Putrefaction
So I thought the other day hey I like shotgunning
What would happen if you shotgunned burnt!smoke
And then this was born
You don't start a revolution without knowing how to funk
So I thought the other day hey I like shotgunning
What would happen if you shotgunned burnt!smoke
And then this was born
have a wip batterie tag
it’ll eventually include purity rings becoming decidedly less pure
For some reason I’ve been strangely awkward when it comes to writing NSFW for this pairing, but well, I tried.
The batter had him pinned down underneath him, bending the merchant’s spine backwards over the jut of his sales counter. It couldn’t have been comfortable, but the batter wasn’t…
The first time I saw a body bend that way I realized that we’re more beautiful dead than alive.
Finished bit for serial killer Zacharie. Because he’s a creepy fuck. Now with a side of demented Batterie.
Warnings for what you’d expect: blood, gore, stalking, murder, mentions of animal death, the kind of shit you would figure from a story about a serial murderer.
I’ve got a broken neck sense of mortality
It clashes with your blood lust sentimentality
Happy TMI tuesday batterie tag
Have some breathplay written by someone who has never written this kind of thing before
everyone and their mother is writing burnt zacharie so yeah
this is my first fic and unfortunately it’s not very good because I’m in that stage where I’m anxious writing new characters
so i guess that’s why i killed a character (it’s a comfort zone at this point)
Special as it may feel, Jane’s still scared. Hollywood love has the promise of being bitter and biting and even though Mr. Strider is not always in the spotlight of muck and rumor he’s still immersed in it to an extent. He’s a player of the game, and if this is just another round then Jane wants to be counted out.
I wanted to write a thing for a ship that Taylor likes that isn’t very popular
I got kind of carried away I’m so sorry
I got into the zone and then it was 1700 words later
I don’t know how you ship it at all but this is what my head came up with
okay here have at it
(Also I tried to proofread it as best as I could but my brain isn’t great at 3am so….I’ll do better in the morning)
here RusAme tag, have a present
part of a two year old fic that I never finished
warning for mention of nation on nation violence, immediate post cold war stuff and old prose that’s not as up to snuff
Not long after Alfred had burst into stars in front of him he had again started to wonder about where their kind went after the invisible institutions and policies that held them together fell away. Even now, secluded away in a chilled cabin awaiting his own death, Ivan still wondered.
(I wanted to do a character introspective on America based on a line I came up with earlier today. Written while listening to this. No warnings other than mention of historical events and policies.)
He remembers pale eyed men with glowing atoms forever ingrained in their pupils who fumble with their hands and bite their knuckles and tell him we did it, oh God, oh God we did it, what have we done.
He remembers hands barely holding it together beneath bandages hiding burns. Sick, dead burns the likes of which the world had never seen before and—God willing—would never see again.
Because America remembers—and God who would do that disservice by not remembering—some think his happiness to be a mask, the exuberance to be naught but a last line of defense where sanctions and spheres and segregation fail. It’s usually his bosses who see him this way—as the long-suffering embodiment of something that exterior to symbolism should not be alive because of all that pain, can you imagine all that pain on only one’s shoulders? Nixon nags, Agnew apologizes—like Kennedy had cried and Johnson had just shook his head. Even Roosevelt had once sat him on his knee and held him like a child, trying to fill sallow cheeks and hollowed ribs with promise and policy.
(I wanted to do a character introspective on America based on a line I came up with earlier today. Written while listening to this. No warnings other than mention of historical events and policies.)
He remembers pale eyed men with glowing atoms forever ingrained in their pupils who fumble with their hands and bite their knuckles and tell him we did it, oh God, oh God we did it, what have we done.
He remembers hands barely holding it together beneath bandages hiding burns. Sick, dead burns the likes of which the world had never seen before and—God willing—would never see again.
Because America remembers—and God who would do that disservice by not remembering—some think his happiness to be a mask, the exuberance to be naught but a last line of defense where sanctions and spheres and segregation fail. It’s usually his bosses who see him this way—as the long-suffering embodiment of something that exterior to symbolism should not be alive because of all that pain, can you imagine all that pain on only one’s shoulders? Nixon nags, Agnew apologizes—Kennedy had cried and Johnson had just shook his head. Even Roosevelt had once sat him on his knee and held him like a child, trying to fill sallow cheeks and hollowed ribs with promise and policy.
