#writing: Dead Weight

[canis-or-cannotis-lycaon]

Dead Weight || Gael, Rhett

TIMING: Mid-July LOCATION: Vicker’s Beach/Harborside PARTIES: Rhett (@ironcladrhett and Gael (@lithium-argon-wo-l-f SUMMARY: What was supposed to be sea urchin fishing turned into a salty sea dog and a chemistry professor fighting off a drowngr CONTENT WARNINGS: Body horror (it’s a drowned corpse)

He might’ve been a little… not dishonest but Gael could hold his breath for close to two minutes nowadays - he wasn’t sure when he picked it up but he figured hiking with Elias had already started to work its magic, nevermind his binges where he’d go out into the forest to blow off the pent-up energy that routinely came around every month or so. Brain defect.

Gael wasn’t really paying any of that much mind as he made his way to the spot on his map that was marked by Rhett, a man he could only mentally describe as either  “looking like an artist’s rendition of Blackbeard” or “reminiscent of a walrus with a hook for a hand”. Rhett probably looked like neither and he wasn’t disappointed, at least not that he’d say aloud. Then again, he was sure people heard ‘chemist’ and automatically put him in a lab coat with goggles on holding two beakers with colorful liquid in them like some sort of mad scientist. He never looked like that, though he could’ve styled his hair like Frankenstein if he tried hard enough. No, today he was wearing minimal gear - a gray tank top, a pair of bright blue swim trunks and carrying a small satchel with a towel, his phone and a couple other little luxuries; he hoped Rhett was receptive to him taking notes if the other man had anything else interesting to say. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for but he HAD spotted a man in the near distance - well, he had a beard that had black in it. And a mane of hair so Gael wasn’t disappointed. “Rhett?” He called to the stranger. “It’s Gael– er, if you aren’t Rhett, hi, I’m Gael and I think I’m lost.”

—

It was a strange thing to be equal parts relieved and disappointed that the person that came striding toward him on the beach didn’t set off any of his alarms—Gael being a nice person wouldn’t have stopped Rhett from removing his head from his body, had any of those chimes started dingin’. But they didn’t, and so he knew this would be a rather mundane afternoon, but… that was nice, sometimes. He was getting fucking old, sometimes he needed mundane. 

Raising a hand in greeting, the warden gave a sharp, boisterous laugh. “Aye, last I checked, was my name,” he answered in his unique accent, one that couldn’t really be tied to any one place, nomadic as his life had been up to this point. He wore red swim trunks that didn’t make it past his knees, a black v-neck, and sunglasses. Every inch of exposed skin from his clavicle down seemed to be covered in tattoos, all colorless and painting a confusing, nonsensical tapestry that could take a while to unravel if one was determined to do so, though there’s a good chance the warden would stick a switchblade through their eye before they finished. Mind yer business, he’d say.

“Kia Ora,” he offered a hand to shake, noting the bag the other had brought. At his own feet was a bucket for collecting the urchins, and in it, a hunting knife. For various purposes. Pulling the black elastic from his wrist, the warden gathered that wild mane of hair into a ponytail and tied it back. “Hope yer hungry—lotta fat suckers down there. If not, well, more fer me.”

— Was Gael just a little bit intimidated the closer he got to this man covered in tattoos, with fantastic hair and an implacable accent? Just a little. “Mucho gusto,” He replied with a nod, taking Rhett’s hand firmly as he glanced around at the environment for a moment - the sand, the shore, the bucket with the knife in it - presumably to cut the things open so they could enjoy the meaty insides. Gael was simultaneously curious and trepidatious and he tilted his head with the mix, setting his satchel down and almost opting to remove his shirt though he ultimately decided that it could stay on - they weren’t going that deep and this was supposed to be a fun outing with a guy who he was pleased to see DID in fact look like a pirate. Gael took a step or two into the lapping water. “I AM hungry. For knowledge and tasty sea urchins.” He tilted his head again. “I’ll follow you though - I’ve never seen one out in their natural habitat before.”

—

Rhett, for his part, did remove his shirt, because there were few things that annoyed him more than the feeling of wet clothes on his skin. He’d sooner be naked in the company of complete strangers than deal with that. 

Grabbing the knife and bucket, he followed the other man into the water with a grin on his face. “Aye? Good, good. Sure you’ll learn plenty.” He walked in about chest-high, then secured the knife between his teeth, took a big breath, and motioned for Gael to follow. 

