’m moving to the Dome for three whole years. How do you guys even have a University?

Anyway, I arrive at about 10 a.m. I’ll probably be unpacking for the majority of my morning so maybe we could meet for lunch? I’ll confirm it, however, before I get there.

Love,

Daniel

***

August 26, 2016

Dear Sophie,

Change of plans, I am still arriving at Bramton today, but I met some guys on the bus. One of them is from my town, the other is from like two towns away but they’re both going to Bramton as well!

The guy from my town is called Vincent but he told me to call him Vince, he looks like Christian Bale!!! And the other one is called Louis, he is so gorgeous, like you wouldn’t believe, and so nice?! And he has this incredibly soft looking long hair, I love it!

They both seemed pretty cool, so I invited them to lunch. We’ll meet you and Andie at the University’s main entrance. I hope you don’t mind.

Love,

Daniel

Dear Daniel,

Well, I don’t mind you inviting some more people. I’m happy you’re already making friends, cuz! But be careful, that might be the Dome already affecting you.

My parents said you’d be staying near the Castle, which is a bit far from the University, so I thought we might go to a restaurant that’s halfway between both places so you can drop off your things and not take too long walking there.

I’m sorry, but there’s no fast form of transportation inside the Dome, we don’t have a subway or a train. Bramton is, however, a relatively small town, so at least you can walk from one side to the other easily enough.

I know you’ve been here, once or twice, before to visit us and that you know a fair amount about this place, but please don’t tell your friends about the Dome just yet. They might not believe you and think you’re messing with them, which can cost you your new friendships (as you’re aware, most people inside the Dome don’t believe in it either, so getting an outsider to accept it is even harder).

I’ll text you the restaurant’s address so you can decide the faster route for you and your friends to take.

Do you know where they’re staying and if they’ll be closer to the University than you are?

Love,

Sophie

Dear Sophie,

I think it’s hard for the Dome to be affecting me and my social interactions already, since I’m still about half an hour away from Bramton. Although I’m not exactly sure where the Dome starts, I think I was relatively far from that point when I met Vince and Louis.

As to where they’re staying, I haven’t asked, but I think they don’t have a place yet. I thought I heard them say they weren’t sure if there were any available rooms or something…

I was a bit absorbed by Louis and his hair to really pay attention to the conversation, sorry.

But you and Andie could help them sort that out: since you’re from there you might know of available places closer to the University.

I am a bit upset I’m so far from the campus, but, at least, I got to stay in the most beautiful part of town, it’s not every castle whose walls for the shape of a heart, I might even get a lover with that fun fact.

I’ll be sure not to mention anything about the mysteries of the Dome, until I feel they trust me enough and that our friendship is good enough for that kind of announcement, don’t worry.

I’ll see you soon!

The boys have some cards and we’re going to play.

Did I tell you Louis also plays guitar? And Vince is a drummer. Since you can sing and Andie can play the piano, we should make a band. I could play Bass, or you could, and leave the main guitar to Louis. We’d have everything we need.

Love,

Daniel

***

August 27, 2016

Dear Sophie,

I loved the sushi restaurant we went to. I guess the Dome isn’t that bad after all, uh?

Was it just me or did Vincent and Andie really hit it off? After dinner, which me, Vince and Louis had together, we went out for a drink and after a couple of beers, Andie was the only thing he talked about.

It’ll still be a while before the lectures start, so we should all go to the reception week party together. Then you, me and Louis can watch Vince get drunk, it’s hilarious.

What did you think of them? Did you like Louis? He’s nice, isn’t he? Vince says he thinks Louis has a girlfriend but I really hope not. Not that I’m ever going to have anything with him, because I think he’s straight, but, at least, I could forget just how straight he is, for a bit.

Love,

Daniel

Dear Daniel,

She hates him! Andie couldn’t stand to be around Vincent, if someone paid her to. I don’t blame her, the moments he tried to flirt with her were complete train wrecks. He was clearly trying too hard. I kind of felt sorry for him, to be honest, but most of my sympathy went to Andie who had to put up with him all through lunch.

But I admit it was a bit funny to watch.

Don’t start to believe there are good things in Bramton, because once you start, leaving this place will become impossible, please be careful! I told you not to come here, you should have stayed in your town.

I don’t know if I’d like to watch Vince get drunk, but if Andie is there it’ll be a little more bearable for me, since he’ll be completely focused on wooing her.

