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The power of bullshit compels thee
May. 18th, 2015 01:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bluezone[ It's not going to be anything, he already knows that.
The last "demon" he'd chased out in this town had been the raccoons in an elderly parishioner's attic. Yeah, yeah, he'd blessed the house, anointed himself and the inhabitants, and had his beaten, five-dollar Bible tucked into the crook of his arm when he climbed up into the dusty crawlspace, but he'd already had a pretty good guess as to what it would be. Squirrels or raccoons, maybe opossums if his luck was really bad; shuffling through moldy boxes and ancient stacks of now-shredded newspapers, he'd found the nest he'd been expecting to find, and a trio of snarly, bitey raccoon babies.
He'd banged on the floor a couple times, shouted in his badly pronounced Latin, and then gone downstairs and announced that the house was clean; Miss Richardson didn't have a television, so he didn't expect her to get the reference. Then he'd gone back to his car, called the nearest forestry station to send a live trap over, and then gone back to the church to go back to bed.
That's his plan this time. This home has been abandoned for going on ten years, another victim of the failing real estate market in this miniscule former mining town. It's going to be vagrants or annoying teenagers from the big town two hours away, either fucking or doing drugs, and while he's got his clerical shirt and collar on, he leaves the Bible in the passenger seat.
He's grumbling on his way up the cobbled drive, annoyed for the six thousandth time that he gets asked to do this because the county sheriff's office is, of course, two hours away. He's sour when he bangs on the front door, annoyed by the lateness, annoyed by the humidity and mud from the recent rain - he'd exchanged slacks and shoes for jeans and boots today - and overall, annoyed that he has to be out here at all. ]
Hey!
I know you're in there! And I know you're doing stupid shit!
So either throw it out or hide it, because I'm coming in.
[ And so he does, leaning his shoulder against the weather-beaten door and shoving hard against it. ]
The last "demon" he'd chased out in this town had been the raccoons in an elderly parishioner's attic. Yeah, yeah, he'd blessed the house, anointed himself and the inhabitants, and had his beaten, five-dollar Bible tucked into the crook of his arm when he climbed up into the dusty crawlspace, but he'd already had a pretty good guess as to what it would be. Squirrels or raccoons, maybe opossums if his luck was really bad; shuffling through moldy boxes and ancient stacks of now-shredded newspapers, he'd found the nest he'd been expecting to find, and a trio of snarly, bitey raccoon babies.
He'd banged on the floor a couple times, shouted in his badly pronounced Latin, and then gone downstairs and announced that the house was clean; Miss Richardson didn't have a television, so he didn't expect her to get the reference. Then he'd gone back to his car, called the nearest forestry station to send a live trap over, and then gone back to the church to go back to bed.
That's his plan this time. This home has been abandoned for going on ten years, another victim of the failing real estate market in this miniscule former mining town. It's going to be vagrants or annoying teenagers from the big town two hours away, either fucking or doing drugs, and while he's got his clerical shirt and collar on, he leaves the Bible in the passenger seat.
He's grumbling on his way up the cobbled drive, annoyed for the six thousandth time that he gets asked to do this because the county sheriff's office is, of course, two hours away. He's sour when he bangs on the front door, annoyed by the lateness, annoyed by the humidity and mud from the recent rain - he'd exchanged slacks and shoes for jeans and boots today - and overall, annoyed that he has to be out here at all. ]
Hey!
I know you're in there! And I know you're doing stupid shit!
So either throw it out or hide it, because I'm coming in.
[ And so he does, leaning his shoulder against the weather-beaten door and shoving hard against it. ]
bluezone[ Liquor is awful.
Liquor is the most awful thing he's ever put into his body and this is coming from a teenager that saw it as a personal challenge when Maji Burger ported the Triple Bacon Hashbrown Special Burger with Jalapenos over from America. At least that time his ludicrous internal workings had been able to metabolize all nine of those monstrosities once he stuffed them down his gullet; here, draped back in a seat that had once been part of hovercar, Aomine can feel every single shot sitting and simmering in his stomach in a hot, nauseating soup.
He's had four so far. He's not even sure what it is; the names for every drink are unfamiliar and half of them are obscured by the scarred transparent top of the table, which is itself a relic from a time when it was trendy to have the flickering menus set in them. Most of the bar is that, a hodgepodge of old shit, re-purposed shit, discarded shit, and lighting that attracts both dust and six-winged moths in droves. Aomine is watching the moths in particular, noting that each one is in fact an alien, before remembering that he is the one that is the alien here.
He can't remember why he went along with this. Mainly curiosity, probably, but also a lot of pride; he's not a boy, after all. He can handle all kinds of shit.
...what were they talking about.
.......basketball? ] Barkley, he never got a ring, you know?
He should've won a championship, he had a great game. But not one.