It was a short swim to a cluster of underwater boulders that the sea urchins clung to, and with a wordless show and tell (more like show and make eyes at), Rhett taught Gael how to get the suckers off the rocks with said knife. Several trips to the surface later and their bucket was about half full. Would probably be enough, Rhett thought, and just as he was about to motion to Gael for them to surface, his eyes caught some strange movement behind him, even as shitty as they were. He gritted his teeth, air escaping between them in a bubble, his grip on the knife tightening. His gaze darted to meet Gael’s and he shoved the bucket into his arms, pointing up toward the surface. Then he was kicking to swim past him, down deeper to the sea floor, where something was… walking toward them. 

— His tattoos were fascinating. Gael had to try not to look at them, almost out of some Lovecraftian fear that they would mesmerize him and drive him to madness. Either that or he just figured Rhett was the type to, he didn’t know, fly off the handle over something completely innocuous. Call it a sixth sense but he knew how to respect people older than him, especially when they looked and acted like Rhett both online and in person. The older man didn’t do the whole ‘stand around and wait’ stuff which worked fine for the professor, who was rather eager to get started so with the newly-shirtless Rhett leading the way, Gael followed the salty sea-dog into the water, where they swam out a little ways. While the professor wasn’t a champion swimmer, by any means, he retained enough information to propel himself through the water without looking like an idiot who only knew how to dog paddle. After a show-and-not-tell from Rhett about what to do, Gael, being a quick learner, took to the activity with his usual enthusiasm, though he felt as though it didn’t need to be said this time. So the time passed in peace, just two guys diving for sea urchins in the pleasant summer weather. The bucket filling up and the professor was currently under the water, keeping his blurry gaze on the figure of Rhett when the latter suddenly motioned for him to surface. Being underwater, however, didn’t give Gael long to think about it and he just did what he was told, breaching the surface with a deep inhale though he wondered what Rhett wanted him to surface for. 

— He was already running low on oxygen and probably wouldn’t have time to deal with whatever it was wandering their way, but he wanted to get a look. Assess the situation. 

Well, the situation was shit. 

Knowing that he really lacked an edge underwater, the moment Rhett realized that they’d attracted a drowngr, he was off towards the surface. Popping up beside Gael, the hunter removed the knife from his bite and nodded at the shore. “Right, uh, sharks about. Best get goin’,” he lied, hoping that the creature wouldn’t follow them onto shore… even though he knew it probably would. 

Probably was giving it too much credit to lose interest, because the undead thing just kept coming for them, drawn to their body heat and wanting to take that for itself. As the men rose up from the waves and took their first steps back onto dry sand, a very decomposed, ugly-looking human head popped up from the water below about a hundred yards from shore. 

Not only was Rhett ill-equipped for this sort of fight, he couldn’t remember exactly what this type of undead fed on. It wasn’t always flesh and bone, he knew, and the undead often required more robust methods of killing than his typical fare. Damnit, he wished Emilio were here. He’d know. 

His van wasn’t parked too far from here, and they could probably beat the creature there if they started moving now. At least in the van, he had more weapons besides his hunting knife. While reliable, it wasn’t always the best option, and he didn’t think he wanted to get too close to this one. Looked bitey. 

Ushering Gael down the beach after grabbing the shirt he’d left on the sand, Rhett kept stealing backwards glances as they walked. Wouldn’t be long, now, before a corpse was on their tails. “Tell me, mate… how ready are ya feelin’ t’see an actual underwater monster today, eh?” There it was, stumbling out of the surf. “‘Cause we got one breathin’ down our necks.”

— Gael’s brow furrowed as he tread water, regarding the pirate when the latter surfaced. “Uh, okay.” He agreed without asking for clarification - even if he hadn’t seen any and from what Prisca told him, sharks didn’t attack people on purpose (unless they were bull or tiger sharks, the little menaces), he still trusted Rhett over his own incredibly limited experiences… and even if it WASN’T actually a shark, surely there was good reason for the older man to want them to get to shore. As they made their way to shore, wading into knee-deep water, Gael started to tousle his hair but it subconsciously turned into him shaking his body loose of excess water. It was brief, however, and soon enough he was back to wringing out his shirt and shorts. “Well, at least that was fun!” He said lightly, immediately before wondering if Rhett even did things like “have fun” but the professor had already said it and he probably would’ve followed it up had a harsh stench not been carried on the salty breeze, meeting his nose and instinctively causing him to press a wrist to it suddenly. Then Rhett mentioned something about an actual underwater monster and Gael gave him a brief look. “What, like an eel or–” His sentence was cut short as he looked over his shoulder and his brown eyes caught what seemed to be a bloated, slimy body of a male, obviously decomposed, shuffling out of the water and towards them. “NO?” He yelled, confusion and horror making itself very clear in his tone. “Rhett, what is THAT??”