You didn’t know where everyone else was. The universe had suddenly shrunken down to you and John, like some kind of a reverse Big Bang. A Tiny Bang.
Which is what you and John were going out on. A Tiny Bang. Hell, not even a bang. More like a sloppy, bloody fart. But that’s fucking nasty. Not like death wasn’t nasty. It’s pretty nasty when it’s happening to you.
But you guess death is a nasty thing to look at too. As gross and uncomfortable as it is to feel the coolness of the space around chilling the exposed meat and intestine running along the lengths of your body it’s much worse to watch John twitch and splash and burble in the darkness of paradox space. Or wherever you two had ended up after English had decided to tear you a couple hundred new assholes.
You’d figured this shit to be heroic. You don’t really recall what had happened in those last couple of moments before English had wasted you both. This feels heroic, definitely. It’s long and drawn out enough to feel heroic.
Shit, it feels heroic but you are really slacking on the melodrama. John hasn’t said a word, just gasped and choked and sobbed his strength away. You guess you better start. Dang, Egbert, always gotta leave it up to the Strider to initiate. Like usual.
He’s missing one finger, you think, or maybe you just can’t find it. Whatever. You grab onto what you can. You turn your head until it flops to the side, allowing you to see John better. He’s looking straight up, tears running down from the peak of his face. His blue uniform is all shredded and bloody and his ribs are popping out of his shirt. God, poor kid, poor fucking kid he needs you right now, he needs something to help him through this. You rub his knuckle with a peeling fingertip.
“John, hey, you listen here. It’s gonna be okay.”
He sniffles real loud. But his finger curls a little weakly against yours, so you keep going.
“Them girls, and everyone else, they got it and they can do it. A’ight? It’ll be okay John, don’t worry about it anymore it’ll be okay. Man, maybe we’ll even go to the place where all your favorite actors from all your favorite shitty movies went when the Earth got wasted. Though I gotta say I’m pretty sure McConaughey is down there burning—though maybe we’re getting sent down to dance with the devil in the red pajamas too. I did rip off the tag off my mattress when I was a kid.”
Your fingers stick against his. Too much blood drying all at once. Oh well.
“Anyway, what I’m saying is, John, is that we don’t gotta worry, it’ll be okay, it’s all gonna be okay—”
“No,” John says. His fingers flinch away from yours. You splutter a bit and more wetness seeps between you teeth.
“No?” If you had the strength to cock your head, you would have. John manages to turn his head a bit, though, and you can see that the previously hidden side of his face is just all bloody. It’s a lot worse than the part of his chest and stomach you could see. You think that might be brain. You don’t think long.
“Don’t—-don’t you do that, cool guy, don’t you sit there and tell me that it’s going to be okay.”
Tears are welling up in his eyes. Shit, this is awful. His face is torn open and he’s bleeding and you’re bleeding and how awful, how horrible.
“I’m not stupid I’m not—I’m not—we’re dying and it hurts and we’re not okay and Dave it is not okay.”
Your fingers slacken a little bit in his. Your mouth feels like rubber as you try to process what he said and try to think of something to reassure him. But your mind’s become just as plastic as your tongue so you just say:
“Yeah.”
Because it’s true. You don’t have the strength left in your fingers to grasp for straws any longer.
You clutch his hand tightly, as tightly as you can manage, and your own eyes are growing hot. You try to speak and your voice box turns into a motor trying to sputter into life. Finally you wet your tongue and manage to start up. Everything tastes like metal and vomit.
“You’re right. It’s not okay. It’s not okay. It’s not okay. It ain’t never gonna be okay again.”
You want him to be comforted even though this is awful, even though this is the worse damn thing that could happen to you. But he’s not stupid and he knows, he knows you’re lying when you tell him this is okay, that it’s not terrifying and awful.
Oh dear sweet Jesus, it’s so damn dark. There’s nothing above you, and nothing below you. Nothing after you either.
There’s not going to be anything, ever again. You close your eyes and there won’t be anything, not John bleeding next to you and not even yourself.
What do you do, what do you say? What do you say to him? What the hell do you even say to yourself?
