↯↯ high voltage ↯↯

pesk | they/them | writer formally dbh exclusive but transitioning to multi-fandom <3 ────────────═━┈━═─────── ▽ ko-fi ▽ linktree ▽ ────────────═━┈━═─────── 🔞 This blog posts 18+ content 🔞

[peskellence]

↯↯ AO3 // peskellence ↯↯

Fandoms:

▽ Detroit Become Human ▽

DBH Masterlist

▽ House of Ashes ▽

Beats A Handshake

▽ Dispatch (posted to my alt @trashmakersblog) ▽

not my type

hot enough

▽ Ace Attorney (old fics written in 2020, only available on ao3) ▽

With Love, Signal Red

With Love, Phoenix Wright

With Love, Miles Edgeworth

[lacteaway]

JALIM ENJOYERS I HAVE SOME NEW MEARCH WAITING FOR YOU

YOU CAN HAVE A LOOK OVER HERE

[catchymemes]

[zoghoggy]

jason relax please

[setaphil-edits]

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

[peskellence]

Beats a Handshake

Chapter 5

Pairing: Jason Kolchek/Salim Othman

Tags: Post-Canon, Reunions, Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Mutual Pining, Denial Of Feelings

Previous Chapter

AO3 Link

Summary:

Following his release from quarantine, Jason is sent home under strict orders to keep his head down and mouth shut. Return to civilian life as if nothing happened. But moving on proves impossible—and not because of the alien vampires. Rather, because of the bond he formed with an unlikely ally.

Determined to find Salim and make up for their unsatisfactory goodbye, Jason tracks him to London, where their reunion sparks a deeper connection than either of them anticipated. Now Jason must choose: face up to what he is feeling, terrifying as it is, or run away.

Word Count: 1.8K

Warnings: Internalised Homophobia, Implied Childhood Trauma/Abuse, Past Drug Use and Addiction, Religious Guilt, Eventual Smut

Dippy had been pretty cool. Maybe not worth the hype, although he'd sooner eat his hat than tell his ‘Tour Guide’ that. Really, the animatronic dinosaurs had been the highlight and should've absolutely been the lead sales pitch. In any case, it had only been a starter course. Salim made it clear he was going to take his self-appointed role very seriously. 

Over the next few days, whenever he could spare time around work, he was carting Jason all across London. It was soon discovered he had a thing for museums. Art galleries, too, with the American quickly losing count of how many they’d visited, along with the hours spent in each. Every display was approached with the same careful consideration: studying the tiniest brush strokes and faintest blends of colour. 

Another discovery was that Salim wore glasses. Only for reading, though, as well as these prolonged artistic inspections. They suited him, looking natural perched on the end of his nose.

“I like this one.”

“You've liked all of them,” Jason countered playfully. 

“No, but this one in particular. It’s my favourite.” Salim encouraged him closer before gesturing to the painting. It depicted a man, dressed in chainmail and kneeling by an altar. A golden-haired woman reached towards him, resting a sword on his shoulder. 

Salim's lips parted into a thoughtful gape, a warning sign which was becoming familiar. He was about to launch into a full-on ‘college art professor’ grade analysis. Something Jason initially assumed involved paraphrasing the display plaques—except his gaze never once drifted from the artwork. 

“—Knighthood in this age was never about how well you could swing a sword. It was about chivalry. Courage. Protecting the weak and defending the innocent, even at the cost of your life.”

The guy was pulling it all straight from his own head. Dark eyes sparked to life as he rattled off insight with the sort of enthusiasm which couldn’t be faked. It might've been obnoxious if it wasn't so goddamn endearing. 

“There is a promise here that the man being conferred has proven himself a true hero…” Salim paused briefly, mulling over his words and making a revision. “Well, in an idealistic sense. It may not be the most historically accurate depiction. But still, very beautiful.” 

Jason nodded, not able to offer much input on what was being said, but enjoying it regardless. He did, however, raise a small challenge. “A little conceited, don't you think?” 

 “What do you mean?” 

“Your favourite painting is about knights.” He raised a finger to the glittering blade, illustrating his point. “Swords. Great protectors. All that stuff.” 

What followed was cryptic—subtly deflective—offering no sign that Salim understood what he was really driving at. “I may have been a soldier, but I am no knight. Not by the standards of legend or mythos.” 

Jason felt a twinge of disappointment. Maybe a little embarrassment, too. Because even if Salim had forgotten what he’d said—about the sword and the shield—he sure as hell hadn't. 