— ���It’s a dead guy,” Rhett responded matter-of-factly, glancing sideways at Gael. He reached for the bucket of sea urchins, not wanting the other to drop it in his panic, because apparently he’d never seen a mobile corpse before. Funny, that, since they were everywhere. Some hid better than others, though. This one was pretty obvious, all bloated and shuffling and brainless as it was, lurching out of the surf and pivoting in their direction. Its skin hung loose in some places and was stretched thin in others from the gasses that were trapped inside of it, contributing to that horrible stench on the wind.

The beach ahead of them wound around a steep cliff, and just beyond that was the access road Rhett had used to get down here.  “Come on. Van ain’t far. Got a weapon or two in there.” Not giving his afternoon companion much time to argue, the hunter struck off at steady trot, figuring Gael would probably follow closely rather than be left behind with the corpse that was tripping through the sand to get to them. 

— “It’s a dead–” Gael faltered, tearing his gaze off the foul-smelling shambler, working hard to keep himself from falling into a complete panic and quickly turning on a heel to follow behind the pirate at a brisk pace. “Okay I’m sorry but did you say that was a dead guy?” He called as he decided to keep his dark eyes on Rhett instead of look behind them at the foul-smelling, shambling figure. The hand that wasn’t tightly clenched to the strap on Gael’s messenger bag that hung over his damp frame flew up and pressed itself against his nose with fervor. “Rhett why are you so casual about a dead body that’s just… walking towards us? Do you know how utterly insane that sounds?” He asked urgently, his voice definitely carrying a tone of fear and concern to it - had he just gone searching for sea urchins with someone who just… shared in his hallucinations?

—

“Yeah. Cuz it is. Not much to not understand!” He could only laugh at the following question, glancing back at Gael. “Aye, well, the world’s an insane place, innit?” Gesturing at the thing that was tailing them, trying to hurry itself along and kicking around a lot of sand in the process, Rhett raised his brows. “I mean, what else woulda ya call that other than a dead guy?” 

Sure, it had some kind of ‘real’ name, but that was Emilio’s wheelhouse. Speaking of… as they hurried around the bend of the cliff that reached into the sky above them, Rhett tried to remember where exactly he’d left his phone in the vehicle. Cup holder? Yeah, that sounded right. 

The pair closed in on the van and Rhett threw open the door, setting the bucket of urchins in the seat and grabbing his phone. “Do me a favor, young man—find ‘Milio in my contacts n’ call him up for me. As what to do about a… fuck, what’re they called… eh, just tell ‘im it’s a dead guy what came outta the ocean, aye? He’ll have an idea how tah kill it.” Meanwhile, the warden circled to the back of the van, passing Gael the phone before opening those doors as well and reaching in to retrieve a black duffel bag. And from there, his favorite cutlass. Turning it in his hand and beaming at Gael, the warden poked his head out to check on the dead guy—closing in. He could hear the phone ringing, and just hoped that Emilio would have a clue about dispatching these. — “Yeah… I guess it must be.” Rhett didn’t seem worried about it and even though the smell wanted to make Gael gag and he didn’t want to think about what would’ve happened if the thing caught up to him, whatever was happening didn’t phase the older man so the professor himself wanted to reflect that, too. The duo approached the van, which was rather stylish as Gael thought so himself - the mushrooms were a nice touch - and Rhett pulled open the door, thrusting a phone at Gael to call someone named ‘Milio’ followed by what he needed to ask him as he made his way around to the back of the van. Immediately, Gael’s mind had questions - did he mean ‘Emilio’ as the man was looking through his contacts (few as there were) and didn’t see anyone named ‘Milio’? And if it was Emilio, why would he know about how to kill water corpses - he was just a PI, right? Nonetheless, Gael caught the vaguely-unhinged smile that Rhett offered him as he pulled a cutlass from the back of his van and he got to work dialing Emilio; hopefully this was the right person. “Hey Emilio, I need– No, it’s Gael, look– Okay look I don’t have time for this, Rhett needs to know how to kill a corpse that came from the ocean.” Gael’s voice displayed impatience as he prattled to Emilio in Spanish and he urgently cast a gaze from the side of the van over his shoulder to the corpse that got ever closer, the water-slicked skin making him shudder. “Okay. Thanks, bye.” Without waiting for anything else, figuring Emilio wasn’t going to be happy about him after this, he hung up the call. “He says ‘aim for the head, cutting the head off works best and to set it on fire if it’s not too wet’??” He repeated most of what Emilio said, looking at Rhett once more.