You needed John to be okay, but he’s not. He’s not and it’s reminding you of just how not okay you are.
Your lips are so damn dry and you feel like your throat is covered in latex. This is horrible, this is horrible. Your guts are freezing. This isn’t okay. But something has to, has to be okay.
You scramble for a better hold on John’s fingers. One of them definitely is no longer attached to his hand. That’s fine. You need something. You have something.
“It—though, it—it was okay, wasn’t it? Before—before, it was okay, right? When you and me, when we—it was okay.”
John seems to smile a bit. He closes his eyes and offers you one final chuckle for closure.
“Yeah. Then. It was okay.”
Blood dribbles. Your intestines quiver. You close your eyes too.
Nothing above you, nothing below you. Nothing after you.
Nothing behind you but okay, but the simple chime and the music of that word.
You didn’t know where everyone else was. The universe had suddenly shrunken down to you and John, like some kind of a reverse Big Bang. A Tiny Bang.
Which is what you and John were going out on. A Tiny Bang. Hell, not even a bang. More like a sloppy, bloody fart. But that’s fucking nasty. Not like death wasn’t nasty. It’s pretty nasty when it’s happening to you.
But you guess death is a nasty thing to look at too. As gross and uncomfortable as it is to feel the coolness of the space around chilling the exposed meat and intestine running along the lengths of your body it’s much worse to watch John twitch and splash and burble in the darkness of paradox space. Or wherever you two had ended up after English had decided to tear you a couple hundred new assholes.
You’d figured this shit to be heroic. You don’t really recall what had happened in those last couple of moments before English had wasted you both. This feels heroic, definitely. It’s long and drawn out enough to feel heroic.
Shit, it feels heroic but you are really slacking on the melodrama. John hasn’t said a word, just gasped and choked and sobbed his strength away. You guess you better start. Dang, Egbert, always gotta leave it up to the Strider to initiate. Like usual.
He’s missing one finger, you think, or maybe you just can’t find it. Whatever. You grab onto what you can. You turn your head until it flops to the side, allowing you to see John better. He’s looking straight up, tears running down from the peak of his face. His blue uniform is all shredded and bloody and his ribs are popping out of his shirt. God, poor kid, poor fucking kid he needs you right now, he needs something to help him through this. You rub his knuckle with a peeling fingertip.
“John, hey, you listen here. It’s gonna be okay.”
He sniffles real loud. But his finger curls a little weakly against yours, so you keep going.
“Them girls, and everyone else, they got it and they can do it. A’ight? It’ll be okay John, don’t worry about it anymore it’ll be okay. Man, maybe we’ll even go to the place where all your favorite actors from all your favorite shitty movies went when the Earth got wasted. Though I gotta say I’m pretty sure McConaughey is down there burning—though maybe we’re getting sent down to dance with the devil in the red pajamas too. I did rip off the tag off my mattress when I was a kid.”
Your fingers stick against his. Too much blood drying all at once. Oh well.
“Anyway, what I’m saying is, John, is that we don’t gotta worry, it’ll be okay, it’s all gonna be okay—”
“No,” John says. His fingers flinch away from yours. You splutter a bit and more wetness seeps between you teeth.
“No?” If you had the strength to cock your head, you would have. John manages to turn his head a bit, though, and you can see that the previously hidden side of his face is just all bloody. It’s a lot worse than the part of his chest and stomach you could see. You think that might be brain. You don’t think long.
“Don’t—-don’t you do that, cool guy, don’t you sit there and tell me that it’s going to be okay.”
Tears are welling up in his eyes. Shit, this is awful. His face is torn open and he’s bleeding and you’re bleeding and how awful, how horrible.
“I’m not stupid I’m not—I’m not—we’re dying and it hurts and we’re not okay and Dave it is not okay.”
Your fingers slacken a little bit in his. Your mouth feels like rubber as you try to process what he said and try to think of something to reassure him. But your mind’s become just as plastic as your tongue so you just say:
“Yeah.”
Because it’s true. You don’t have the strength left in your fingers to grasp for straws any longer.
You clutch his hand tightly, as tightly as you can manage, and your own eyes are growing hot. You try to speak and your voice box turns into a motor trying to sputter into life. Finally you wet your tongue and manage to start up. Everything tastes like metal and vomit.