Liquor is the most awful thing he's ever put into his body and this is coming from a teenager that saw it as a personal challenge when Maji Burger ported the Triple Bacon Hashbrown Special Burger with Jalapenos over from America. At least that time his ludicrous internal workings had been able to metabolize all nine of those monstrosities once he stuffed them down his gullet; here, draped back in a seat that had once been part of hovercar, Aomine can feel every single shot sitting and simmering in his stomach in a hot, nauseating soup.
He's had four so far. He's not even sure what it is; the names for every drink are unfamiliar and half of them are obscured by the scarred transparent top of the table, which is itself a relic from a time when it was trendy to have the flickering menus set in them. Most of the bar is that, a hodgepodge of old shit, re-purposed shit, discarded shit, and lighting that attracts both dust and six-winged moths in droves. Aomine is watching the moths in particular, noting that each one is in fact an alien, before remembering that he is the one that is the alien here.
He can't remember why he went along with this. Mainly curiosity, probably, but also a lot of pride; he's not a boy, after all. He can handle all kinds of shit.
...what were they talking about.
.......basketball? ] Barkley, he never got a ring, you know?
He should've won a championship, he had a great game. But not one.
Below the swell the stars are waking
Jan. 27th, 2015 03:24 pmeternalscorpionThe sands beneath Sasori's feet were eerily familiar, even if he was aware they weren't really meant to be tread by human feet; Hueco Mundo reminded him of the deserts of his homeland, rendered in stark black and white, with an unchanging moon overhead. It seemed to be an afterlife more suited to his temperament than the one he'd pictured...even if the body he inhabited here was very much alive.
He shrugged deeper into the white, hooded traveling cloak that shrouded him. Counting the days in a realm with an unchanging sky was difficult, but he knew he'd been here for some time now, pursuing a goal that had brought him across time and space and the barrier between worlds. It had taken him years to reach this point, to be able to ghost through these stark white ruins on the trail of a monster, but it appeared his search and his efforts were about to pay off.
A dozen feelings flooded through him when he at last caught sight of the broad back he'd been chasing all this time, but there was only one that he focused on, the one that spurred the black fog of iron sand swirling low behind him to rise up and condense into spikes that rained down upon Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez like a hail of arrows.
"Did you really think I'd ever allow you to escape me, you son of a bitch?" Sasori said and stepped into view, his voice heavy with loathing and his blood roaring in his ears.
He shrugged deeper into the white, hooded traveling cloak that shrouded him. Counting the days in a realm with an unchanging sky was difficult, but he knew he'd been here for some time now, pursuing a goal that had brought him across time and space and the barrier between worlds. It had taken him years to reach this point, to be able to ghost through these stark white ruins on the trail of a monster, but it appeared his search and his efforts were about to pay off.
A dozen feelings flooded through him when he at last caught sight of the broad back he'd been chasing all this time, but there was only one that he focused on, the one that spurred the black fog of iron sand swirling low behind him to rise up and condense into spikes that rained down upon Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez like a hail of arrows.
"Did you really think I'd ever allow you to escape me, you son of a bitch?" Sasori said and stepped into view, his voice heavy with loathing and his blood roaring in his ears.
zoneoutIt was coincidence. A cloudless night, with brilliant winter stars visible even through the nightlife glare; Seirin and Yousen had both blundered into the same izakaya after a spectacular Winter Cup game. The initial awkwardness soon melted away as Kagami's manhood was challenged on the field of grilled squid consumption. He was more than ready to stack his talents against the Yousen giants, and from there...
Surprisingly it was Araki who ordered sake first, and she drank it with a triumphant glare at the underaged Riko. How had it gotten out of hand from there? Someone had stolen her bottle - twice - and a couple of Yousen players simply said they were of age, and at their cruising altitude, it was tough to argue with. Among the cozy seats a scent of wood and paper, sauce and charcoal burning, the lifting sweetness of alcohol. The laughter became louder, the trash talk got more heated.
Murasakibara was there, taking up a seat and a half, lolling back against the wall. He drank when it was offered to him, neither caring nor feeling it. He didn't talk much. His conviviality was limited to clearing the place out of prepackaged mochi ice cream. From time to time he would look around the room without hurry or focus, searching for Kuroko (success rate: 30%) or maybe Kagami wolfing down something with a red face. Sometimes he looked at Kiyoshi Teppei. No expression.
Most of the time he just flicked little wads of folded-up paper chopstick wrappers at Himuro and thought about the game.
He must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing he was aware of was a woman's hand on his shoulder and her thin, nervous voice (banked anger) penetrating his skull. "Hey.... Hey! Wake up."
He blinked stupidly at her.
The room had cleared out. There were only two of them left. The clock on the wall indicated 3 AM.
"Hey, you two need to get out of here. It's closing time."