— “Aye, well it’s pretty fuckin wet—” Rhett complained, growling in annoyance as he faced off the creature. What he didn’t know, and what had been lost in translation, was that this wasn’t just a reanimated corpse, but a drowngr, which meant it was decidedly more challenging to kill. In fact, it meant that most hunters that encountered it would simply try to trap the thing underwater where it couldn’t hurt anyone, because they all seemed to have an immensely powerful healing factor and destroying the body quickly and completely was… hard. Unless one had a wood chipper on hand, which Rhett did not. Sadly. 

With a shrug, the warden readied himself as the barnacle-covered body shuffled closer, arms outstretched. Sidestepping to avoid the creature’s grasp, Rhett gave a hefty swipe of his sword, burying it deep in the undead thing’s throat. Didn’t cut clean, of course, thanks to the elasticity of this soggy fuck’s skin, so he was left to wrench it back free, which gave the drowngr an opportunity to grab onto him. 

The freezing cold was almost immediate and very intense, and the fact that the thing’s head was mostly severed didn’t seem to deter it in the slightest. Rhett gasped involuntarily, every muscle in his body tightening against the sudden chill as the creature sapped his body heat. It drove him to one knee, which was when his gaze jumped to Gael. “Knock it over!” he yelled through gritted teeth, feeling his heartbeat begin to slow. “Ger’roff’me…!” _ One moment, he was relaying information and then the next Rhett was taking a sword to a corpse and Gael was admittedly dumbstruck as the two got into what he roughly called ‘a scene from a movie’ - that was to say, it was difficult for him to fully wrap his head around what had decided to transpire over the past fifteen minutes. They went from sea urchin searching to running from a bloated corpse and now Rhett was taking a SWORD to it– So instead of contributing anything to the squabble, at least at first, Gael just stood there dumbly as he watched the fight, wondering if he should be doing anything to assist. Maybe call Emilio again and see if he could… the professor didn’t even know, what did Emilio know about how to get rid of corpses? Then again, the question seemed to answer itself. He was shaken out of his thoughts, however, as he heard Rhett yell and his attention was abruptly pulled to the sight of the older man on a knee with the shambling, nearly-decapitated corpse looming over him like a blobfish depressurized from the deep sea, hands on the man’s arms and flesh around its sagging neck starting to knit back together as though a sword wasn’t going through it. For a second, Gael was frozen, a deer in the headlights unable to perceive anything or move. It was only a second though, and in his fashion, he sprinted forward in a burst of speed without thinking, holding his breath and rammed into the bloated body with his shoulder with all the strength he could muster and sending the three of them toppling over while he rolled on the sand. Shaking his head to recover, he glanced up to see what else he could do. “You okay?” He called, worry evident in his tone. “How else can I help?” He asked, his fear being overshadowed by his need to assist, make sure Rhett was okay.

—

Okay, so he knew zombies healed fast, but that was next level. Fuck. Needed a new plan, n’ setting the thing on fire wasn’t going to be feasible. Not with how waterlogged it was. 

“Fine,” he bit out in response, trying to shake away the sensation of slowly freezing to death in spite of the hot temperature of the day. The drowngr was a bit like a turtle stuck on its back, he realized as he got back to his feet—rolling to and fro, not posing an immediate threat. Rhett ducked around the thing’s waving arms and grabbed the hilt of his cutlass, ripping it out of the monster’s neck before handing it to Gael. “Ya wanna help? Run that fucker through n’ pin it to the ground,” he instructed. “Gonna get some rope.” Just beneath the thin layer of beach sand was dirt, warmed by the spring and summer sun and easy enough to drive a blade into. Or so he figured. 

Turning away to leave Gael to it, Rhett added a quick, “Oh, n’ don’t let it touch ya!” as he rummaged around in the van for the aforementioned rope… and something heavy to tie it to. 

— The professor scrambled to his feet as the reality of what he just did sank in, suppressing a shudder as he felt the residual slime from connecting with the corpse lingering on his shoulder like the rotten fish it seemed reminiscent of. Not considering what he would’ve done if Rhett hadn’t, in fact, been okay, Gael carefully but quickly gave the corpse who was now on its back a wide berth, almost like a dog curious about something it wasn’t sure was dangerous. Which was ridiculous. Of course Gael knew it was dangerous but while it was flipped over, waving its arms uselessly as a baby that couldn’t prop itself up yet, the thought ebbed and flowed, almost as though he was wondering why they were so afraid to begin with. … Okay, obviously his brain was mixed up about how much fear it should feel and for a moment, he subconsciously rubbed his forearms, trying to get hair that hadn’t accumulated on them off desperately. There was no fur on his arms. No aspect of the disorder had made itself present but the motion was there, fervent and almost panicked but gone soon enough. Gael arrived next to the pirate in time for the cutlass to be thrust into his hands and he cast Rhett a quick glance, his expression asking if he was serious when Gael knew the answer to that question. “Oh sure. Pin it to the ground with a sword from the back of my van while I get some rope and also don’t let it touch me.” More coping mechanisms. When faced with something Gael didn’t understand, for some strange reason, his first thought was to diffuse his own anxiety with a joke - he did it with Regan, he did it with the boys that visited him in the hospital after the attack, he’d do it now. Despite the sarcasm, he looked up and down the length of the blade with a concerned look and with a grimace, he peered down at the flopping mass. Like a band-aid. Holding his breath again and with the forward thought that he was about to plunge a sword into a man, he did so quickly, clumsily and looking like a reverse of the King Arthur myth, trying to force the sword as far down into the sword as he could while avoiding the creature’s grasp. Gael managed to do so and he staggered back in surprise and relief at his success. 