It had stuck with him; to be seen as something steady. Reliable. Not just a weapon to be pointed at the next obstacle…but people said a lot of shit when they were staring death in the face. It didn't mean it carried symbolic weight. Not everything had to be some great deconstruction. 

Sometimes, blue curtains were just blue. 

“Are there any displays that you like?”

Jason snapped out of his daze, realising he hadn't been looking. Not that it mattered much. He was far less discerning, just seeing a bunch of pretty pictures. To save face, however, he scanned his surroundings and pointed confidently at a random painting.

“That one, the flowers are…nice.”

“Very insightful.” Salim quipped, before focusing on the artwork. “They are nice—white camellias. A symbol of loyalty and admiration. If the artist intended this as a gift, the person receiving it was very dear to them.” 

It was strange, really, seeing the doe-eyed softie ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ over painted posies. Knowing it was the same unflinching badass who'd javelined a stake through a screeching bat monster. Jason wondered where the line was drawn between the two sides of the man. If there was one at all.

“You ever paint, Salim?” he asked, lightly teasing but genuinely curious. “Or draw? You seem like the type.”

Salim stalled, his expression pinched, like he didn’t know how to receive this. His mouth opened and closed a few times before he was able to reply:

“Oh, well, I…dabbled. When I was younger. I wasn’t very good.” The subject was abandoned as he took off his glasses and slid them into his shirt pocket. “I think I’ve kept you here long enough. Is there anywhere else you’d like to go?” 

‘Dabbled’ was obviously an understatement, but Jason didn't push. Not about to sate his interest at the expense of making Salim uncomfortable. Instead, he reached into his satchel, fishing around for the guidebook he'd picked up from his hotel lobby. “Isn’t there a wax museum nearby…? The one with a bunch of different celebrities?”

“Madame Tussauds.”

“That's the one.” He retrieved the leaflet, along with the camera that had been tucked beside it. Brandishing it like a trophy, he flashed his companion a mischievous grin. “I wanna get a picture of me picking Tom Cruise's nose.”

“Ahh, of course,” Salim drolled, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “An appreciation for the craftsmanship that would no doubt make the sculptor blush.” 

“Hey, you've got your way of appreciating art, I’ve got mine,” Jason fired back. “Few better photo ops, if you ask me.” 

“Of course not. Big Ben, Tower Bridge, Trafalgar Square. They all pale in comparison to a finger up the nostril.”

Salim insisted the museum was within walking distance, even if the weather wasn't ideal. A persistent drizzle prickled Jason’s face, as frigid winds whipped through his jacket. Still, it beat another train ride—and was definitely an improvement on the biblical downpour he’d endured earlier in the week. 

Despite the odds, the journey was…nice. Owing significantly to his company. Salim kept a lively pace, pointing out landmarks and sharing whatever fun fact sprang to mind. Whether it was appreciation for London itself or simply the fact that Zain was there, it was clear he’d immersed himself fully. Nothing loud or overbearing: just a constant, steady optimism. 

This didn’t change when they reached the waxworks. He patiently captured every photo—of which there were many—each painstakingly optimised for peak hilarity. It turned out they didn’t have a Cruise, so Jason had settled for Pitt and Freeman. Standing between them, with finger guns aimed up each nose, he grinned broadly as the camera flashed. 

Blinking away stars, he approached Salim, placing an expectant hand on his shoulder. “Did you get my good side?"

“Which side would that be?” 

Jason attempted to feign offence, but his juvenile smile refused to budge. He couldn’t help it, having taken great joy in the clapback. The longer he spent with Salim, the more it felt like he’d known him for years, with the teasing forming part of a well-established dynamic. 

The sentiment was clearly mutual. Once he found another figure to pose with, taking on a particularly ridiculous stance, Salim almost lost it. He struggled to keep the camera steady, his chest and shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. The same sparkle from the gallery flickered in his eyes, most noticeable when he glanced away from the viewfinder, studying Jason directly.

Jason, with his bicep flexed and lips puckered, realised he wanted to capture this, too. Not just another snap of himself acting like a dumbass. He wanted proof this moment was real—that they were sharing it because they had both survived. Finding their way back to each other, to become more than just memories fading across a desert. CENTCOM be damned.

He motioned for Salim to come closer, an invitation which took a moment to register. Once the other man understood, he hesitated, as if far more comfortable behind the camera than in front of it.

“Come on,” Jason urged with an exaggerated groan. "Don't leave me hanging here.”

Salim eventually agreed, though not without lingering reservations. He shuffled into place, stiff as a board, and awkwardly angled the camera. With his elbow jutted out, he tried and failed multiple times to get them both into shot.