At another table, on the other side of the room, he perceived the long limbs and thick, friendly eyebrows of Kiyoshi Teppei.
Surprisingly it was Araki who ordered sake first, and she drank it with a triumphant glare at the underaged Riko. How had it gotten out of hand from there? Someone had stolen her bottle - twice - and a couple of Yousen players simply said they were of age, and at their cruising altitude, it was tough to argue with. Among the cozy seats a scent of wood and paper, sauce and charcoal burning, the lifting sweetness of alcohol. The laughter became louder, the trash talk got more heated.
Murasakibara was there, taking up a seat and a half, lolling back against the wall. He drank when it was offered to him, neither caring nor feeling it. He didn't talk much. His conviviality was limited to clearing the place out of prepackaged mochi ice cream. From time to time he would look around the room without hurry or focus, searching for Kuroko (success rate: 30%) or maybe Kagami wolfing down something with a red face. Sometimes he looked at Kiyoshi Teppei. No expression.
Most of the time he just flicked little wads of folded-up paper chopstick wrappers at Himuro and thought about the game.
He must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing he was aware of was a woman's hand on his shoulder and her thin, nervous voice (banked anger) penetrating his skull. "Hey.... Hey! Wake up."
He blinked stupidly at her.
The room had cleared out. There were only two of them left. The clock on the wall indicated 3 AM.
"Hey, you two need to get out of here. It's closing time."
At another table, on the other side of the room, he perceived the long limbs and thick, friendly eyebrows of Kiyoshi Teppei.
uniform au that isn't about uniforms
Jul. 12th, 2014 01:12 amredzoneIt wasn't like they were super close friends or anything. In fact, if caught off guard, he'd still blurt out that he barely knew the guy -- even though, over the course of some months, that had become less and less true. Maybe it was by virtue of being the only two people for miles who shared an interest in basketball over baseball, and certainly the only people who could play worth anything at all. Maybe it was because the police department was absurdly close to the fire station, and because every time someone suggested a community outreach project, it was the two of them (on account of being tall, well-built, and straightforwardly idiotic), who ended up being stuck with the public and, consequently, each other. At any rate, they had ended up spending a lot of time with each other, somehow -- enough time that he could name Aomine's favourite idol de jour and had learned to make dinner for two whenever a game was on.
Still, it had been surprising just how hard it had hit him that day, when he'd gotten the news. Technically, he shouldn't even have known -- this hadn't been their jurisdiction, and the police department didn't like to spread news of incidents in progress, as it were. He'd been running drills when some unpleasant guy with a detective badge and glasses had appeared out of nowhere to tell him, just outside the gym, that Aomine had been in a situation, and that shots had been fired.
Like a fucking punch to the gut. Of course it wasn't really a surprise -- neither of them had a particularly safe occupation -- but still he remembered his blood running cold, remembered the acute feeling of helplessness. He'd have preferred a burning house at that point: at least that was a problem he could tackle head-on.
No burning house had presented itself, and before soon it had become obvious that Aomine was fine, that it was his gun that had been fired. Megane, with the air of a Greek prophet, had muttered something about traumatic events, but of course he'd been wrong. Aomine was made of tougher stuff than that. He'd been perfectly normal that evening, and every evening after, though clearly growing irritated with the sight of Kagami showing up at his door. Kagami had stopped after the third night, smug in the conviction that Megane had been, as expected, full of shit.
It had been a little over a week when the banging woke him from a deep, pleasant dream about skimpily clad hamburger waitresses. He stumbled out of bed half-awake, by force of habit more than anything else, and took a moment to ascertain where the sound was coming from: his door. A minute later, he was tearing it open -- hair mussed, his pajama pants slipping off one hip -- but at least awake enough to glare at whomever was insane enough to disturb him at this hour.
"Wha--"
Still, it had been surprising just how hard it had hit him that day, when he'd gotten the news. Technically, he shouldn't even have known -- this hadn't been their jurisdiction, and the police department didn't like to spread news of incidents in progress, as it were. He'd been running drills when some unpleasant guy with a detective badge and glasses had appeared out of nowhere to tell him, just outside the gym, that Aomine had been in a situation, and that shots had been fired.
Like a fucking punch to the gut. Of course it wasn't really a surprise -- neither of them had a particularly safe occupation -- but still he remembered his blood running cold, remembered the acute feeling of helplessness. He'd have preferred a burning house at that point: at least that was a problem he could tackle head-on.
No burning house had presented itself, and before soon it had become obvious that Aomine was fine, that it was his gun that had been fired. Megane, with the air of a Greek prophet, had muttered something about traumatic events, but of course he'd been wrong. Aomine was made of tougher stuff than that. He'd been perfectly normal that evening, and every evening after, though clearly growing irritated with the sight of Kagami showing up at his door. Kagami had stopped after the third night, smug in the conviction that Megane had been, as expected, full of shit.
