[Please read rules and about!] A Selective, Semi-Active Hetalia RP blog for Adult!Sealand, who's stumbling through shit as he tries to figure it all out.
Bates--Boy: a hetalia rp blog (barely tolerated by droid) for Older!Sealand
ind. sel. low activity. slowly exploring some heavy themes through an unraveling muse. so, warn me if you’re below 18, but i highly prefer partners 20+, especially as I am 25+.
Also:
My boy here is a twink. He's slender and soft-looking and is quite happy leaning femme. If you're anti-twink or anti-femme or anti-femininity/gender nonconforming in any degree, I don't know what you're doing here since this blog and my writing will likely not be to your taste and you should look elsewhere (and preferably hardblock me.)
A study on: recovering from self-inflicted disasters. taming the screaming and scared monster in your head. what it looks like when all the sorrows you tried to drown in gin learned how to swim. a walking listicle on “50 Different Ways to Look Over Your Shoulder Without Looking Like You’re Looking Over Your Shoulder”: 1) flip your hair dramatically 2) be on your phone but use the black screen as a mirror 3) fully face the object you fear but smile like you trust them 4)...
caard because tumblr app is crap. (caard is currently messy, but it’ll do)
follow along with the adventure!
the mizfists || peter the first (and the prequel, rage against the singularity)
If you have questions about why I've blocked you, you can refer to the rules or this post.
There was no other way for David to explain it: one minute, he was dicking away on his phone, switching from matching games to video apps and back to pass his eight-hour shift, and the next, he had to check to see if he was still sitting in his chair, because he felt... lighter. Set adrift into the cosmos even though he was still in his guardian booth.
What was harder to explain was, when he gazed up into the sky, David thought I want to go home.
Not in the usual way, where he sometimes hated his job and couldn't wait to hurry back to his apartment where he could scarf down his leftover shrimp scampi while watching a true crime documentary, but in a way that he did not belong here. This species, this planet. This domain. Stepping out of his booth and still gazing at the quickly darkening sky, David pulled his uniform jacket tighter around him, hugging himself like he was a child all over again as he looked to the clouds for the beyond, for the exit.
"-- cosmic sort of love."
David's head whipped back to his booth. He scampered back inside and snatched up his phone, where an ad began playing on a video he forgot to pause. A slender, blond-haired man draped in a flowing white gossamer robe seemed to float in a pool of glitter, violet on one side and powder blue in the other. The man reached into the bi-colored sea beneath him, and in both hands, he pulled out bottles of perfume and cologne. When he sprayed them both on his neck, the effects had the colors swirl and mix together underneath him, and he was adrift in a sea of gold stars.
David could not recall the man's stage name, only knew that some of his friends and their kids are insane about him and his group. And yet, when the man opened his eyes and gazed lovingly into the camera, his blue eyes dusted with shimmering black eye shadow, and said, "Star-Crossed Lovers by Mx.Gianni," David knew his true name. He gingerly stroked the screen with trembling fingers, feeling himself become undone and reborn just by looking at this beautiful man. When his touch accidentally skipped the ad, he searched for it and sat down, watching it over and over.
Yet another AO3 bot situation - please spread the word!
Hi, it's me again, the person who wrote that viral post about fanfiction plagiarism! Today I'm here to warn you about abuse perpetrated by bots who have stolen AO3 usernames.
There's currently an epidemic of bots going around leaving (apparently random) horrible, hateful comments on people's fics. This isn't the first time bots have invaded AO3, but the big problem with this wave is that they're using real AO3 usernames to do it.
I learned about this when another writer contacted me after receiving the following comment on their story:
Now, while that is my username, I DEFINITELY did not leave this comment (and anyone who would leave something like that on a fic should be slapped! What an awful thing to post). This fic is in a completely unrelated fandom that I have never participated in, nor has that author participated in any of my fandoms, so the probability of it being some intentional fandom drama thing to make me look bad is also low.
The writer whose fic the comment was left on enlisted the aid of some friends and tracked down other guest comments with unrelated usernames attached, which is pretty strong evidence that they are being left by bots at random.
The TL;DR: If you receive a cruel comment from a (Guest) with an actual AO3 username attached, it's most likely from a bot. Please do not lash out at or dogpile the AO3 user who owns that name, and who in all likelihood has no idea that their name has been hijacked for evil.
If finding this kind of comment on a fic, even left by a bot, is likely to upset you, I would recommend changing your comment settings so that only users who are logged in can leave comments. To do this, edit your story settings, and under "Privacy," select the radio button that says "Only registered users can comment," as shown below.
Please spread the word to other AO3 users! And if you see mean guest comments on other fics, maybe let the author know that it's probably from a bot and not a real person who thinks their writing is bad.
Sharing again cause I got my first hate bot comment, and two of my readers pointed out that it was a bot using a real ao3 users account name. I searched the name up and it’s literally using the account name of a writer who is so sweet and writes such good quality work.
So DONT dogpile the account that the bot is using. It’s not them!! Fuck these ai bots and spam. They’re ruining ao3.
Peter topped up the pets' timed feeders and water fountains. As added measures, he set the faucets in the bathrooms and kitchen to trickle, set out towels and newspapers around on the floors, and cracked open the windows that led out to his backyard so the pets had a means to leave. Just in case.
After letting Raspixx, Neptune, and Y-Fronts out of their sanctuaries, Peter went to his room, to the specious closet, to sift through the boxes until he found exactly what he needed: a pair of white aerial silks, tinged beige from underuse, the very first set he had when he was first practicing the art. He gave them a good tug, made sure they still held.
Peter had a lot of time to plot on his way home. He wished he could go with other methods, something quick and painless, but he knew that they wouldn't work out in his favor. Hop in front of a train or a massive truck, and it would take over the headlines the world over. Use his clearance to get a gun, and it could take days, even weeks, and by then, he'd get too chickenshit to eat some lead. Scarf down some over the counter sleeping pills (because he sure as hell wouldn't be able to get scripts for something stronger), and his body would burn through that shit so quickly that he'd likely lay half-awake and half-paralyzed in a puddle of his own piss.
No, this was the way to do it. He carried the folded silks and a stepladder up to the attic, and set his items down to go open one of the windows in this area. He was not going to come back to the stench of his own rot.
But what if you don't come back this time?
Brushing the thought aside, Peter went to his tools of salvation and set up the ladder. He knotted the ends of the silks, twisted their lengths together, then tied the other ends in a knot. He gave his makeshift rope another tug, sighing at the newer strength of the silks, and climbed the ladder to wound the silk rope on one of the beams running along the ceiling. He tied the other hanging end into a loop, adjusting it to the right fit.
Settled on the top step of his ladder, Peter pulled his phone out of his pocket and went to his contacts list. He did a quick scroll, seeing the dozens of names, considering which one he should call, to tell them that he was going to... bail for a couple of weeks, maybe a month. But then shook his head and rolled his eyes, tossing the phone to the side. He has got to learn that he is not important to anyone. Besides, he had been absent on and off for months, now; calling them would tip them off, and he did not want to explain to them when he came back.
But what if you don't come back this time?
Peter paused as he slipped his chin into the silk loop. He closed his eyes, feeling tears brimming once more, and fitted the rope around his neck.
Well, then, Marion, Eddie, Peter thought, here I come.
He kicked the stepladder away.
--
She awoke with a jolt. Nestled in her bassinet and her tiny body quivering, Sadaf rubbed her eyes and stared at the ceiling above her. It was still daytime, the sunlight bathing the room in a gentle glow. There was no one else in the room that could hurt her, and she could hear her mother and brother and sister in the other room through the open door. She wasn't hungry, and her bottom felt clean and fresh. She was okay. Yet, something felt wrong, like the world stopped spinning, like it was just silent. Not even a ringing silence Sadaf would get when she lied awake in the middle of the night to wait for Daddy or Mommy to come feed her, but really, really empty.
Sadaf shoved her little fist into her mouth to gum her knuckles, and reached out to her Daddy. She wanted him to sing her a song, to make the scariness go away. The silence felt like a big, hungry monster creeping closer to her, and she needed her Daddy--
Nothing. There was nothing. She prodded and called out to him, but she kept reaching nothing, and that was when she started to take panicked breaths around her knuckles, her little chest working in the beginning of her cries. She searched for his happiness, his song, even his dreams, because maybe he was asleep and just needed to be awake! And yet, where Daddy should have been was just blank. Drawing back into her mind, Sadaf then tried to listen for his heart, its soothing beat that drummed along with her own.