—

The sarcasm couldn’t really be held against him, and Rhett only smiled as Gael worked himself through the situation in whatever way he had to. Humans. He fought to keep them safe, and it had always been a part of his training to keep them from knowing as much as possible, which… he wasn’t great at that part. Obviously, or he wouldn’t have the guy skewering the drowngr for him like a kebab. Oh well. 

Finding a coil of rope, Rhett let out a celebratory cheer. “All right, mate—oh. Good job!” he praised, turning around to see the cutlass was buried deeply in the undead’s chest. That would be handy for what they were going to have to do next. Which was to bind the thing’s feet together. Now that it was stuck in place and unable to roll about, it’d be a lot easier to do without getting slapped by cold, dead hands. But, to make it even easier for them to avoid the thing’s chilling touch, Rhett passed a pair of gloves to Gael before putting on his own. 

“Can’t kill it, not easily. So we’re gonna make sure it stays underwater, aye?” Gloves donned, the warden grabbed one leg and motioned for Gael to grab the other, then began to loop the rope around the creature’s ankles. Next would be the hands (arms above its head was fine, comfort wasn’t the concern here), and lastly, the two ends would be connected by a rope that looped around its neck and ran up and down the length of its body. 

Then came the weight.

Rhett had, for whatever reason, an old tractor tire in the rear of his van. It was a recent road-side acquisition, and he’d give a haughty I told you so to anyone who tried to tell him that collecting other people’s garbage was a useless hobby. 

“Right. We tie the fucker t’this, then roll ‘er back into the sea. There’s a drop off not fair from here. Perfect place to sink it.” 

—

He was handed gloves and at this point Gael wasn’t even asking questions anymore even though he probably should’ve, such as ‘what the hell IS this thing’ and ‘how the hell does Emilio know how to take care of it’. So instead, he slipped the gloves on and he nodded in affirmation that he was listening to the old pirate, dark eyes observing Rhett’s movements closely so he could imitate them to the best of his abilities. And suddenly he felt like he was plunged into some unholy combination of a buddy comedy, mobster and pirate movie all at once as he helped restrain the grotesque mass of jiggling skin, swollen tissue and abhorrent stench. The good news was that he was getting his gag reflex under control, breathing out of his mouth. The bad news was literally the rest of it as he pushed the thought that he stabbed a bloated corpse to the beach and was now helping tie it together to put it back where it came from. Rhett had said that it wasn’t easy to kill and going by Emilio’s suggestion that fire would be best, the professor could see why but still. The deed was done easily enough though - at least as far as “tying someone up” went - and Gael sat back for a moment, not wanting to look at the residue on his chilled hands from touching the corpse. Instead, his gaze followed Rhett as the latter went back to his van and managed to procure a tractor tire from it. Gael didn’t even want to ask what he was doing with it and instead just gave an uncertain nod. “Okay.” He exhaled, raising his eyebrows before he shook his head and got to his feet. “Okay wait. What the hell is this?” He asked, gesturing to the wriggling body. “It’s a dead guy but like what IS it?” He asked.

—

“Don’t remember the name, lad. Somethin’ ‘bout… drownin’. On account’ah that’s how they’re made.” He grabbed some additional rope and used it to lash the creature to the tire, which the two of them then heaved up onto its side. The body dragged along in the sand behind them as they rolled the wheel back into the water, the waves lapping higher and higher at their legs and waists. The tire, heavy as it was, did not float. 

It was not a quick process, especially once they got into deeper water and had to keep making trips back to the surface for air and avoiding the trashing monster that bobbed about, suspended in the water like a balloon that was losing air. Still, they managed all right, and eventually the drop off that Rhett had mentioned appeared before them. After one last trip to the surface, the pair pushed and kicked with all their might until the tire rolled over the edge, dragging the abomination down into freezing, murky depths. 

Once they had emerged, the task complete and the beach once again safe(ish), Rhett led the way back to the van. 