It had been a little over a week when the banging woke him from a deep, pleasant dream about skimpily clad hamburger waitresses. He stumbled out of bed half-awake, by force of habit more than anything else, and took a moment to ascertain where the sound was coming from: his door. A minute later, he was tearing it open -- hair mussed, his pajama pants slipping off one hip -- but at least awake enough to glare at whomever was insane enough to disturb him at this hour.
"Wha--"
assonant
The Harry Potter AU: Smutty Edition
Rules
- • Post
• Include some info/prompts
• AU it Up
• Expect hideousness of all kinds
• Invite your wizarding friends!
bluezoneThe transition of winter into spring was usually enjoyable enough, heavy jackets and long stays inside gradually giving way to milder weather, brighter skies, and a whole lot of school festivals that certain club members, exhausted from the rigors of wintertime competition and personal revelation, really didn’t want to be dragged into. Some of those certain people never liked that crap anyway, especially not when all they actually wanted to do was eat, sleep, or practice, but the people around them – teammates, team captains, team managers – had suddenly, for some stupid reason that couldn’t be fathomed, gotten the idea into their heads that school + festival + additional responsibility was not only good, it was mandatory.
The worst part of it was that Satsuki, of course, knew where he lived.
She also knew where Sakurai lived, which meant Aomine needed to think of another plan. Two days and two more failed attempts – one that involved slumming it in one of the dormitories and another that involved a rooftop during a thunderstorm – Aomine had to think of another, other plan, because he’d spent every free period painting (hideous) posters and getting yelled at when he made a game of tossing the failed results into waste bins across the room and on top of cabinets.
His final solution was just that: the sole, last-ditch effort before he just gave in and became the “cultural ambassador” for a themed project, the theme of which he couldn’t actually remember.
It was still wet, warm, overcast, and unseasonably windy when Aomine trudged up to the front desk of a surprisingly nice complex, told what had to be the world’s most gullible landlord that he’d lost the spare key, and then took the stairs up to the fourth floor. He tracked water inside in the process, and ended up leaving a bag, a jacket, and a soaked pair of recognizable basketball shoes by the door, because he was too tired and too grumpy to do more than nudge the door shut with his elbow and grope in the dark for the first thing that felt couch-shaped.
Ten minutes and a near-death experience later – who the hell put a basketball next to a huge glass coffee table? Only an idiot – Aomine was dozing on the couch, still in his damp sweats because slipping out directly after practice had been his only avenue of escape.
The worst part of it was that Satsuki, of course, knew where he lived.
She also knew where Sakurai lived, which meant Aomine needed to think of another plan. Two days and two more failed attempts – one that involved slumming it in one of the dormitories and another that involved a rooftop during a thunderstorm – Aomine had to think of another, other plan, because he’d spent every free period painting (hideous) posters and getting yelled at when he made a game of tossing the failed results into waste bins across the room and on top of cabinets.
His final solution was just that: the sole, last-ditch effort before he just gave in and became the “cultural ambassador” for a themed project, the theme of which he couldn’t actually remember.
It was still wet, warm, overcast, and unseasonably windy when Aomine trudged up to the front desk of a surprisingly nice complex, told what had to be the world’s most gullible landlord that he’d lost the spare key, and then took the stairs up to the fourth floor. He tracked water inside in the process, and ended up leaving a bag, a jacket, and a soaked pair of recognizable basketball shoes by the door, because he was too tired and too grumpy to do more than nudge the door shut with his elbow and grope in the dark for the first thing that felt couch-shaped.
Ten minutes and a near-death experience later – who the hell put a basketball next to a huge glass coffee table? Only an idiot – Aomine was dozing on the couch, still in his damp sweats because slipping out directly after practice had been his only avenue of escape.
Tsundere Dudebro Roomies XXX
Apr. 27th, 2014 12:10 amsexta((Continued from here.))
[ Fifteen minutes later, Grimmjow's fingers are still stubbornly and furiously smashing virulent and varied epithets into his smartphone, just as determined to bury that son of a bitch in promises of retribution for daring to suggest such stupid bullshit would ever happen, even as he wonders why the hell he isn't answering him.
As far as he can tell, he's alone in the apartment. From his vantage point inside The Biggest Pet Carrier Ever, he knows most of the lights are out and the state of disarray versus order is about what they left it at before they went out barhopping the night before. Grimmjow's areas are haphazard piles of papers, clothes, bike jackets, uniforms, and a basket full of tortillas from his favorite grocery. On Sasori's side are neat stacks of portfolios and papers, textbooks, sketch books, half-finished work, cases and cases of supplies, and, Grimmjow could swear, incense or some other similar froofy shit. If he smashes his face up against the carrier, he can just barely spot his wallet on the coffee table in the center of the living area, so he at least knows he got back here with all of his shit intact. He assumes his room is still fine; he can't tell from his angle. Otherwise, everything is as it should be.