He does really look like Christian Bale, but with a hint of Ryan Gosling in there, somewhere. I liked him as much as a first impression allows, I suppose… I didn’t get to know him very well yet, to be able to pass judgement.

As to Louis, it doesn’t matter if I like him or not. What matters here is what you think. Do you like him? Because I think you’d be the cutest couple!! I hope he doesn’t have a girlfriend either, so he can be with you.

Love,

Sophie

***

September 1, 2016

Dear Sophie,

I’m sorry I haven’t answered in so many days. I’ve been going out a lot with Louis and Vince. I already know what you’re thinking and it’s nothing like that. Me and Louis would never work out, let’s just leave it at that.

Since they both now have a place to live, they won’t be crashing with me any longer. We can go out more often without it being for house searching.

Louis brought one of his guitars and his car when he went to his hometown, last weekend. We went to his place and jammed for a few hours, it was so much fun.

Yesterday the three of us ordered pizza at my house, because, you know, I’m not good at cooking and, by the looks of it, neither are they. How is it you only have one place that delivers pizza? And the pizza is not very good either (although it’s better than anything we’ll ever cook, so we ate it anyway).

Well, after the pizza Vince went to the bathroom and I stayed with Louis in the living room (which is more like a small room, with a sofa, and it’s very cold there at night even though it’s summer).

So we got cold and I got us a blanket from my bed (I still don’t have many things here, so don’t judge), and we snuggled under the blanket and we talked and it was so lovely. Then Vince came back and he was like “What is going on?” to which Louis answered “We were cold. I think we should go out for beers.”. So we all agreed and we left, I haven’t even cleaned up the mess yet, now that I’m thinking about it.

We met another guy named Ed, who is from Cape Verde, and he’s pretty awesome. He’s also here to study, he arrived in town yesterday. I think you’ll really like him.

Vince is a Jazz kind of man, while Ed is more into soul and kizomba, and I hear some girls like that (maybe not you, but other girls).

When we met Ed, we also met one of his friends, Peggy who is incredibly annoying. She’s pretty, but her voice is so annoying and she talks weird… I can’t explain it, it’s just weird.

Of course Vince loved her and, apparently, she loved Louis. So much, that they both went to a more “private” place. Which means Louis is, as I thought, very straight. And I am going to be alone for the rest of my life!!!

I guess the Dome is not working hard enough to keep me here.

I’m sorry for Andie, because Vince will stay on her tail. And I’m sorry for me, because Louis is not going to be on mine, but it is what it is.

Love,

Daniel

Dear Daniel,

You have to read in between the lines here! You and Louis seem to be getting along very well and while he went off with that girl yesterday that doesn’t mean he’s straight. Please don’t jump to conclusions. He might be bisexual like Andie and me or pansexual even, don’t stress.

I’m very sorry about your bad experience with the pizza place, I guess I’m just used to it. But there’re some good places to eat, you need a car to get to most of them, however, so you should go with Louis. There’s this Italian place, with great pizza and great pasta, and it’s very cozy for a dinner for two.

You will find some more unpleasant things in Bramton, as time goes on, I’m afraid, but it’s only three years right?

Ed sounds like an amazing guy and I can’t wait to meet him.

I did notice Vince seemed to be really into Jazz, do you think he’ll try to seduce Andie with it? Because that would probably be the only way he could.

I’ve been talking to Andie and she really thinks his ideals are very dubious, not that she’s wrong. She said he asked her to be friends on Facebook and she said yes just to be polite, but he keeps messaging her. To be honest I kind of want her to flirt back, just once, to see his reaction.

Love,

Sophie

September 3, 2016

Dear Sophie,

Vince is freaking out because Andie won’t talk to him. He thinks she hates him and he’s getting really depressed because of it. He looks like an 18th century lady, when something very minor happens, and they need to lay down for hours, because they just can’t take it.

Please ask Andie to talk to him, even if it’s just small talk, just so he won’t look so sad (he’s been drinking more than usual, which was fun at first, but it’s just worrying at this point).

Maybe you guys can go out tomorrow with us and she could talk to him a bit. Ed is going to be there, as well, so it’ll be alright.

I really don’t think Louis is anything but straight. He and Vince talk a lot about sex (with girls, mind you) and especially sex in cars, which seems to be a topic they particularly enjoy. I won’t go into details, as I think it’s more information you’d like to be privy to, about my most recent friends.

We did play some Mario Kart yesterday at Vince’s, because he brought his PlayStation last weekend. Although, to be fair, it was mostly just me and Louis playing, since Vince kept whining about Andie.