Sadaf stilled, her fist slipping out of her mouth and leaving a smear of drool on her cheek. The silence started to crush her, started to eat her from the inside, and her huffing breaths devolved into wails. She screamed out, alone and abandoned in a world with her Daddy's heart gone.
Auburn hair, in a dated haircut and salted at the temples. Once pouty lips now thinned and straight, a colorless scowl.
Stand up.
A once lean face, now squarish and sagging, puffy and lined.
Stand up!
The lines were even deeper and more offensive around the eyes, crow's feet framing brown eyes, deceptively warm and sweet eyes. Oh, Peter knew those eyes anywhere, even if they didn't look at him with a ravenous fury.
Stand the fuck up!
But Peter could only manage to sit up, the hot compress tumbling off his stomach and plopping to the floor. He shook all over, from his legs that would give out the moment he got to his feet, to his hands that he had to cup around his phone so he wouldn't drop it. He couldn't stop staring at the screen, even as his vision started to swim.
Andy.
All these years, after Peter trying his damndest to avoid him, at times praying that he had died in the battlefield, and there he was. Standing amongst Peter's fans, attending Peter's concert. How many concerts? How many times had Andy been within reach of Peter like this, so close that he could yank him off and drag him away? Did he get his sick kick watching Peter dance for him?
Oh, god, he was back for more--
Calm down.
He needed to close out of the app and put the phone down. Or call someone. Or forget what he just saw. Just forget it! Just like his rape, and his friends' deaths, and his own deaths, and--
It had to be a mistake, though. Yes, a mistake! A case of mistaken identity! He was thinking about Andy and what that man did to him, and simply happen to come across a photo of someone that looked like him, like superimposition. Putting Andy's face on this man's body. He can latch on to that, hold on and not let go as he closed out of the app, switched off his phone, and nap into next week and hope that he felt better by then.
But he then saw the username tagged in the post. He tapped it.
There it was, his full name right in the bio.
Andrew Barker.
And even as he started to scroll through the most boomer-ass Instagram grid he had seen in a long time, full of fish photos, old man fitness photos, grandchildren photos, Peter still clung to the hope of being wrong, because there had to have been tens of thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of people with the surname Barker, so there had to be hundreds of men named Andrew Barker in England alone, and coincidence is a bitch for situations like this, but it still exists.
Like how it had to be a coincidence that one of Andy's photosets was of a familiar model boat. The HMS Victory, still sleek despite its age, complete with a little red, white, and black maritime flag of Sealand raised high on its main mast.
"Ever since I first dug this out of my late aunt's attic, I knew I had to finish it no matter what, and look where we are now! Three weeks to build, plus another three days to paint. It would have been easier if I had the box and instructions--"
Peter couldn't read any more of this shit. He closed out of the app and dropped his phone on the couch next to him, staring absently into space.
Andy was at his show... Andy found him... He was right there... he was right there...!
As Peter began to wheeze breaths that could not fill his lungs, as he clawed into the couch cushions on either side of him, the world began to flicker white.
Stop.
Peter gasped and blinked, then squeezed his eyes and tried to inhale.
Get off your fucking ass.
Right. He can't do this, not now. He needed to... he needed to...
Shopping! He needs to go shopping!
Right, a trip to the store, to replace the shit ton of food that was sitting expired in his kitchen, probably molded at this point. Fresh air will clear his mind. On his feet, Peter swayed, one arm shooting out for balance, the other hugging his midsection as the ulcerous cramp seared his gut. He wretched, leaving a splash of thin yellow vomit on his coffee table. He'll clean that later. Right now, he had to... he had to get out of the house. But not like this. He stumbled into his bedroom to get to his bathroom, grabbing the bottle of antipsychotics along the way. He dumped what was certainly more than five tablets into his palms and fed them into his mouth, chewing and forcing himself to not gag on the battery-bitter taste. Oh, Dr. Stieg would've had his ass for chewing his pills, but he needed them to work now! Then, he took the ibuprofen out of his medicine cabinet and did the same thing.
Peter splashed some water on his face and quickly swished some mouth rinse in his mouth, which worsened the taste in his mouth but will hide the periods of neglect. He stumbled back into the living room, grabbed his keys, and when the world flashed white, some part of his mind knew that he wasn't in any condition to drive when he came to behind the wheel and his chest was starting to burn from the shallow breaths, but he could do it. He made it this far, he just needed to get some food.
At the supermarket, Peter grabbed a trolley that he hunched over as he lurked through the aisles. He realized he had forgotten disguising himself when some customers, especially the younger ones, started pointing at him and whispering, so he hung his head, hoping that his posture gave off not in the fucking mood. He didn't know what he grabbed as he roamed around, just taking whatever was closest as he passed. He knew he needed something wholesome, full of vitamins and minerals and protein to feed his starved body--
You fucking owe me!
Peter gripped the cart's handle and shook his head, ignoring a passing customer who took his phone out. He grabbed a jar of peanut butter and
Slick fingers stabbing into him
"Shit!" Peter spat as the jar crushed and burst, releasing a slow gush of brown butter all over his hand. He grabbed another and moved on.
Pressure filling him
The smell of sea salt
Numb pain in his pelvis
"Hey, man, you alright?" Someone that Peter hurried past asked him. Peter wrenched the trolley around the corner. He wiped at his eyes and glanced around for the freezer area, his eyes landing on...
Peter stopped.
Angry, hungry, beautiful brown eyes
Lube-slicked dick
Finger marks on his wrists
Andy.
Right there in the middle of the fucking store, his fucking store. Oh, Peter would recognize that
Cum crusted on his thighs and ass
mop of auburn hair anywhere! Peter hadn't known before what he would have done if he and his rapist ever crossed paths, but now, standing there mere meters away, fingers cracking the trolley's handle in his grip, every part of him bristling...
Brigadier lying dead on the bank
You owe me
See, I told you you’d like it.
Kill him
he knew.
Kill him kill him kill him
Peter felt his jaw go tight as he shoved the cart out of his way. His fists curling tight, nails slicing into his palms, Peter stormed closer, his breaths hissing through his grinding teeth. He was not going to let this opportunity slip, but he knew he was going to have to be quick. He'd love to drag Andy by the neck or hair, feel the squirm and fight of Andy's body as he kicked and screamed for help, but it would be quicker to carry him over the shoulder. And where to? It would be so poetic to go to a park with a lake, to rip his limbs off his body like the wings of a butterfly and dump them in the water to feed the fish, but it felt right if Peter left him in an industrial dumpster or a landfill to let the flies have at him. He pictured it: Andy a pile of mauled limbs and guts, maggots bursting out of his eyes and belly, dead dead dead, where he can't rape Peter ever again, nope!
Never again!
KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM!
"Hey!" Peter shouted, the power of his fort flooding his body, a blessed power to right wrongs, make the world better, make the world make sense.
Andy jumped, his hand stopping midway in putting a can of beans up on the display. He turned and looked over his shoulder and--
Peter stopped.
Green eyes.
The man, the young man with his green, not brown, eyes, stared at Peter. "Oh!" he said as he set the can down and turned away from the crate of goods, those green eyes, sparkling with that adoration Peter has seen plenty of times. The grocery clerk wiped his hands on his apron. "Oh, my god, you're... You're Attrossity! Oh, my god!"
Then, remembering that he was on the clock, the young man said, "Oh! Uh, can I help you, Atty?"
Peter eyed the other man, with his slimmer build, supplement skin, and not a strand of gray hair in sight, and glanced at the name tag on the worker's apron. Elias. "Ah..." The world started to spin, and Peter grew sick as he thought, Oh, my god, I was going to kill this man.
"I..." Peter replied in a trembling voice, "I-I..." He shook his head. "No, I'm good."
Raising his eyebrows and taking a step closer, Elias said, "Are you sure? I would love to help--"
"No," Peter said more forcefully as he took one step back, then another, hand raised to ward this fan off. "No, just... don't..."