He's just locked up.
He's also not sure where the fuck his damn shirt is. It was probably a miracle or an oversight that his phone had still been in his back pocket when he'd groggily peeled himself off the plastic floor - with a fleece mat, just as promised - and wondered why the fuck his mouth tasted like jello shots and regret. ]
Where the hell is that asshole? [ He snarls it under his breath, trying to shove his foot against the shockingly sturdy door - what the hell kind of animal was this thing made for? A bear? - to force it open.
He's less than successful. ]
If he fucking leaves me in here -
[ Fifteen minutes later, Grimmjow's fingers are still stubbornly and furiously smashing virulent and varied epithets into his smartphone, just as determined to bury that son of a bitch in promises of retribution for daring to suggest such stupid bullshit would ever happen, even as he wonders why the hell he isn't answering him.
As far as he can tell, he's alone in the apartment. From his vantage point inside The Biggest Pet Carrier Ever, he knows most of the lights are out and the state of disarray versus order is about what they left it at before they went out barhopping the night before. Grimmjow's areas are haphazard piles of papers, clothes, bike jackets, uniforms, and a basket full of tortillas from his favorite grocery. On Sasori's side are neat stacks of portfolios and papers, textbooks, sketch books, half-finished work, cases and cases of supplies, and, Grimmjow could swear, incense or some other similar froofy shit. If he smashes his face up against the carrier, he can just barely spot his wallet on the coffee table in the center of the living area, so he at least knows he got back here with all of his shit intact. He assumes his room is still fine; he can't tell from his angle. Otherwise, everything is as it should be.
He's just locked up.
He's also not sure where the fuck his damn shirt is. It was probably a miracle or an oversight that his phone had still been in his back pocket when he'd groggily peeled himself off the plastic floor - with a fleece mat, just as promised - and wondered why the fuck his mouth tasted like jello shots and regret. ]
Where the hell is that asshole? [ He snarls it under his breath, trying to shove his foot against the shockingly sturdy door - what the hell kind of animal was this thing made for? A bear? - to force it open.
He's less than successful. ]
If he fucking leaves me in here -
The Dog's Hour
Apr. 11th, 2014 05:01 amquuHura was a small town in the loveliest and most scenic eastern reach of a big bog. Amidst the three lanes of thatched and daubed shacks there were only two stone buildings - the church, and the local garrison outpost - and the closest thing to "quality" was the priest of that church, who was the third son of the never-seen-in-a-hen's-age marquis who held the fief. It rained, misted, fogged, or hailed every three days in four, and on the fourth fortunate day a watery sun would peer indifferently through the overhang of channeling mosses and olive-colored foliage. Cold even in summer, here in late autumn the weather consisted only of an unbroken overcast and the bitter clinging chill of a swamp slumping into hibernation. The local inn had two rooms, a 10 o'clock curfew, charged a ridiculous amount for board, and oversalted the bread so guests would order more drink. The only beings to ever feast in its halls were the bedbugs.
In other words, it was shit, and like all shit burgs the locals defended its proprieties zealously. The laws in Hura were pretty strict - none of your southern magic, if you please, and none of that stuff that comes from the west, like those clever boxes that open themselves up and sing, and none of that immoral conduct you'd find in the capital like dancing or whoring. (The town tramp did a steady business despite but as the chief of the garrison got for free, this was to be expected. Besides, wasn't she married? And five children. A decent woman.)
Hura had one other guesthouse just as fine as the inn, and this one also had two rooms, and fewer bedbugs, seeing as there were no beds. Unlike the inn, it was packed full. Of course we speak of the the jail in the cold stone foundation beneath the garrison outpost. The two cells with their iron bars and filthy straw scattered upon dirt faced each other across a narrow hallway, and every hour of the day, and every two hours at night, the jailer on duty would walk the hall with a slow, gloomy pace intended to suggest the heavy burden of duty, but which more often came off like unambitious shuffling.
As he came down the stairs on his outbound route, he would lift his torch and look to the right, to see the cell where the two men were kept, and then to the left, where there was a woman. Then he would proceed to the end of the hall, purposelessly check the two bales of straw and pitcher of water there on a dirty wooden stool, turn around, and pace back. Men on the right, woman on the left. Any one of these individuals would have been a standout prisoner, but three at once was liable to make a man nervous and jumpy. To wit:
One was the kind of fancy boy who called irresistibly to mind the term "gentry." Pretty as a girl and rich as a lord, to go by his purse, he'd been unaccountably caught burgling from the mayor's home. Why a rich boy like that went and stole anything, the garrison chief couldn't imagine, but he shook his head sadly for the trash of the capital. And how upset the mayor's daughter had been!