“Anyway… still want those urchins?” 

— Oh gee, Gael wondered why he never thought to just call it ‘a drowned corpse’. Okay, it was fine. It was fine, they were just… tying up a bloated mass of rot and flesh to a tire then putting the tire in the ocean and just gonna leave it there where hopefully the ropes wouldn’t rot away too fast and it’d be everyone’s problem again. This was fine. He definitely didn’t feel like a re-murderer.

Maybe if they got caught and sent to prison he’d room with Rhett and they could engage in a Shawshank Redemption-like prison break thriller. These were all thoughts that flitted through Gael’s mind as he participated in the act. The effort was there, as was the tedium, but at this juncture he supposed he was just filling the time with fun things, trying to distract from the ever-present stench the corpse provided them with. Once the trio were in the water, things got a little more difficult as the dead man seemed to get more restless.

Then somehow, with a last bit of strain and a healthy kick or a few from the two of them, the corpse was sent over a drop-off in the water where it plummeted out of sight. The two surfaced and headed back to Rhett’s fan, though not without the professor suddenly nervously looking around, almost as though another undead was just waiting to materialize out of nowhere to add more onto his already-struggling plate.

The other man’s question punctured his thoughts and Gael’s dark gaze slowly drifted over to the pirate, his expression half-lidded with raised eyebrows as though to say ‘you can’t be serious right now’. A pause with the man glancing between the old sea dog, the van and the beach, he scoffed and gave a small shrug. Mama didn’t raise a quitter or a coward.

“Sure.”

[elilelibeli]

oh btw James uses Reg as a weighted blanket.

When he is anxious or overwhelmed or wtv Reg just gets fully on him and James just lies there so comfortable and so grounded and it is his favorite thing ever.

[javierduffy]

“uh … it’s a bit girly … no?” javier examines himself in the reflection of his knife’s blade, looking this-a way and that, the dark blue of a large silken bow now peeking sheepishly around his neck as it sits gently in his hair. next to him, kieran clams up a smidge, hands still held close to his chest nearby his completed ribbon project on javier’s head. he finds it in himself to wring his hands a time or two rather than immediately undo his work as javier seems to continue to formulate his final opinion. “you … think so? look at me?” kieran asks, politely as a mouse. javier easily complies, turns at his hips and looks behind, up at kieran where he sits on the stump above him.

kieran, as he peers over, can’t help the meadow of flush that blooms over his neck, then his ears, then his nose and his cheeks. he can tell javier is deep in thought by the look on his face, mouth twisted just a might sideways, cocking his mustache awry, and the deep wrinkle sat between his brows. the ribbon he used matches javier’s vest perfectly, and the shine of the silk warms bright in the sun, just like every piece of jewelry and metal javier has adorned himself with. with this ribbon, javier’s hair sits lower on his head, ponytail draped down his nape and more hair framing his face in his bangs. kieran resists an urge to tuck one side back behind his ear.

kieran thinks that he looks like a painting, a muse, a love letter so heartbreakingly full of adoration that the only language it could be written in is bright swipes of pigment on a canvas. as he makes eye contact with the silk squinting around the red of a necktie, he thinks that javier may be right, if ‘girly’ could sum up ’poetry written in effeminate reverence’.

kieran always did think women made better art, wrote better books- found a better way to love. softer. warmer. prettier. like javier.

the world sounds like it’s underwater.

“i think … it’s very pretty. it suits you real well.”

earnest to a fault, the look in kieran’s eye dances gingerly with javier’s internal voice. it dips and sways him, and javier, despite his instinct, finds himself charmed by its rhythm.

“-b-but! i could take it out! if you don’t-“ javier looks down at himself in his knife again, the sunlight filtered through the leaves glinting a yellow green around his dark features, and kieran hands him patience on a silver platter. a rich blue makes friends with bright green quite easy, javier thinks. this is how he must look through kieran’s mossy lens.

“pretty … yes. you know, i think you may be right. i’ll keep it. gracias.”

[twilight-deviant]

[purplepeptobismol]

War is over…

[abubblingcandle]

For the @ficwip word game wednesday which for this week is View

From Dead Weight Ch2

Louisa watched the scene until it disappeared out of view through the rear window. Thankfully the emergency room staff were so busy looking after their new patient that they didn’t look up to see Louisa’s pained and forlorn expression as they drove away, at the speed limit. It would not serve them to get pulled over now. He looked dead, lying limp there on the concrete in a tangle of limbs, even though Louisa had just felt his weak pulse underneath her fingertips a moment before. The doctors would not be putting an oxygen mask on a dead body. They would not be yelling back inside if it was a dead body. The car turned around the corner before River’s gurney made it inside.