Peter spun and marched past his cart, bumping into other customers in his hurry to get out and ignoring the store worker's voice that followed his out. Through the sliding doors and out into the parking lot, and the breeze that swept past could have knocked him off of his feet. He dug into his pockets for his keys and --
The world flashed white, and Peter narrowly missed sideswiping some scooter rider turning out of the store's parking lot. Shit shit shit Peter thought as he quickly glimpsed the side-view mirror to see if he killed that rider. He worked his fingers around the steering wheel to keep himself from crushing or ripping the tool apart and combed through his torrential mind for anything.
Okay, shopping did not work out. What else can he do? He could, should, go back home and finally go through those boxes of sample fabrics and clothes to approve designs but --
fingers stabbing into him
No, home is a no-go. Not now. He could go to the studio, call up the crew to produce a song from some of his unused lyrics. But god, does he not feel like being interrogated for
hands sliding down his waistband
being M.I.A. for weeks on end. Mike will not let the fuck up and Peter is so fucking tired of dealing with his paternalistic savior complex! He tried to think through his schedule and deadlines for a project he could bump up in the line--
The world flashed white. Peter was pinned to the ground, grass clinging to him
Peter came to, heaving and wheezing as his eyes darted about the street in front of him. His theatre! He could see if it needed renovations, or if the concession stands needed new snacks, or--
The world flashed white. Peter opened his eyes to Andy's face above him. Twisted and sweaty with effort, eyes squeezed shut, grunts forced through clenched teeth
"No!" Peter screeced hoarsely. He tried to take calming breaths, tried to force his thoughts away from Andy and blink away the dizzying and flickering dots in his vision. Andy's not here, Peter told himself, he's not
You're a fag, you're supposed to like this!
He's not here he's not here he's not here
fingers stabbing into him
You're too strong. More than you have any right to be.
When I’m done with you, you do me, okay?
The world flashed white, and Peter was pinned to the stage. Thousands of spectators in the stands, doing nothing but watch as Andy grinned above him, his sweat dripping onto Peter's face, his hips thrusting into Peter--
"STOP!"
Peter kicked out, stomping the brake to the floor. The screech of tires cut through the air as cars swerved and skidded to a stop all around his car. Still, he couldn't hear them, along with the shouts and curses of the other drivers, over his struggled breathing. His chest burned with the effort, his eyes boring into the gauges on his dashboard. His body shook, his skin crawling with Andy's fingers all these decades later. Peter was barely aware of the other drivers throwing glares and scowls at him as they passed his window. It was when the back of his eyes started to prickle, and his vision started to swim again, that Peter pulled over to the curb and set the car to neutral. He unbuckled his seat belt and slumped back in his seat and stared blankly at the horn of his wheel as he kept flashing back to being onstage, trapped under his predator, split open over and over.
But it didn't happen, he told himself.
But how would I know? How would I know that I hadn't just blocked it out?
Because security would have dragged him off the stage before he got near you, he tried to reason with himself. His face would have been plastered all over the news as a fanatic attacking a celebrity.
And you would have killed him this time.
Yet, the visions didn't stop. The phantom pains bloomed in his pelvis, crawling up to his churning stomach and his tightening chest. He felt paralyzed just as he was for all those nights, pulled to the ocean and his fort as his body waited for Andy to be done. Only his legs moved, knees and thighs squeezing together as if that would stop Andy from forcing himself inside, save Peter from being violated by the lake.
He blinked, and said to the empty car, "...God, I need a drink."
Peter inhaled thinly, and felt his face crumple. "Oh, god!" he pressed the heel of his hands into his eyes, drew his legs up to curl into himself in his seat. He needed a drink bad, lots and lots of booze, enough to wreck his memory and his liver. God, and drugs! Coke and Wonderland and weed to make him lose the feeling in his face and take him off this fucking planet! Shit, he'd even shoot up heroin like some backwater hillbilly junkie!
Or a cigarette, please, god, at least a fucking cigarette!
"I can't -- hh -- can't d-- hh -- do this!" Peter frantically wiped his face and coughed and choked as he wailed.
He wailed because Peter'd worked so hard to get clean, to climb to the top where he was, all for her, for the only good thing he had in this godforsaken world, and he can't jeopardize it all. He can't relapse, he won't relapse, not for that fucking diddler who Peter knew lost no goddamn sleep over hurting Peter and ruining his life. He wailed because that left him no choice but to drown in this despair, to feel the very air go thin, to feel everything closing in on him and have no where to escape the feeling of Andy inside him.
There is a way, though.
The thought stopped him, created a lull in his weeping. As soon as it popped into his head, a calm had washed over him, easing the shakes of his body and stemming the flow of tears as he followed that white rabbit to his hope.
A hard reset.
Just a small, temporary one, long enough for him to not have to think about this for a few days. He wouldn't need drugs, he wouldn't need drinks. He wouldn't need to wreck his life with old habits and self-destruction, bring shame back to his family and his crew, his daughter, himself.
Unfurling himself and drying his eyes one last time, Peter started his car, a plan piecing itself together.
Send my muse "I triple dog dare you..." and the dare. If they refuse to do it, they have to go to another random muse and tell them three uncomfortable truths and secrets.
Peter made a quick assessment of himself as he went to the chair -- okay, he was barely keeping his eyes open, he was probably going to collapse where he stood, he was running on whatever little caffeine was left in his body from yesterday morning, and this whole ordeal had him five minutes away from having a Bitch Fit and clawing some eyes out-- and said, "Coffee, please." After a moment, he added, "Two cups, if you can spare it." He took the papers and started to read through the content, but after the print became blurry far too many time, he decided to skim through the rest and note the basic and important stuff.
"I don't think a lawyer's gonna be necessary," he said as he took a pen and signed. He knew that it was stupid to not at least consult a lawyer (his crew, especially their designated patriarch Mike, would've had his ass for foregoing professional legal counsel) but Peter just wanted this to be over. Peter wanted his life back; yes, he knew that stalking was a possible occupational hazard of being an artist, but it had never gotten this bad. No obsessive fan had ever gotten close to actually assaulting him in his sleep, and even now, Peter's skin itched and crawled from the thought of it. Once the papers were signed, Peter slid the pile back and rubbed the heel of his hands into his eyes.
He sat back and sighed softly, looking around the room to take in the rest of the interior. He tried not to smile because this was Serious Business they were handling, but damn, if being here hadn't felt like he was starring in a campy detective film. In other, less dire circumstances, Peter would've loved this; he certainly would've drawn some inspiration from this, pounding out a novel or two on his laptop.
Speaking of laptop... "Oh, right, uh, I don't know if you need them, but I have my devices here," Peter said, patting his bag with his laptop, tablet, and primary cell phone. "I would have brought my desktop, but that felt like it would be too much of a hassle."
"So, do you prefer checks or card payment, or...? Peter asked as he dug his wallet out of the bag.
Nezumi's hands paused their fiddling with the coffee machine, and he cast a brief, temperately intrigued and equal measure concerned look over his shoulder. "Two it is," he said, tone carefully concealing the disapproval that awoke in his mind. He didn't mean to judge and if he did, which he knew he did, it wasn't judgement born from malice, but one of worry.
People, namely clients, didn't often show such blatant display of exhaustion. Most preferred to maintain a certain level of composure in the presence of a stranger, so the fact that Peter sat in the chair, looking like he might use the documents for pillows, sounded an alarm in Nezumi's mind. He prepared the coffee and set both of the cups, along with a glass of fresh, cold water, in front of Peter.
"Regardless, it will remain an option," Nezumi reassured, understanding that one wasn't always in the clear, rational headspace when put under the kind of pressure that would bring them to Nezumi's doorstep. He wanted to be fair; he wanted to take people's mental states into consideration and give them space, which is what the contract was designed for — with grief and struggles in mind.
Nezumi began to clean up some space on his desk, pushing aside the keyboard of his computer and putting away mugs with pencils and other office supplies. "Thank you; I can look at some of it now — did you bring the chargers? Do you have the passwords?" he inquired as he made a few finishing touches.
"I can start with the laptop today and do the desktop another time," Nezumi said, and then, "As for the matter of payment, the bank account information is on the contract, so a bank transfer would be preferred," he pointed towards the papers Peter signed. "The amount and everything is there; you can either send it in instalments or you can send everything at once —," he leaned over, found the correct page and showed Peter where he could find the required paragraphs. "Here."