The other boy, well - short as a boy. Nobody liked the look of him. Cold eyes and a sneer like a wolf, the only thing meaner than his face was his temper, and he couldn't even be gracious enough to take a little good-natured ribbing from farm boys regarding his height. Touchy little dwarf and his weird equipment. Should have expected a little teasing, and what's wrong with that? It was all just fun and games til one of the boys had been beaten unconscious and the midget, unharmed, was rounding on the other...
As for the woman, if you could even call her a woman, she was one of those southern death elves. Just seeing her slinking around the town was evil enough. It put everyone on edge, even the chickens. No surprise to hear she'd hexed a goat so it wouldn't give milk anymore. Until she lifted that hex, she was gonna stay right there in jail where she couldn't cause more trouble. The priest had put a holy mark on each side of the cell door right in front of her, so she'd know she couldn't escape.
The sun was setting. It had been twenty minutes since the last jailer plod. "Dinner" would be on its way soon: thin turnip soup and a cup of water.
In other words, it was shit, and like all shit burgs the locals defended its proprieties zealously. The laws in Hura were pretty strict - none of your southern magic, if you please, and none of that stuff that comes from the west, like those clever boxes that open themselves up and sing, and none of that immoral conduct you'd find in the capital like dancing or whoring. (The town tramp did a steady business despite but as the chief of the garrison got for free, this was to be expected. Besides, wasn't she married? And five children. A decent woman.)
Hura had one other guesthouse just as fine as the inn, and this one also had two rooms, and fewer bedbugs, seeing as there were no beds. Unlike the inn, it was packed full. Of course we speak of the the jail in the cold stone foundation beneath the garrison outpost. The two cells with their iron bars and filthy straw scattered upon dirt faced each other across a narrow hallway, and every hour of the day, and every two hours at night, the jailer on duty would walk the hall with a slow, gloomy pace intended to suggest the heavy burden of duty, but which more often came off like unambitious shuffling.
As he came down the stairs on his outbound route, he would lift his torch and look to the right, to see the cell where the two men were kept, and then to the left, where there was a woman. Then he would proceed to the end of the hall, purposelessly check the two bales of straw and pitcher of water there on a dirty wooden stool, turn around, and pace back. Men on the right, woman on the left. Any one of these individuals would have been a standout prisoner, but three at once was liable to make a man nervous and jumpy. To wit:
One was the kind of fancy boy who called irresistibly to mind the term "gentry." Pretty as a girl and rich as a lord, to go by his purse, he'd been unaccountably caught burgling from the mayor's home. Why a rich boy like that went and stole anything, the garrison chief couldn't imagine, but he shook his head sadly for the trash of the capital. And how upset the mayor's daughter had been!
The other boy, well - short as a boy. Nobody liked the look of him. Cold eyes and a sneer like a wolf, the only thing meaner than his face was his temper, and he couldn't even be gracious enough to take a little good-natured ribbing from farm boys regarding his height. Touchy little dwarf and his weird equipment. Should have expected a little teasing, and what's wrong with that? It was all just fun and games til one of the boys had been beaten unconscious and the midget, unharmed, was rounding on the other...
As for the woman, if you could even call her a woman, she was one of those southern death elves. Just seeing her slinking around the town was evil enough. It put everyone on edge, even the chickens. No surprise to hear she'd hexed a goat so it wouldn't give milk anymore. Until she lifted that hex, she was gonna stay right there in jail where she couldn't cause more trouble. The priest had put a holy mark on each side of the cell door right in front of her, so she'd know she couldn't escape.
The sun was setting. It had been twenty minutes since the last jailer plod. "Dinner" would be on its way soon: thin turnip soup and a cup of water.
oblateWhen asked, Seymour only explained with a faint, superior smile that the penthouse had been loaned to him by a friend.
Opulently high above the neighboring buildings, it commanded a magnificent view of Tokyo on all sides. The place was appointed with sharply modern furnishings and everywhere the sedate glimmer of obedient Japanese technology. The bathroom, with its black volcanic rock slab walls and steely fittings, was made homelike by two things only: at the side of the immense sunken tub, the addition of a bamboo-slat bench upon which several white fluffy towels waited; and a little collection of orchids in miniature pots, stuck to the outside of the glass shower wall with suction cups, presumably to take advantage of the natural humidity.
One entire wall of the room was floor-to-ceiling windows which would dim to opaque at the touch of a switch. Seymour did not bother with it as he unwound his sash and began to divest himself of his jewelry. The shower partook of the view. The water was already running, steaming the glass.
He threw his boots under the copper counter at the wall and wondered whether he'd been beaten to the punch. The hair at the back of his neck prickled with anticipation.