I don’t think I’ll be able to keep sending you e-mail letters, because I’ll only have internet connection at my place here, next month. I’m running out of data, cuz.

It’s cool we live near each other now, so we can talk in person.

Love,

Daniel

Dear Daniel,

I read your e-mail letter to Andie and she thought it was the funniest thing ever. Therefore, she promises to talk to Vince more, for no other reason other than the fun of it.

She agreed to go out with you guys tomorrow. Unfortunately, I can’t make it but make sure to have fun without me. I hope I get to meet Ed soon, anyway.

I’m sorry Louis is straight, but you will find someone else, for sure. There’re no shortage of cute Erasmus students at campus, it’s our ultimate source of beautiful people.

Please tell me everything that happens with you guys tomorrow night, as soon as you can! I want yours and Andie’s point of view.

We’ll talk whenever.

Love,

Sophie

September 4, 2016

Dear Sophie,

It’s four in the morning and I’m writing to you, to tell you all about tonight. You will not believe tonight was real, but after Andie talks to you… you just might begin to.

We met Andie in front of the Theatre, because it was the only place everyone knew how to get to on their own, it was about midnight by then.

Apparently, Vince got there first and Andie met him there. They were talking, but it didn’t seem like she was cutting him off as usual. I thought she took my request to heart and decided to be nicer to him or give him another chance.

So, when everyone arrived, we went to this bar near the river that Andie suggested and everyone loved it. It had live music and it was near the Theatre, which was a plus for everyone.

There was a band playing jazz music. You might be wondering what Vince did next. Well… he completely forgot about Andie and just listened very intently to the music. I think she was grateful for that.

We drank a bit and the band stopped playing at about 1:30 am, which was about the time we were all tipsy enough to think dancing was a good idea. So we decided to leave and Andie took us to a club that was very crowded (I’m still wondering how, because Bramton is very small and it’s completely deserted at night but every bar is full, nevertheless).

The music there was only pleasing to Ed, but he put us all in a dancing mood when he asked Andie to dance. Vince got so jealous, he immediately turned into 18th century lady mode.

Me and Louis saw this and neither of us wanted to be near him, so he asked me to dance! And we danced, and it was so incredible (you know how kizomba is a heated dance and we have to be so close together!).

The song ended and we stopped dancing and Andie went to talk to Vincent, but he was upset, so he got up to order a drink just to avoid her.

And then Peggy, that annoying girl I told you about, showed up and went straight for me and Louis, like a wolf to the herd. I got out of there immediately, because I didn’t want to see them together, but Louis told her to go talk to Vince (who heard this and took the chance to make Andie jealous I guess, which didn’t work).

So me and Louis spent the whole night sitting together talking and Andie spent her night with Ed, while Vince was with Peggy. But it was only about 3:00 am and Peggy had to leave. Ed found a girl from Cape Verde and he went to dance with her, which left me and Louis with Andie and Vince.

I told Louis we should probably try to avoid them and what was surely about to happen, but we both agreed that the drama was too good to miss. And I remembered how you would slowly and painfully maul me to death, if I missed any part of the “Andie and Vincent Show”.

Andie went over to him and asked him to dance! And he accepted! So me and Louis thought “we can stay here and watch them dance or we can go dance and try to eavesdrop on their conversation”. Obviously, we went for the last option (and give me a shoutout, because I got to dance with Louis not once, BUT twice).

With the music playing so loud we couldn’t hear much, but I did hear Vince say something about her dancing well and Andie say something like “jazz… you… nice”, and that is probably good.

After that last song we all agreed to leave that place and go somewhere else, but Andie started to dissociate (and I know about it, but they don’t, so we said she was nauseous because of the alcohol) and Vince grabbed her by the shoulders and we took her home.

I did hear Vince try to help her like “Look at the moon, does it feel better if you fix your sight in one point?” and she said yes, even though we both know it wasn’t true, but he tried really hard to get her home safely and that was worth watching.

We managed to lose Ed in the crowd, but he texted me about five minutes ago asking where we were. He said he liked meeting Andie and that he would talk to us tomorrow. He was going to his friend’s house (he’s very easy going, he makes friends easily).

I’m going to stop writing now because my data is almost over, we’ll talk more tomorrow, in person.

And I hope you can tell me more of what Andie’s insight on Vincent was.

Love,

Daniel

#mine #story #the dome #i'll tag everything with that #every chapter and all #drama #romance #mystery #bramton #stories #prompt #text #long text #writing #lgbt characters

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