As Nezumi pulled back, he glanced at the sofa, then at the bags under Peter's eyes. "— Look, I know this may be an unorthodox offer, but I have some pillows and a blanket here. If you have nowhere to be, you could," he gestured towards the sofa, "Or there's a nice café nearby, you could forget these dregs, and I'll pay for something better, with a tasty treat on top? They do home baked tarts and cheesecakes." And Peter looked like he could use the sugar.
"Thank you," Peter said as Nezumi set his drinks down. He raised a brow at the glass of water but didn't comment on it, instead taking one of the cups of coffee and draining it in one go. He set the empty cup down with a slow sigh of relief as he picked up the other to start nursing. He was starting to feel a little bit better now that he had a cup of Joe in him; not necessarily from the caffeine hit that hadn't come yet, but from the familiarity and comfort of a warm drink that was a part of his daily routine, one that had been upended to some degree because of his stalker.
God, he could not wait for this ordeal to be over.
"Yeah, they're all there." After sliding the bag of devices over to Nezumi, Peter was about to sift through his wallet for payment when Nezumi corrected him. "Really?" Peter gazed at the line in the contract under the other's finger, and... Ah, hell, there it was again. He thought it was just a fluke, but his vision blurred again. He kept his head bent so Nezumi hopefully wouldn't see him blink rapidly to focus his vision.
"...I promise you, I'm not illiterate," Peter joked. He pocketed his wallet with a bit of flush to his cheeks and gulped down half the coffee of his other cup, begging for the caffeine to work already, goddamn it. Sure, it was silly of him to feel embarrassed about misreading a contract in front of someone while he had this... whole other thing going on, but there was something about essentially putting his life in Nezumi's hands that let Peter let his priorities go out of whack a little bit.
Peter started to skim through the contract again, this time keeping an eye out for the key details, when he heard Nezumi's offer. He glanced up at the other, brows raised, but then sighed and smiled. "As comfy as it looks here, I'm going to have to pass," he said. "I doubt I can sleep anywhere if I can't sleep in my own home."
Damn, that sounded sadder and more pathetic than he intended, so he followed it with, "Though, the café sounds good! I'll pay, though. Think of it as a... bonus."
the purpose of friends is to have people who unconditionally hate your shitty exes & relatives. like maybe YOU have a complex relationship with your father but i sure don't. i'm outside his house with a gun. he's not the unforgivable asshole who raised me he's just an unforgivable asshole
“X bodily fluid is just filtered blood!” buddy I hate to break it to you but ALL of the fluids in your body are filtered blood. Your circulatory system is how water gets around your body. It all comes out of the blood (or lymph, which is just filtered blood).
“Okay but why is it always so chemically roundabout and unnecessarily complicated” well buddy, that’s because your blood is imitation seawater. See? It’s very simple.
#are you telling me#humans are just sentient aquariums?
Buddy if anything is living in your blood (except for more parts of you) in detectable amounts then you have a serious microbial infection and need to go to the hospital.
Humans are seawater wastelands kept sterile of all but human cells, with microbial mats coating their surfaces.
#/blood is imitation seawater/ is the part that’s confusing
Picture this: you are a Thing That Lives In The Ocean. Some kind of small multicellular animal a long time ago, before proper circulatory systems existed. “Wow,” you think, metaphorically, “it sure is difficult to diffuse chemicals across my whole body. Kinda puts a hard limit on the size and distance of what specialised organs I can have. Good thing I have all this water around me that’s the same salinity as my cells (they have to be that way so I don’t explode or shrivel up) so I can diffuse and filter chemicals with that.”
“Wait a minute,” you say a couple of generations later, because you’re not actually a small animal but an evolutionary process personified and simplified to the point of dangerous inaccuracy for the purposes of a Tumblr post, “instead of losing all these important chemicals to the water around me, how about I put it in tubes? I can keep MY water separate from the rest of the world’s water! Anything I want to keep goes in my water! Anything I don’t, I dump back into the outside water! I’m a genius! An unthinking natural trial-and-error process that’s a GENIUS!”
“Wow,” you think a great many generations later, “being able to have such control over such high concentrations of important chemicals is so great. Look how big I’m getting. I even have a special pump to move my seawater around, and these cool filter systems to keep the chemicals in it right, and that control and chemical concentration has let me grow so many energy-intensive, highly specialised organs! Being big is so hard. I need special cells just to carry my oxygen around now, to make sure my enormous, constantly-operating body has enough of it.”
At this point you are embodying a fish, and eventually, fish start straying into water with different pressures and salinity levels. (I mean, they do that since befor ehty’er fish, but… look, I’m trying to keep things simple here.) “What the FUCK,” you think. “My inside water is at a different salinity and pressure to the outside water?? How am I supposed to deal with that? I can’t have freshwater inside my seawater tubes! My cells have a set salinity and they would explode! I need to start beefing up my regulatory and filter systems so that my inside seawater STAYS SEAWATER OF THE CORRECT SALINITY even if the outside water is different! Fortunately, adding salt to my seawater is a lot easier than removing it, and I want to be saltier than this weird outside water.” At this point you beef up your liver and urinary systems to compensate for different salinities. (Note: the majority of fish, freshwater and saltwater, have a fairly narrow band of salinities they can live in. Every fish doesn’t get to deal with every level of salinity; they are evolved to regulate within specific bands.)
You also, at some point, go out on land. This is new and weird because you have to carry all of your water inside. “It’s a good thing I turned myself into a giant bag of seawater,” you think. “If I wasn’t carrying my seawater inside, how would I transport all these important chemicals between my organs and the environment?” As you specialise to live entirely outside of the water, you realise (once again) that it’s a lot easier to add salt to water than to remove it in great quantities. Drinking seawater in large amounts becomes toxic; your body isn’t specialised for removing that amount of salt. Instead, you drink freshwater, and add salts to that. The majority of your organs are, at this point, specialised for moving your seawater around, protecting it, adding stuff to it, or taking stuff out. You have turned yourself into an intelligent bag for carrying and regulating a small amount of imitation seawater, and its salinity (and your commitment to maintaining that salinity) is based entirely on the seawater that some early animals started to build tubes around a long time ago.
Because at some point, operating along lines of logic that worked out perfectly so far, you did decide to be a mammal.
A mammal is a machine for adapting to Circumstances. A mammal is a tremendously resilient all-terrain life-support system, with built-in heating, cooling, respiration, and incubators for reproduction. Mammals internalise everything (grudges, eggs) and furthermore are excessively, flamboyantly wet internally. Sure, everyone’s a bag of chemicals; but mammals slosh. Mammals took the concept of an internal ocean and took it in an unnecessarily splashy direction, added aftermarket mods and a climate-control system,
and just to show off, you leaned across the metaphorical gambling table and said: “my internal ocean is so good-“
“Bullshit,” said the shark, keeping it salty (ha)
“My internal ocean is so brilliantly resilient, more so than any of YOURS,” you said, holding their attention with a digit held aloft, “that for my next trick, I shall artistically recreate the ballad of evolution as a performance. I shall craft a complex chemical ballet depicting the origin of multicellular life - using some of my own material, of course-”
“Oh, ANYONE can lay an egg,” yodel the fish, and the ray adds: “ontogeny does NOT recapitulate phylogeny!!”
And you’re like, “yeah no, it’s an artistic rendition, not a literal thing. Basically I’m going to take some cells and brew them up-“
“Like an egg.”
“Like an egg. An egg but internally.”
“Yeah,” said the viviparous reptile, “yeah, like, that can work really well. I’ve always said it’s the highest test of one’s chemical know-how. It’s a lot of work. And forget about support from your family - forget about support from your PHYLUM - all you get is criticism.”
“I’m gonna do it on purpose forever,” you said. “The highest chemical, thermoregulatory, immunological, everything-logical challenge. It’s gonna be my thing.”
“I’m with you,” said a viviparous fish, stoutly. “Representation.”
You kindly don’t point out, once again, that you’re planning to do this outside the ocean, in a range of temperatures; carrying the dividing cells in a perfect 37.5• solution of saline broth in all terrains, breathing oxygen in a complicated matter, you know, bit more difficult; but you need your allies.
“It’s solid,” says the coelacanth.
“But is it metal?” says the deep-vent organism.
“Oh, it’s metal. I will feed the young,” you say, magnificently, “on an echo of the mother ocean. The first rich feast of cellular matter, the first hunt for sustenance, the first bite they sip of our liquid planet-”
Everyone waits.
“Will be a blood byproduct. My own blood byproduct.”