[prommytheus]

thinking about professor dobinbough/harebrayne’s unused theme song. i like his dinky kind of vibe in the final version but i kinda wish he got to sound more formidable. though it wouldn’t be as fitting.

the final version more well shows how different he and barok have become over the years. like maybe a young barok’s theme would sound more like his does (more dinky and woodwind central), but after a decade apart, barok has changed and benjamin hasn’t and that rift between them is evident in their music.

idk i like noises

[one-little-nerd-stayed-home]

So. Uh. Anybody want to read a part of the miscellaneous thoughts about the third mates that have been percolating in my brain for weeks?

Weight;

Weight is a noun.

The phonetic spelling is /wāt/

The top three definitions of weight are:

1. Weight is a measure of the heaviness of an object.

The Past is a constant pressure and Henry tries not to expect people to stick around these days.

He takes what he can get and tries not to get in the way and tries to be unobtrusive and normal. Its why Sewastian is a good host. No one notices Henry when the baron is around. Its easier to disappear into the background. He doesn’t know where he’ll go when he has to leave this town.

When. Its not a question of if, not anymore.

Sometimes Henry thinks he’s cursed, catching his shadow in the corner of his eye like an old, old man. But most days he thinks he’s just Henry.

Just a man with bad luck and no spine who never sticks around.

He wishes he knew how to do things differently.

2. Weight is the force with which a body is attracted to Earth or another celestial body, equal to the product of the object's mass and the acceleration of gravity.

Irina is a perfect memory. And Fia clings to it when she’s alone in the woods when the books are quiet in the dark. If she stares into the dark for long enough, the pinwheels of light superimposed on the darkness start to resemble dappled light coming through tree leaves. Light that would spark in silver hair and she can almost hear Irina’s laughter.

They were children and Irina was everything Innerborough wasn’t. Irina was kind and the birds would eat at her feet and magic to Irina was easy as breathing. Fia remembers tracing the glowing threads as Irina drew webs in the air.

She wants her back.

Fia wants Irina here with something hungry and aching and desperately lonely.

She isn’t sure if that’s alright or not.

3. Weight is a unit measure of gravitational force.

You can’t quantify something like having Stella Vervain for a mother. Zirk tries anyway. That part of his life is over. He can balance it out if he doesn’t let it in. It can’t come back. If he doesn’t let it.

That's what he tells himself when he catches himself reading a crowd. Or a client the way she taught him to.

He’s working with a doctor now. A real doctor. He’s learning to help people and he’s going to be good at it and one day its going to be enough. It’s going to be enough to atone for the fact that he is the son of Stella Vervain. He can make up for the fact that somehow he still loves her and and he still feels the need to claw his way indiscriminately upwards the way she always seemed to.

Zirk has to make up for it.

One day he has to make it better.

[bredforloyalty]

you know what? i'm posting the fic this week the earlier the better because fuck it + i must be cleansed + come over and shoot me in the head if i don't do it

[quietwingsinthesky]

reached the part of john elton's audiobook about the AIDS epidemic. and. it's not like it's a surprise that it does, but no matter how many books i've read about it, no matter how many new accounts, it destroys me, every time. and it should.

[zolo-san]

currently very eepy at work...day dreaming about yaoi

[b0amagination]

Tastes of Whumptober: Day 24

Equipment often refers to mechanical components, buuuut... I took some creative liberties with the definition.

Equipment Failure

“Oh, that’s very illegal.” A suspicious gaze cast upon his weapon, tightening their grip on something hidden behind their back.

“And fighting in the streets isn’t?”

“I didn’t say my work was legal either. But working for morals is far more respectable than working for the highest bidder.” The mercenary shrugged at that, casually swinging the weapon: a light but sturdy chain with a heavy weight at both ends: one as a handle, one as a bludgeon.

“Someone wants you gone. They’d find a way to do it even if I weren’t here.” And he reeled the chain back to strike at his opponent who jumped out of the way just in time.

“What is that thing anyway?” the vigilante asked.

“Manrikigusari. Or a manriki.” He grinned and held it up, sliding a hand along the chain links. “It originated in Feudal Japan.”

“And you, what, just picked this up? You do understand I’m not the one to test new techniques against, yes?”

His body still remembered the wounds of previous encounters. Yes, they were certainly dangerous.

“I’ve trained in many different techniques. You’d be surprised.”

“Surprise me then.”

The vigilante lunged forth, flicking out a baton and reaching for his side. But the chain flew up and pushed it away before it could make contact. The weight clipped their hand and they gasped softly.

“Surprised?” He was beaming now, proud of his work.