“You’re right. It’s not okay. It’s not okay. It’s not okay. It ain’t never gonna be okay again.”
You want him to be comforted even though this is awful, even though this is the worse damn thing that could happen to you. But he’s not stupid and he knows, he knows you’re lying when you tell him this is okay, that it’s not terrifying and awful.
Oh dear sweet Jesus, it’s so damn dark. There’s nothing above you, and nothing below you. Nothing after you either.
There’s not going to be anything, ever again. You close your eyes and there won’t be anything, not John bleeding next to you and not even yourself.
What do you do, what do you say? What do you say to him? What the hell do you even say to yourself?
You needed John to be okay, but he’s not. He’s not and it’s reminding you of just how not okay you are.
Your lips are so damn dry and you feel like your throat is covered in latex. This is horrible, this is horrible. Your guts are freezing. This isn’t okay. But something has to, has to be okay.
You scramble for a better hold on John’s fingers. One of them definitely is no longer attached to his hand. That’s fine. You need something. You have something.
“It—though, it—it was okay, wasn’t it? Before—before, it was okay, right? When you and me, when we—it was okay.”
John seems to smile a bit. He closes his eyes and offers you one final chuckle for closure.
“Yeah. Then. It was okay.”
Blood dribbles. Your intestines quiver. You close your eyes too.
Nothing above you, nothing below you. Nothing after you.
Nothing behind you but okay, but the simple chime and the music of that word.
You and John have been best friends since kindergarten, since the grass was the briny deep and the play structure was a gilded galleon of plastic and plywood. Since you made John walk the plank one day and accidentally caused him to fracture his wrist. Since he baked you bright blue cupcakes that nearly made you sick. Since you teased him about cruising with the flocks of mall goths to get close to his middle school squeeze. Since he wrote you a fan fiction about the adventures of your beloved avatar Marquis Mindfang only to have it end in a crossover romance with the Blue Man Group. Since you filled his locker with the most explicit Zeddemore-slash-Venkman piss porn the Internet bowels had to offer.
Since his baby fat molded into a strong jaw and killer abs, since his geeky passions bloomed into genuine talent, since the friendship between the two of you had gotten nothing but stronger.
Yeah, maybe deep down you really love John as more than just a friend. Somewhere waaaaaaaay deep down. Deep enough away from you that it’s not really much of a problem ignoring it.
It only really resurfaces a couple of times, and you’re usually able to keep a handle on it. Robo-bitch facade, roll out.
It comes up when the two of you are watching a movie and John’s sitting on the floor and you ask him a question or bring up a bit of trivia and he looks up at you, and the light from the TV screen is reflective in his glasses and turns his eyes bluer than blue.
It comes up when he’s baking and covered in flour and he has frosting on his hands and he leaves a little cyan rose of sugar on your nose and giggles like an idiot.
It comes up when you’re sitting on the roof of his Prius and pointing up at the sky, tracing constellation trails through the web of stars and weaving for him semi-shitty on the spot stories.
It comes up when he holds your hands in the stairwell as you weep and scream about why, why is it so hard, John, why did she do it?
(Where is my mother John, where is she? Where did the beast behind spindly bars hide her?)
In those moment you just want to fall apart. Drag the mine up down from the depths and let it blow up the shoddy ship of safety you have set up and send you cannoning into John’s arms and against his lips. The splintering wood dragging in nails against his scalp, his cheek.
But no. You can’t.
Outwardly you always laud your luck, and its accredited in your arrogance. But you’re not lucky, you’re really not. Your life is a testament to that.
The stakes are too high, too risky to gamble on John’s feelings. Your fear forces the chips back up every time.
Because tails you lose, lose everything. Heads you win—but win what? Win the right to mash his mouth against yours? You have his trust, you have his wit, you have his smile, you have his laugh; do you really need his teeth, his tongue, his ass, his cock?
Do you really need them?
You have safety in John, security. There’s no pressure in those scarce moments that you do fall into his arms, do cling to him for warmth and comfort.
You don’t want to lose that. You don’t ever want to lose that, even if it means your feelings never being drudged up from the deep.