Everyone looks uncomfortable.
“But,” a hagfish says carefully, “don’t you outdoorsy guys still need your blood?”
You cough and explain that if you stay wet enough internally and hydrate frequently, you should be able to produce enough blood byproduct to sustain your hellish new invention until they can eat your peers.
The outrage that follows includes questions like “is this some furry shit?” And: “milk has WATER in it?”
And you won the bet. “My inner ocean is such a perfect homage to the primordial soup that I can personally cook up an entire live hairy mammal in it. And then generate excess blood byproduct from my body and give it to the small mammal until it gets big.”
That is an absolutely bonkers pitch, by the way, and everyone thought you were a showoff, even before the opposable thumbs. When the winter came, and the winter of winters, and the rain was acid and the air was poison on the tender shells of their eggs and choked the children in the shells; when the plants turned to poison, and the ocean turned against you all; when the climate changed, and the world’s children fell to shadow; your internal ocean was it that held true. A bet laid against the changing fates, a bet laid by a small beast against climate and geography and the forces of outer space, that you won. The dinosaurs fell and the pterosaurs fell and the marine reptiles dwindled, and you, furthest-child, least-looked-for, long-range-spaceship, held hope internally at 37.5 degrees. Which is another thing that humans do, sometimes.
It has been MONTHS, @elodieunderglass, and I am still mumbling “furthest-child, least-looked-for, long-range-spaceship” under my breath as a comfort phrase, and the FUCKING INDIGNITY that it came from this godforsaken post about THE HORRIBLE WETNESS OF MAMMALS!
A send-off, a stag night, a last hurrah. Peter hadn't known what to call it, but he felt that it had to be better than... this.
He looked up from the can of beer grasped in his hands -- mostly untouched, because the shit tasted like the bubbly broth of moldy bread that's been boiled and mixed with a tiny bit of sugar -- and into the clearing patchy with grass and tree stumps. There, the group of boys swigged their beers, getting too rowdy and too close to the bonfire they've built.
No... not boys, men.
Men, according to the law and to the military they've all enlisted in. They certainly looked like men, at least from afar: long legs, broad shoulders, voices deepened from the puberty Peter sometimes envied. But he couldn't stop calling them boys. It hadn't been that many years, yet Peter blinked, and they all shot up like weeds. It wasn't just that he remembered some of them when they still had soft faces and cracking voices, and awkward morning glories springing during sleepovers.
Watching a couple of them try to throw each other to the ground, with the rest hunched and huddled, hooting and waiting to take on the winner, draining their cans and going for another... they were scared. They were boys because they were scared. Whatever reason they had for enlisting, to get out of a shitty home life, or to travel, or to make money, they did not know what they were getting themselves into. They were getting shipped off for basic training for a few weeks, and maybe not all of them would even see combat, but clearly, they all feared this was their last night alive.
So, this was their "last" night together, which made Peter feel all the more awkward being thrusted into their care by Lisette. The crone was safe and comfy back at the house, still so much a raging powerhouse despite being along in years, but didn't want to deal with the "screeching, moody nuisance" so had sent Peter off. If Peter had the desire, he would have stayed put right there in the house, just to watch Lisette's hair fade from gray to white just from the stress of having him there. But--
"And the daughter of any priest, if she profane herself by playing the whore, she profaneth her father: she shall be burnt with fire."
"Say it!"
Peter blinked and inhaled sharply, feeling his body shiver and squeeze into itself. He forced himself to loosen up. He could tell his brother that the woman he's paid to babysit Peter during his visits wasn't doing her job, but... Arthur wouldn't care.
Distant squelching and cracking of dead leaves and twigs drew Peter out of his thoughts. He looked up to find one of the men sauntering to him, and Peter stilled the hands around the can of ale as the too-familiar, take-all stride of the man drew closer and closer. The young man had his head tilted back, draining the can of beer for every last precious drop, the bob of his Adam's apple becoming more pronounce the closer he came. The man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and tossed the empty can off to the side. He met Peter's gaze, his own eyes unfocused and hard from drink, yet still round and doe-like after all these years.
"What?" Peter tried to bark, grimacing at how low and strained his voice sounded.
Andy narrowed his eyes and matched Peter's frown with his own. "Get yer arse over there," he ordered through a belch, nodding toward the bonfire. "You ain't a goddamn wallflower."
"I'm fine here, thanks."
"I said..." Andy crept closer and bent, his breath hot and wretched with ale. "...get your arse over there. Now."
Peter fought a grimace, forced himself to stay upright and face Andy. Fear-laced thrill shot through him as he said back, "Fuck... off."
It suddenly felt like a mistake when, in the briefest moment, Peter caught an animalistic rage flash across Andy's face. He shot forward and snatched the back of Peter's head.
Peter felt Andy's long fingers tangle in his hair, the pain flaring from his tugged roots to throughout his body as Andy yanked him to his feet and dragged him away. It was too familiar, too much like those other times Andy pulled Peter's hair, late at night and early in the morning when no one would hear, when he was whispering wetly against the shell of Peter's ear and clawing at Peter's thighs and
Salt. Peter smelled salt. The brine of the sea and the rust of the platform carried in the wind and found their way into the cracked callouses of Peter's fingers, stinging them
It doesn't count, Andy would say sometimes, and Peter never knew what he meant by that. He never asked because he never wanted to know, he felt like filth all the same when he stops feeling Andy's hands and mouth and breath all over him, and felt pinned by the lingering hunger and hatred in Andy's eyes.
The threat that made him want to scream.
Lissette, help!
Arthur, help!
"-posed to see the damn thing in the dark?"
The pain suddenly dulled, from a stinging rip to a numb pound. Peter felt that Andy moved his hand from his hair to his shoulder, shoving the smaller boy forward for the last few steps. As he blinked and hurriedly dried his eyes with his sleeve, Peter looked up at the men surrounding him, their faces sharper in the flickering orange light of the bonfire. He reached back and combed down the tousled hair with fingers damp with spilled beer. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Andy bending to grab another can from the ice crate.
"With your damn torches, you idiot!" One of them, the stocky, ruddy-faced one who was named either Patrick or Paul, (Peter was sure it was Paul) scoffed as he squatted next to a cage trapping a little spotted bunny. It twisted Peter's guts watching the poor thing shivered in a corner, to spot the teeth marks it made in the wires in its futile attempt to escape.
"A torch won't be enough, though," one of the others said, a pale boy who looked like sharp angles everywhere, including his hooked nose, called Jules. He flicked the tool on and off. "I bet a fox or owl'll get to it before any of us finds it with these things."
"There ain't no foxes or owls in these woods!" the pudgy man reached inside and lifted the animal out of the cage, holding it close to him in one arm. He and Jules exchanged long scowls, with Paul or Patrick ending it by rolling his eyes. "Rule amendment: we'll hunt the rabbit down for an hour and a half, and if no one finds the rabbit by then, we'll call off the search. No one gets slag mag."
Not like Andy needs any more, Peter thought, remembering the collection of magazines Andy kept under his mattress, with busty and slender women twisted and bent on the covers, the ones Andy "lets" Peter flip through sometimes as a reward after fondling, ones Peter has to pretend to enjoy, so Andy wouldn't get into a violent temper over how much of an ungrateful twat Peter was.
Paul struggled to keep the rabbit in his grasp. He looked everyone over. "A'right, make sure your walkie-talkies are working, and you got your hunting knives--"
"Wait! Are you going to kill the rabbit?!"
All eyes fell on Peter, but he could especially feel Andy's stare burning into his back. He briefly pursed his lips as the embarrassment crawled over his skin. He didn't even know why he spoke up: he's killed and eaten his fair share of small animals that he could catch on his fort, even ones that were cute enough to be pets. He had no room to talk, yet the thought of Andy's friends trapping and stabbing the poor creature squirming in Paul's arm did not sit right with him.
Someone came up behind him and ruffled Peter's hair. Peter had to fight a wince as the hand rubbed against the tender and throbbing spot. "Nah, we aren't going to kill the little thing," the soothing, almost patronizing voice that must have belonged to Christopher, assured Peter. "The knives are for us, to keep us safe from all the bad animals out there."