“Not bad at all.” They readjusted their grip on the baton and swung it through the air. Reminding him of the consequences, should he slip up.

He took it as a challenge and struck first this time, sending the weight spiraling through the air at them. They sidestepped and swung again, this time making contact with his hip, and they went for a jab when the weight slammed into their thigh with bruising force.

The vigilante stumbled back, gingerly testing weight on their foot. Thankfully he hadn’t hit a joint. Their opponent took it as a sign of weakness and strode forward to finish them off, but they deflected his blow and pulled themself back upright. 

They exchanged blows like that, both growing wearier as the fight wore on. 

“Just… give up already!” The mercenary huffed.

“I’d rather… not meet your employer… ngh!” His manriki punched them square in the stomach and swung back for a second blow. Out of desperation, they stuck out their hand to defend themself. 

The chain struck hard, but they closed and trapped it in their fist.

“Ha!” It hurt like hell and they could hardly feel more then numb tingling, but this was their chance. He wasn’t letting go of his only defense, but they were physically stronger.

One harsh pull forced him forward to his hands and knees. 

‘Shit! Let go, you- gAH!”

The vigilante smashed his wrist under their foot, digging and twisting their heel until his grip gave out. And that foot stayed in place as they tucked the baton under their shoulder and gathered the manriki into their own hands. 

“This is a handy little thing, really. Maybe I’ll try it myself someday.” They tried it out, spinning it unevenly but making contact with his opposite shoulder, eliciting a cry. It was tucked into their pocket with a satisfied hum and they finally let him back up. 

“Give that back, asshole!” Predictably flailing for their pockets despite his bad wrist... Their baton slammed him up against the narrow alley’s wall. 

“We’re playing with my weapons now, bud.” One hand barred him with steel and the other drew a dagger. “Now, I need a name. Your employer’s in particular.”

Hands flailed for theirs, but with two bad arms it was hardly effective. 

“I ain’t telling you jack!” His carefully curated neural accent slipped away in times of stress, it seemed.

“Would you rather crawl back to bleed out on their doorstep?” The pointed tip explored his side, feeling for the best place of entry.

“I said what I said.”

“Suit yourself.” Their dagger plunged in deep, then pushed to the hilt when that wasn’t deemed quite enough. The mercenary’s mouth was opened in an “O”, only realizing he could scream after looking down past the baton.

“You dick!!! You stabbed me!” Ragged breathing set on rather quickly. “You…! I don’t- I don’t have a phone!”

“Am I to blame for you being an absolute dunce, now?”

“Fuck off!”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.” They gripped the hilt, preparing to wrench it out of the wound, but… “You know, on second thought, this isn’t anything special.” They pulled out a handkerchief and rubbed it over the grip to erase their fingerprints, jostling it in the process.

“No, please- don’t!” 

“I’m letting you keep it, bud. A reminder of who you’re fucking with.” One last hard tap on the hilt and they removed their baton, watching him collapse to the ground, and turning on their heel. “Well, it’s been fun. See you around.”

[drowninginthoughts27]

I lied. Put your clothes back on. We’re going to talk about how some people have grown far to comfortable writing about sensitive topics that they don’t have first hand experience with (ie. cultures & religions, mental health, addiction, abuse, etc.) and how maybe in some instances doing the research isn’t enough, it might just not be their story to tell

[abubblingcandle]

Thank you again!!

As a fellow lover of grenade consequences - have a little snippet from Dead Weight Ch1

“We are not getting out of here with dead weight. Some things are more important,” Sean argued, leaning out and firing a couple more shots into the gloom. “Fucking hell, life is more important. You want to get out of here, you want your fucking file then he’s coming with us,” Louisa growled, grabbing the file and shoving it into her jacket before Sean could react. She pulled one of the Chieftain pricks’ bodies closer, ripping off his jacket and tying a sleeve as tight as she could around the steadily leaking gash around River’s elbow. Another strap wrapped around his head in a childish mockery of the head tape that rugby players got to hold the blood inside their heads. Her hands slipped around the knot, blood coating each digit. Louisa knew then that there was nothing that was going to be able to scrub that feeling out of her mind no matter how this ended. At least with Min she had been spared the agony of watching him die. There was nothing more she could do right now; apart from get him out of here.

[yourlocalsewerdragon]

You okay? You haven’t been online in a while

I've spent the last 2 hours of my life delving into old gmail accounts and diaries to find the password for my long lost animal jam account

and logging into tumblr to see this anon message felt like a kiss on the forehead i might cry

[one-little-nerd-stayed-home]

Sol as he goes unconscious: If I'm dead weight just drop me

Me who has never once been normal about the concept of dead weight vs live weight as a metaphor: Uh Oh