Opulently high above the neighboring buildings, it commanded a magnificent view of Tokyo on all sides. The place was appointed with sharply modern furnishings and everywhere the sedate glimmer of obedient Japanese technology. The bathroom, with its black volcanic rock slab walls and steely fittings, was made homelike by two things only: at the side of the immense sunken tub, the addition of a bamboo-slat bench upon which several white fluffy towels waited; and a little collection of orchids in miniature pots, stuck to the outside of the glass shower wall with suction cups, presumably to take advantage of the natural humidity.
One entire wall of the room was floor-to-ceiling windows which would dim to opaque at the touch of a switch. Seymour did not bother with it as he unwound his sash and began to divest himself of his jewelry. The shower partook of the view. The water was already running, steaming the glass.
He threw his boots under the copper counter at the wall and wondered whether he'd been beaten to the punch. The hair at the back of his neck prickled with anticipation.
BFFs no homo
Mar. 11th, 2014 03:14 pmmarlborodog((Continued from here.))
[ It takes about two days for Badou to feel completely back to normal.
And by “completely back to normal” he means physically fit and ready to go, all while constantly going back to the tumble in the kitchen, the close, sharp words between them, the slow, careful approach to what could have gone fucking horribly, and then, always, the look in Heine’s eyes when he finally told him he could move.
He sees his face, sometimes, behind his eyelids. He’s sure as hell dreamed about it.
He’d also endured the excited tittering from his supervisor because somehow, someway, she always knew. Either from the look on his face or the bite on his lip or his slight, persistent limp, she’d seen fit to give him a gigantic hug because she always, always knew he’d be big on anal, he was just so, so flexible! He would really have to chat with her about it the next chance they got, there were so many tips and tricks she could give him, even recommendations and this really amazing strawberry sorbet lubricant! And if he ever needed to practice~♥
Badou had called in sick on the second day – today. Some things were just not worth getting hassled over.
He’s going to spend his morning on his back on his couch, a newspaper on his face and trying (ineffectually) to keep anything from going through his head, because the last few days have used up all his currency for Shit Happening to Badou.
He’d thought about calling Heine. He still thinks about it now, but instinct told him he needed to give him time to digest what had happened, even if Badou himself didn’t have it all figured out, either. He’d been…helping. He’d gotten the job done. He’d continue to get the job done.
Heine’s face as he came drifts across the darkness in his head. It feels like the hundredth time. ] …
Damn it.
[ It takes about two days for Badou to feel completely back to normal.
And by “completely back to normal” he means physically fit and ready to go, all while constantly going back to the tumble in the kitchen, the close, sharp words between them, the slow, careful approach to what could have gone fucking horribly, and then, always, the look in Heine’s eyes when he finally told him he could move.
He sees his face, sometimes, behind his eyelids. He’s sure as hell dreamed about it.
He’d also endured the excited tittering from his supervisor because somehow, someway, she always knew. Either from the look on his face or the bite on his lip or his slight, persistent limp, she’d seen fit to give him a gigantic hug because she always, always knew he’d be big on anal, he was just so, so flexible! He would really have to chat with her about it the next chance they got, there were so many tips and tricks she could give him, even recommendations and this really amazing strawberry sorbet lubricant! And if he ever needed to practice~♥
Badou had called in sick on the second day – today. Some things were just not worth getting hassled over.
He’s going to spend his morning on his back on his couch, a newspaper on his face and trying (ineffectually) to keep anything from going through his head, because the last few days have used up all his currency for Shit Happening to Badou.
He’d thought about calling Heine. He still thinks about it now, but instinct told him he needed to give him time to digest what had happened, even if Badou himself didn’t have it all figured out, either. He’d been…helping. He’d gotten the job done. He’d continue to get the job done.
Heine’s face as he came drifts across the darkness in his head. It feels like the hundredth time. ] …
Damn it.
scrap of sassafras
Mar. 8th, 2014 09:30 pmfemina
Maybe, in the twilight hour, she had strayed too far.Maybe that would have been a notion in her mind had she any reason to think the wood unfriendly. It was an old land, one whose roots ran deep and far, whose trees, she felt, reached infinitely upwards. Even in the dark depths of night, it was not a land that attributed itself towards terrors, not in her mind.
It had been with that comfort that she had accompanied the stag on his journey that day, unquestioning of his destination, unconcerned with what lay ahead for herself. There had been the creek they had to pass in which she had paused to encourage the blooms of lonely trillium, and then further on, the embankment on which they rested and she shared the secrets that could be found in the reading of cast stones.
Finally, it had been in a glade unfamiliar that they parted, and in the final, quiet moments of sunlight, she basks. There is no hesitation in the way she settles among fallen leaves and soft mosses, the sheer layers of ecru fabric draped lightly across her chest, the rest falling to pool across her legs. A moment to push back hair, strands of auburn desperate to cling to the last rays of sunlight, a moment of content contemplation…
Maybe she had strayed too far, but it's a worry far from her mind.