"Yep, yep! So, don't get yeh knickers in a bunch, kid." Paul waited until the rabbit stopped struggling in his hold, resigning itself to whatever fate it thought awaited it, then cradled it against his chest and pressed a hand down on the back of its neck so it wouldn't try to leap out of his more relaxed hold. He glanced back down at Peter, concentrating on the boy with a scowl. "Right, so usually, everyone plays this game by themselves, but we obviously can't leave the kid alone, so..." Congrats, Andy, you have a partner!"
"NO!"
Again, all eyes snapped towards Peter, and again, Andy's were particularly scalding with white-hot fury. Peter's protest rang out into the tree tops, into the open sky, and he wished that he had stopped himself before he said anything. He thought through what little options he had: return to the home and potentially face Lissy's drunken wrath, play the game while partnered with Andy, tell everyone here what Andy does to him late at night, or...
"I can play by myself, too!"
"Aw, are you a big boy?" Paul cooed.
"Yes!" Peters's cheeks flushed with heat as Paul and Jules shook with laughter. "I mean, I'm not a baby!" He knew how he sounded, petulant and whinging and demanding -- exactly like a baby. But the thought of creeping through the dark forest with Andy, alone and away from anyone, with no threat of anyone walking in on the two of them stopping Andy from touching and grabbing and stroking and grinding--
"Eh, let the fucking bloke wander by himself."
Peter finally glanced over to Andy, who met his gaze with surprising disinterest. Peter turned his attention back to Paul, pleading with his eyes.
"We can't, Andy," Jules said. "We don't have enough torches--"
"He can have mine." Andy yanked the heavy-duty thing out of his belt and tapped it on Peter's shoulder.
Some more beer sloshed out of the can and down the back of Peter's hand as he sharply turned halfway to face Andy. "Keep your torch. I don't want anything from you!"
He and Andy stared each other down, ignoring the baffled glances the rest of the group exchanged with each other.
"You are taking the torch, Peter," Andy said coolly, "or you are playing this stupid game with me. Or do you want me to take you home?"
Andy took a step closer, an eyebrow cocked. It was more than enough for Peter to pick up the threat and let it deflate him. With his gaze turned to the side, Peter took the offered torch and let it dangle in his hand at his side.
"Great," Paul said after a beat. "But now how are you going'ta see in the dark?"
Andy pointed up. "By the stars and the moon, friend. B'sides," he paused to belch once more. "I know this forest like the back of my hand."
Paul and Jules looked at each other, with Jules raising his hands and shrugging. "Right, sure," Paul said with an eyeroll. "Le's get this game started. We have a big day tomorrow. Again, the rules: give the rabbit a one-minute headstart, search for an hour an'a half, firs' to find it gets a year of slag rags."
Crouching, Paul set the rabbit on the ground. The animal immediately took off, bounding out of the circle of the dying bonfire's light and into the dancing shadows of the trees. Paul checked his watch and rose, giving every young man there a sloppy grin. He raised his can, the swishing inside indicating that it was already over halfway empty.
"For the Queen!"
The rest shot their cans in the air. Peter looked around him, and just for a fraction of a second later, he was swept up in this makeshift camaderie and raised his can, too.
"For the Queen!"
They all tilted their cans back, guzzling the drinks. Peter squeezed his eyes shut as the bubbly nastiness went down his throat, forcing the swallows in and trying to be one of the guys, and there was something there, there was something good in this yeasty, nasty mess that he tried to chase until--
The beer spurted out of the corners of his mouth, the foaming spraying out of his nostrils. "Pfffsssst! Augh!" Peter bent and cough, continuing to squeeze his eyes shut against the burning sting in every cavity in his head. Over his coughing fit, Peter could hear the men burst into laughter, and it set his ears blazing red.
One of the slapped his back. "Aw, I think you should wait until you get some hair on your knob before you try that again," he chuckled. Andy snatched the can away as Peter swiped his face dry and downed what little left there was.
Paul led the others in turning toward the trees in the direction the rabbit had escaped. He raised one hand, a foot planted in front of him ready to go, and kept his eyes on his device.
"Get ready... get set..."
Peter let out one final cough and shook his shoulders, weighted the heftiness of the long metallic torch in his hand.
Paul jerked his hand down. "Go!"
With feet pounding into the ground, the group set off, staying close to each other until they reached into the darker depths of the trees and started to fan out. The air felt so cool against Peter's hot cheeks as he flew through the trees, lightness ballooning in his chest. For once since he had gotten there, Peter could breathe easy, could put Andy and Lisette out of his mind. For once, Peter did not feel dirty.
And he chased that feeling, letting the light lift out of his chest into an ale-soaked laugh. Even when he looked around him and found himself utterly alone, even when he tripped and stumbled and cut his hand and face on bark and branches, he felt free.
When the fading light of the bonfire disappeared and the treetops grew denser, Peter slowed down and switched his light on. He swept the beam front to back and took deep breaths to slow his beating heart. He kept his ears open for... whatever rabbit sounds are supposed to be. Twigs snapping, maybe, or grass crunching as the little thing ate. Now that the rush of the run was starting to disappear, Peter was right back to fretting over the rabbit. There was a lot that he had hoped for: that the soon-to-be soldiers were being honest about not killing the rabbit with their knives, that Peter caught it before anyone else, or that if none of them caught it before time was up, that it would not be eaten by a wild predator lurking in the forest. Peter especially hoped for the second, his mind spinning with names for the little thing. Maybe he can name the rabbit after himself if it was a boy, and it would work because he would also be named after the bunny character of one of his former favorite picture books! Or Mindy if it's a girl; the name felt right for the brown rabbit with her white speckles. Or...
Oh, Brigadier! It can be his right-hand sentinel on the fort, fighting his nightmares as they cuddle at night. But he'll have to get a lot of carrots on the fort, somehow, maybe a carrot garden? Could he ask Prince Paddy to set up a little garden for Brigadier? Would Prince Paddy even allow Brigadier on the fort? Peter would have to give him a ring once he returned to Lisette's godforsaken house and--
A twinkle shone in the trees. Narrowing his eyes, Peter turned and followed it, creeping through tall grass and between the trees. The twinkling grew, stretching on and on until...
Peter stopped, the torch stilling in his hand. "Wow..." he gasped. His arm dropped to his side as he took in the lake, a blanket of midnight violet from the late night darkness. The reflection of the stars danced on its surface, the wind making ripples in the water and whispers through the grass. Switching the light off, Peter went to the lake's edge.
So, this was here the entire time? All this time, Peter could have come here instead of being stuck in that cottage, glued to the television or hunched over his boat models and waiting until something set Lisette off, or hiding in bed and praying that tonight Andy would not visit him. When he glanced down, he spotted Brigadier braced on the stony bank, head lowered to get some water. Peter went to it and sat down next to it, snatching it up and holding it close to him. He set the torch aside and dipped his cupped hand in the lake. "Here ya are," he cooed to the rabbit as he brought some water to its mouth. It took some coaxing, but the rabbit soon started to drink, and didn't protest when Peter sat it on his crossed legs and stroke him.
The quieter and stiller Peter sat, the more the scenic display opened to him. The hoot of an owl calling out into the air and the gentle splash of fish darting below the surface, the glitter of a shell as a beetle scampered over one of the lake's stones.
"You know what this reminds me of?" Peter asked the rabbit. "It reminds me of my fort. I live out in the middle of the ocean. Do you know what an ocean is? It's like a lake like this, but bigger. A lot bigger, so big you can't even see land from where I live. And the water's saltier." He could hear his home now in this lake, he could imagine the gentle burbling as the crashing crested waves and the sour earthy smell of the water as the sharp and salty oceanic tang. All he needed was the creak of his platform and it would feel so much like home. Like safety.
"Seawater wouldn't be good for you, though. We have a watermaker, though! And sometimes when that breaks, we get drinking water from the mainland. But you're a little guy, so you don't need that much water, right? You would need food, though. Most of the stuff we eat is dried and canned, but I can build a little garden just for you. You'll have lots of carrots and cabbage and grass and whatever you bunnies eat. How does that sound, Brigadier?"
"Who the hell is Brigadier?"
Run, the panic told him. Run, yet his legs remained locked in their crossed position. Run, yet all Peter could do was lift Brigadier to his chest and hug him close, siphon the warmth from the small creature into his cold body.
Peter kept his eyes to the twinkling black water, taking shallow breaths as he listened to the approaching steps and crunch of twigs, the cursing as Andy stumbled and slipped.
"I know you c'n..." Andy hiccoughed. "C'n hear me..."