In growing fear he might lose an eye, Jason decided to help. He encouraged Salim to lift his arm, whilst draping his own around his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. Looking up at the camera, he smiled warmly and waited for his companion to do the same.

As his body relaxed, Salim slowly mirrored the expression. His smile was a bit forced, lips pressed into a thin line—but he seemed content, leaning against the younger man with a quiet appreciation.

Just as the photo was about to be taken, a commotion erupted from across the room.

The men turned their heads, curious, as a toddler proceeded to weave through the maze of display ropes. An exhausted-looking man was chasing after them, but was no match for the formidable speed.

The child ran straight into Salim, knocking him off balance. A click and a flash captured the moment, light twisting around them in a distorted arc. The man, whom Jason presumed to be the child's father, quickly began apologising, words spilling out faster than he could form sentences:

“I’m so sorry—skipped a nap—always like this—overtired—”

Salim checked the camera, ensuring it hadn't been damaged when he caught himself. He then turned to the stranger, dismissing the apologies, assuring him that he understood from personal experience:

“My Zain was exactly the same at that age. Always on the move, I couldn't take my eyes off him for a second.”

Coincidentally, the frazzled father had just made the same mistake—taking his eyes off the prize. Jason, about to suggest retaking the photo, was interrupted when a sugar-fueled blur darted between his legs. Within seconds, the toddler had climbed onto Celine Dion and was swinging from her arm like a feral chimpanzee. 

Not wanting to be implicated in any damages, he shot Salim a look, signalling with his shoulder toward the exit. The other man, understanding the cue, politely ended the conversation with the stranger. They left amid the sound of a snap and thud, followed by despairing groans and hysterical crying.

“Christ, was Zain really that bad…?” Jason asked Salim, somewhat afraid of the answer. 

“No. Absolutely not—I was just trying to make that poor soul feel better.” 

The camera had been forgotten, returned to the safety of Jason’s satchel, just in case any tiny tornadoes came rushing past for Round Two.

[rinwesu]

[detective-rattus]

HAPPY 8 YEARS!!!!

[peskellence]

Wip Tag Game

Thank you for tagging me @sweeteatercat!!

SOOOOOO, I've been on a bit of a HOA frolic for a while now, but for my DBH friends, I have also been working on a Reed900 Western AU. Currently, none of it has been published, although I do have a completed draft of Chapter 1 and about half of Chapter 2.

The basic premise is that Gavin is a Sheriff's Deputy, and Nines is a member of a notorious outlaw gang that he's been trailing for months. The 'androids' in this universe (referred to in fic as Automatons) are few in numbers and appear far less human than their canon counterparts. Think an old-timey, steampunk-inspired aesthetic.

For your consideration, please accept an excerpt from the most recent vers. of Chapter 1 🤠

A horse, just as he’d suspected, lay half-pinned beneath the wreckage. But she wasn’t alone. A figure stood beside her—unnervingly tall, with limbs a little too long for their body—dressed in dirty, patched slacks and a long brown duster. Their fingers were wedged beneath the damaged underframe, straining to lift it. Gavin couldn't see their face, but he knew it wasn't one of Ortiz's victims.  No one, convictions or not, was that stupid—cheating death, only to serve their immortal hide on a platter for the sake of a horse. But the alternative wasn’t much easier to swallow: That one of Michigan’s most ruthless killers might possess so much as a shred of conscience. He wasn’t about to show the outlaw leniency. This wasn’t his first rodeo; only fools got suckered in by bleeding hearts. Gavin raised his pistol, sighting the centre of the figure's back. He meant to take them alive, but would put them down without hesitation if it came to it. A command sat on his tongue, seconds from breaking free, when something made him freeze.

I'm hoping to have completed drafts for Chapters 1-3 before I start posting—although if there's interest (and we don't mind slow updates), I'd definitely consider dropping Chapter 1 sooner :]

no pressure tags for @starryeyedstray @gavinisqueer @julee92 @headfulloffantasy <33

[peskellence]

Beats a Handshake

Chapter 5

Pairing: Jason Kolchek/Salim Othman

Tags: Post-Canon, Reunions, Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Mutual Pining, Denial Of Feelings

Previous Chapter

AO3 Link

Summary:

Following his release from quarantine, Jason is sent home under strict orders to keep his head down and mouth shut. Return to civilian life as if nothing happened. But moving on proves impossible—and not because of the alien vampires. Rather, because of the bond he formed with an unlikely ally.