Being a tourist is the worst
Mar. 8th, 2014 12:10 amassonant"Wooooooow..."
He wasn't a bumpkin. ...okay maybe so he was kind of a bumpkin. All of Midorijima, from the ring of seaward cliffs to the center of Platinum Jail to his house in the Old Resident District, what was to Aoba the whole world could neatly fit into Tokyo's central metropolitan sprawl. That wasn't even including the cities and towns beyond the special wards that fanned outward from Tokyo Bay, filling a whole prefecture with a mass of close-quarters humanity. On his island, walking distance applied to everything; here, it'd take him a day to get from where he started at the Haneda Airport to the house of his grandmother's younger brother in Hachioji. And sure okay, it wasn't technically Tokyo Tokyo, but the Tama Area but they all fell under the same blanket name and it was...huge. Almost too huge to take in, because while Aoba had certainly never considered himself ignorant or sheltered, there was a big difference when it came to poking at directions on his Coil and staring down a public transit map that on first glance looked like flashing neon snakes and crushingly difficult kanji until Ren pointed out that there was katakana in smaller text underneath.
"Haha...! There is!" He nodded vigorously, because he was not nervous in any way. At all. "You can navigate, right? Are all the maps I uploaded current?"
In his arms, a black Pomeranian with a hint of pink tongue poking out of its mouth nodded.
"Yes."
Aoba was not also so relieved he could sigh and lean against a pole for a second. At least he'd packed light; the rest of his things for his month-long stay would arrive by freight shipping.
"Then we'd better hurry, I don't want to miss any of the trains." Trains, his mind reminded him excitedly. He'd never been on one. "Just tell me where to go."
Six hours, three incorrectly purchased tickets, two missed stops, and one mild bike accident later, Aoba was hunched over on a bench outside of what a very nice and very sympathetic elderly couple told him was the Oji Shrine, in Kita. The sun was just dropping behind the friendly square rooftops of office buildings and apartment-style housing. It was a strange, new, exciting experience, watching the sun set; usually the buildings in the Old Resident District were stacked so high as to block the view. But it was a little hard to enjoy it when net searches were turning up hotels two stations and one already-missed train away and his great-uncle was, according to his call message, out for the evening to go pick up his great-nephew.
"I'm sorry, Aoba."
He let out a breath and looked down at Ren curled in his arms, drumming up a smile he didn't quite feel.
"It's not your fault. Don't apologize."
He wasn't a bumpkin. ...okay maybe so he was kind of a bumpkin. All of Midorijima, from the ring of seaward cliffs to the center of Platinum Jail to his house in the Old Resident District, what was to Aoba the whole world could neatly fit into Tokyo's central metropolitan sprawl. That wasn't even including the cities and towns beyond the special wards that fanned outward from Tokyo Bay, filling a whole prefecture with a mass of close-quarters humanity. On his island, walking distance applied to everything; here, it'd take him a day to get from where he started at the Haneda Airport to the house of his grandmother's younger brother in Hachioji. And sure okay, it wasn't technically Tokyo Tokyo, but the Tama Area but they all fell under the same blanket name and it was...huge. Almost too huge to take in, because while Aoba had certainly never considered himself ignorant or sheltered, there was a big difference when it came to poking at directions on his Coil and staring down a public transit map that on first glance looked like flashing neon snakes and crushingly difficult kanji until Ren pointed out that there was katakana in smaller text underneath.
"Haha...! There is!" He nodded vigorously, because he was not nervous in any way. At all. "You can navigate, right? Are all the maps I uploaded current?"
In his arms, a black Pomeranian with a hint of pink tongue poking out of its mouth nodded.
"Yes."
Aoba was not also so relieved he could sigh and lean against a pole for a second. At least he'd packed light; the rest of his things for his month-long stay would arrive by freight shipping.
"Then we'd better hurry, I don't want to miss any of the trains." Trains, his mind reminded him excitedly. He'd never been on one. "Just tell me where to go."
Six hours, three incorrectly purchased tickets, two missed stops, and one mild bike accident later, Aoba was hunched over on a bench outside of what a very nice and very sympathetic elderly couple told him was the Oji Shrine, in Kita. The sun was just dropping behind the friendly square rooftops of office buildings and apartment-style housing. It was a strange, new, exciting experience, watching the sun set; usually the buildings in the Old Resident District were stacked so high as to block the view. But it was a little hard to enjoy it when net searches were turning up hotels two stations and one already-missed train away and his great-uncle was, according to his call message, out for the evening to go pick up his great-nephew.
"I'm sorry, Aoba."
He let out a breath and looked down at Ren curled in his arms, drumming up a smile he didn't quite feel.
"It's not your fault. Don't apologize."