God, he was an idiot for thinking that he would be safe just because he wandered off on his own.
Run.
Run!
He didn't know why his body hadn't listened when he had the chance, but he felt trapped when Andy's hand plant firmly on top of his head, like a prisoner sitting in the electric chair with the helmet fitted tightly around his brow. Nothing to do but meet his fate, even as his childish mind still hoped that if he wished it hard enough, Andy would simply disappear, poof, like smoke. But Andy yanked Peter's head back, forcing him to look up at the drunkard through eyes threatening to spill tears.
Andy's severe frown broke into a smirk. "Pffft, you named the bunny Brigadier? How cute."
"Please don't..."
"Aw, shut it with your whining!" Andy moved beside Peter and nearly toppled over trying to have a seat, landing heavily on his bottom. He drew his knees up and rested his arms on them, and let out another hiccough that ended in another belch, loud and large enough that Peter could smell even over the earthy scent of his new pet. Peter could pass out with how long he held his breath, waiting for the unwanted hands and mouth, his hopes crossing from praying that Andy would disappear to praying that Andy would just gey grabby and get it over with.
Andy stared out into the lake and wrung his fingers. "Ha, I'm going to war tomorrow..."
Peter pursed his lips.
"I bet you're really happy 'bout that, ain't ya? Real ecstatic."
Still, Peter didn't answer, because he did not know how to answer that. Andy was goddamn right that Peter was ecstatic! The first time Peter had heard that his tormentor had enlisted, he almost wept with joy, and had even fantasized about telling Arthur in the hopes that maybe, maybe, Arthur would whisper in someone's ear and services and favors were exchanged and, completely by random, Andy was unfortunately gunned down by enemy fire. More than that, Peter imagined what semblance of peace would come; Lisette was getting along in years and drowning whatever time she had left in the bottle, and most of the time all it took to avoid her wrath was to stay out of her way. But the same couldn't be said for Andy, who sought Peter out almost every night of Peter's stays, his presence announced by the creaking floorboard two steps away from Peter's bedroom door.
But what would happen if Peter was honest? Trouble, that's what, setting off Andy's foul and furious mood that matched Lisette's down to the animalistic emptiness in their eyes, like they had literally went blind with rage. That would mean lying, saying no, he was going to miss Andy! He cherished every single night of being pinned down and groped and ground against his will, and he certainly hoped Andy will survive the bullets and missiles so they could continue their little romp!
But fuck him! Fuck Andy! He did not deserve that appeasement. He was lucky that over the years, Peter hadn't--
You’re too strong, more than you have any right to be.
Peter took a deep, slow breath and lowered Brigadier back into his lap. It did not matter how he would have answered, anyway, because Andy sighed.
"You know, I think about that day a lot, when you first kissed me."
You mean the biggest mistake of my life? Peter wanted to say. "...What about it?" he asked instead, forcing himself to finally look at Andy out of the corner of his eye.
Andy shrugged and reached towards Peter's lap. He pretended to ignore the flinch and sharp gasp Peter made as he stroke the rabbit's head, though Peter could see hints of a smirk in the corners of Andy's mouth. "Over the years, I had a few girlfriends. Remember? Sylvia, Debbie, Susie." He waved his hand. "The rest of 'em."
"Uh huh..." Peter remembered those poor girls and how every short-lived fling they had with Andy ended with misery, with Peter watching a couple of them literally running out of the house crying after a nasty argument that could be heard through the walls. He remembered the shameful hope he had that Andy would turn his cravings onto them, that he wouldn't be alone in his suffering, and the guilty relief of knowing that they unwittingly fled unscathed.
"Of all the girls I'd been with," Andy continued, now grinning dryly, "none of them were really a good snog. At least, not as good as you are."
Peter turned his head sharply, glaring at Andy as repulsion rippled throughout his body. It was taking far too much of Peter to not puke his stomach out on the grass, and the beer he had, even the little bit of it he managed to gulp down, was not helping. Oh, how he hated this man! How he couldn't wait for Andy's body to blow to smithereens and his guts and limbs spread out all over the battlefield. And when Andy's grin stretch to that smirk that he had been hiding, like Peter fell for a practical joke, something just... tore inside Peter, a cut inside his chest that ripped higher and higher and reaching his head and burning his eyes --
No! He was not going to cry! He blinked back the tears and reached out to the side to pull away, holding the rabbit close to him as he moved. "Leave me alone, you arse!" He said, surprising himself at how much force was in his voice, the years of agony finally finding its outlet it seemed.
Andy blinked in mock surprised and let out a scoffing laugh. "Why are your knickers in a knot? That was a compliment!"
"I said, fuck off!"
But whatever righteous fury Peter felt was instantly swept away as Andy practically lunged at him. He moved so quickly that Peter had no time to react, or perhaps he hadn't reacted, his damned body freezing once more at Andy's closeness. The young man was looming over him, using one arm to both rest his weight on and trap Peter on side. His other arm jerked out, and it wasn't until Peter heard the splash and desperate splattering that he noticed his lap cool and empty.
Peter tried to scramble to the lake's bank. "BRIGA--"
Andy grabbed the front of Peter's shirt and wrenched him down on his back. "Here's the thing, Peter" he went on, his hand suddenly light on Peter's chest, the tenderness of his touch making Peter's skin itch. "Although I've been with a lot of girls, and they all wanted me, I never lost my virginity to any of them."
And there it was, the drop in Peter's stomach, the alarm bells going off in his head, the breaths coming in too shallow and too quick. Run run run run run run
"Andy -- Andy, come on." Peter tried to squirm away from him. "This isn't funny! Let me go!"
Andy tugged him back down and grabbed him by his jaw, holding his head down. Over Peter's whining, he said, "You're a war fort, right? Pretty much a veteran. Have you ever heard of 'deployment intimacy'?"
Kill him. Peter squeezed his eyes shut and felt the tears finally come. "No, Andy, please--"
"It's when a soldier and his girl shag before he's sent off to fight." Andy loosened his grip on Peter's jaw and rubbed his thumb along Peter's lip. "You can be my girl for tonight, can you?"
Peter felt the power of his fort trickle into his trembling body. Kill him!
You’re too strong, more than you have any right to be.
"Get off!" Peter shoved, his body rejecting the power and his hands pushing against Andy's shoulders. He knocked Andy back and turned onto his hands and knees to crawl away, but Andy recovered and pounced on him.
"Why not, Peter?! Why not?!" Andy struggled to grab Peter's wrists and wrestled them down. He put all of his weight on Peter, getting the tiny wrists in one hand so he could tug at Peter's shirt with the other. "I'm going to war tomorrow! For your queen! For your brother!"
Peter screamed through the grass jabbing into his mouth, "No!" He felt the jerk of Andy's hip, the fervent animosity hardening his attacker as Andy pressed himself onto Peter's body.
"You owe me this!"
Peter bucked and writhed and kicked about, managing to wrest one wrist free while Andy was distracted trying to undo his pants one-handed. He was a trapped animal attacking blindly, throwing his elbow and fist back to land on mostly nothing, then clawing at Andy's hand to free his other wrist, and grappling at the ground beneath him to pull away. And through all of this, Peter was fighting for both his and Andy's life.
It was a sickening wave of power washing through him, the rise and surge of power from his fort that he fought back against because
KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM
Because he could kill him. Peter could draw on his fort's military power and end Andy with one good punch to the face, and why shouldn't he? Why had he let Andy dirty him for so long? The power was right there; if he'd just stop fighting it, let it harden his body...
Peter felt Andy pressing down again, felt his mouth against his ear, the ragged, tired breaths. He cocked his arm for another blow and --
They can't come back from the dead if you do anything bad to them.
The elbow jab hit its mark. Peter felt the give of skin and bone as his elbow met Andy's face.
Yet
They can't come back from the dead if you do anything bad to them.
He pulled back. The power fled him as quickly as he had let it flood him. Instead of falling over dead, Andy flung back onto his heels, swaying and blinking and dripping blood through his purpling nostrils. The two stared at each other, and it felt as if even the forest around them grew still, as Andy patted his nose and glanced at the red smeared on his fingers and palm.
"Andy..." Peter said softly, shivering from the realization that, oh, god, he was going to kill Andy. He was going to kill this guy. He was going to kill his only friend.
Andy's wild eyes flicked back up to Peter. There was a moment of emptiness in his eyes, made darker by the dead of night. But like a spark of flint and steel.
"Andy, wait!" Peter held out his hands too late as Andy descended on him once more.
Peter had never encountered a rabid dog before, but it had to have been like this: the animal losing its mind, biting at whatever weak spots it sees, deaf to pleas or reasoning, driven only by anger.
Andy bared his teeth with the effort, slapping Peter until the boy's vision was pocked with black spots. "Shut up, shut the fuck up!" he grumbled over Peter's cries, batting away Peter's attempts at clawing his face.
KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM
They can't come back from the dead if you do anything bad to them.
KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM
You’re too strong, more than you have any right to be.
Peter's fort tried to force the power back into him, sensing the panic spike once more. He was about to scream when Andy covered his hand over Peter's mouth. He pulled out a packet from his pocket and ripped a corner off with his teeth. Peter didn't know what it was, couldn't see the label behind Andy's hand. but the cruel determination in Andy's eyes filled Peter's blood with ice.
KILL HIM
Just as Peter knew that there was no other choice, and let the fort's power fill him once more, Andy managed to work Peter's shorts down. The cool night air hitting his bare genitals shocked Peter, and before he could act, Andy lifted one of Peter's thighs to angle his hip and stabbed his slick fingers in --
And Peter froze. He just... froze. His body locked in stillness, though his mind screamed, eyes wide and just as wild as Andy's as the man worked his fingers, preparing him, Peter now knew. Andy took out another packet, ripped that with his teeth as well, and drizzled the same substance on his weapon, which he then stroked to coat the substance all over it.
Move, Peter begged his body. Please, move... Do something! But all it could do was quiver and lie, waiting for it to happen. Peter tried to reach for his fort's power, but it was as if it was tired of being rebuffed, too little, too late, and that power was just out of reach behind an invisible wall. Peter took a shaky breath, starting to feel the pain and tension bloom in his lower back, his eyes staring blankly into the starry sky past Andy's shoulder. "Andy... please..." he tried weakly.
But Andy turned Peter onto his stomach and climbed on top. As Peter watched the surface of the lake dance with the gentle breeze, he felt Andy part him, felt Andy force himself in with a groan deep in his gut, and
And the world flashed white. The despair of being split open started to fade, giving way to the sting of
Sea salt in the air, the ocean's breeze brushing Peter's hair. The metal platform creaked with the familiarity of a mother's heartbeat, and Peter lied prone, a baby snuggled to his mother's chest. Each wave sweeping against the fort's concrete pillars felt like a caress on Peter's cheek, and
Peter gasped as he was pulled back to the forest, drawn in by the horrifying and new sensation between his legs, the nauseating tenderness of Andy's caressing hand trying to force pleasure onto Peter. Again, he felt Andy's breath on his ear, the moaning "Yes..." and "Oh, god..." between grunts carrying that nasty smell of
Well, Peter couldn't say for certain, but it did sure smell like butter rum chip cookies! And knowing Marion, she was going to bake a big ol' batch, so there was one thing for Peter to do! He needed to work up an appetite. Peeling himself from the platform, Peter started to strip to the swimsuit he wore underneath and went to the edge of the platform. He climbed over the railing, hung on as he bent his legs and planted his feet, and pushed off. He was suspended in the air, and for that moment, he knew what it was like to be a bird, those delightful creatures who took their freedom under their wings and glided through the bright blue skies, untethered from the world in a way Peter always wanted to be.
Suffocating, he was suffocating! He was choking on Andy's tongue, swallowing the yeasty belch and Andy's moans and his own screams for help as Andy grabbed the back of Peter's knees to bend his legs up, up to his chest, up too far it was so painful, and
But he was content with this, his body slicing through the water's surface, cutting down into the depths and scattering the colorful schools of fish. If the dive was freedom, then the sinking was security; as endless as the ocean's bottom seemed, he didn't fear it, not when he adored the water and how it felt like he was a little mouse gently cupped in someone's hands. With a twist and slow flip, Peter pushed up to the dappled light above him, and breached the surface. He lied back in the water, letting himself be bouyed, arms outstretched, eyes closed, and the life of the North Sea singing in his ears. The ocean's coolness melted away today's hard work from his bones, the sun's gentle rays lulled him. He was careful, though! Because Marion would hate for him to fall asleep in the water and drown or float away even if he would come back.
He opened his eyes.
Hollow. Peter felt hollow.
None of the aches throughout his body could reach that sunken feeling. Not the numb soreness in his lower body, not the burning dryness in his eyes, not the phantom sensation of fingers crushing his wrists and neck. He was going to have to move, because Lisette will call Arthur for being gone so long, but he couldn't. Peter lied there, gazing at the soft ombre sky as dawn came, listening to the lake in the otherwise silent forest around him. Despite his eyes feeling like they couldn't cry anymore, fresh tears spilled hot down his temples. Then, he hiccoughed, which became a sob, then heaves wracking his small, bruised, and used body as that emptiness began to fill with the memory of Andy's body, Andy's filth. Now, Peter's filth, deep in his skin that makes him nauseous and want to boil himself alive just to erase the night, just to feel clean. Normal.
Peter tried to push the night, the parts he can remember and the parts that he still felt inside him, out of his mind. He needed to focus, to get feeling in his legs again so he can go.
Brigadier, was the central thought that Peter allowed, the one he grabbed at and held on to. He pushed himself upright, wiped his eyes, and stared at his bare legs. Finger-shaped marks on his knees and ankles, bits of grass and crushed insects on his skin, sticky grossness caked on him -- semen. It was semen; Peter spent too many years being used as Andy's pleasure doll to not know what it was, or use little kid language for it. It was cum, Andy's and, devastatingly, Peter's, caked on his thighs and his chafed genitals.
Peter snapped his head to the side and wretched as bile splattered out of his mouth. It was quick and small, more like spittle, as his stomach had been empty throughout most of yesterday. He got to his feet and waited, testing the strength of his legs, waiting and breathing through the burning in his back, then glanced around, finding his shorts and underwear Andy had tossed carelessly to the side. He wanted to lie back down and let the grass grow over him and eat him, but... Right. Brigadier.
He set off to begin his search, but he hadn't needed to go far: just a few paces along the lake, Peter found his short-lived companion. He had swum to safety and managed to crawl onto the bank, but now lied there on the rocks and silt, mouth hanging open like something snapped his jaw loose, his fur dried into a matted mess. Peter wanted to pick Brigadier up, to cuddle him close and bury him and give him the dignified funeral he deserved, but the ants and flies were already making work of him, crawling over his legs and lifeless eye.
Peter opened his mouth, to say anything, to say "Goodbye" or " I'm sorry," but he shook with more sobs, and turned away.
Wandering into the trees, Peter hugged himself and looked around. He tried to look for landmarks to guide himself back, but all he saw were figures hiding behind trees and in the bushes, tall and lanky yet so strong, too strong for his own good, strong enough to pin Peter to the grass and strip and take, take, take. He walked faster.
Figures lunging at him, yelling at him, undressing him with eyes and then hands, pulling his legs apart and he ran. He didn't know when he had started running, but he broke into the clearing where the smoky remains of the bonfire filled the air with soot. Huffing and crying and coughing, Peter soon found Lisette's home, but made a break at an angle, taking to the road, instead. He was not going back in there, no matter if Andy had already left. He had no strength to face Lisette, who he knew would be able sniff out the ways Andy had ruined him.
He did not care if Lisette called Arthur about him being missing, because he was not going to see Arthur, either. He was never coming back, not when he knew that wherever he looked, Peter will always see that face...
I'm nearing the end of this next fic, which is going to be heavy as fuck. You'd think with how I had written something smiliar to this topic before, that I could simply breeze through the roughest scenes and fics and be done with it, but every time I do, I feel like something was taken from me. I get so utterly drained.
// I've been sneaking on here and working on my short story and thread drafts in increments. It is far from an efficient writing method, but I do like how I don't just stare at the screen for minutes on end, freezing at the idea of spending energy that I have very little of pushing through the burnout to rush a project.
I cannot wait to finally complete this revisit of Peter's trauma so I can get back to the bonkers scifi stuff.
Seriously, though, why the hell is it taking me so long to finish this fic? Why does it take me forever to finish any shortfic? I used to be able to pump fics out like my life depended on it, but now...