Determined to find Salim and make up for their unsatisfactory goodbye, Jason tracks him to London, where their reunion sparks a deeper connection than either of them anticipated. Now Jason must choose: face up to what he is feeling, terrifying as it is, or run away.

Word Count: 1.8K

Warnings: Internalised Homophobia, Implied Childhood Trauma/Abuse, Past Drug Use and Addiction, Religious Guilt, Eventual Smut

Dippy had been pretty cool. Maybe not worth the hype, although he'd sooner eat his hat than tell his ‘Tour Guide’ that. Really, the animatronic dinosaurs had been the highlight and should've absolutely been the lead sales pitch. In any case, it had only been a starter course. Salim made it clear he was going to take his self-appointed role very seriously. 

Over the next few days, whenever he could spare time around work, he was carting Jason all across London. It was soon discovered he had a thing for museums. Art galleries, too, with the American quickly losing count of how many they’d visited, along with the hours spent in each. Every display was approached with the same careful consideration: studying the tiniest brush strokes and faintest blends of colour. 

Another discovery was that Salim wore glasses. Only for reading, though, as well as these prolonged artistic inspections. They suited him, looking natural perched on the end of his nose.

“I like this one.”

“You've liked all of them,” Jason countered playfully. 

“No, but this one in particular. It’s my favourite.” Salim encouraged him closer before gesturing to the painting. It depicted a man, dressed in chainmail and kneeling by an altar. A golden-haired woman reached towards him, resting a sword on his shoulder. 

Salim's lips parted into a thoughtful gape, a warning sign which was becoming familiar. He was about to launch into a full-on ‘college art professor’ grade analysis. Something Jason initially assumed involved paraphrasing the display plaques—except his gaze never once drifted from the artwork. 

“—Knighthood in this age was never about how well you could swing a sword. It was about chivalry. Courage. Protecting the weak and defending the innocent, even at the cost of your life.”

The guy was pulling it all straight from his own head. Dark eyes sparked to life as he rattled off insight with the sort of enthusiasm which couldn’t be faked. It might've been obnoxious if it wasn't so goddamn endearing. 

“There is a promise here that the man being conferred has proven himself a true hero…” Salim paused briefly, mulling over his words and making a revision. “Well, in an idealistic sense. It may not be the most historically accurate depiction. But still, very beautiful.” 

Jason nodded, not able to offer much input on what was being said, but enjoying it regardless. He did, however, raise a small challenge. “A little conceited, don't you think?” 

 “What do you mean?” 

“Your favourite painting is about knights.” He raised a finger to the glittering blade, illustrating his point. “Swords. Great protectors. All that stuff.” 

What followed was cryptic—subtly deflective—offering no sign that Salim understood what he was really driving at. “I may have been a soldier, but I am no knight. Not by the standards of legend or mythos.” 

Jason felt a twinge of disappointment. Maybe a little embarrassment, too. Because even if Salim had forgotten what he’d said—about the sword and the shield—he sure as hell hadn't. 

It had stuck with him; to be seen as something steady. Reliable. Not just a weapon to be pointed at the next obstacle…but people said a lot of shit when they were staring death in the face. It didn't mean it carried symbolic weight. Not everything had to be some great deconstruction. 

Sometimes, blue curtains were just blue. 

“Are there any displays that you like?”

Jason snapped out of his daze, realising he hadn't been looking. Not that it mattered much. He was far less discerning, just seeing a bunch of pretty pictures. To save face, however, he scanned his surroundings and pointed confidently at a random painting.

“That one, the flowers are…nice.”

“Very insightful.” Salim quipped, before focusing on the artwork. “They are nice—white camellias. A symbol of loyalty and admiration. If the artist intended this as a gift, the person receiving it was very dear to them.” 

It was strange, really, seeing the doe-eyed softie ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ over painted posies. Knowing it was the same unflinching badass who'd javelined a stake through a screeching bat monster. Jason wondered where the line was drawn between the two sides of the man. If there was one at all.

“You ever paint, Salim?” he asked, lightly teasing but genuinely curious. “Or draw? You seem like the type.”

Salim stalled, his expression pinched, like he didn’t know how to receive this. His mouth opened and closed a few times before he was able to reply:

“Oh, well, I…dabbled. When I was younger. I wasn’t very good.” The subject was abandoned as he took off his glasses and slid them into his shirt pocket. “I think I’ve kept you here long enough. Is there anywhere else you’d like to go?” 

‘Dabbled’ was obviously an understatement, but Jason didn't push. Not about to sate his interest at the expense of making Salim uncomfortable. Instead, he reached into his satchel, fishing around for the guidebook he'd picked up from his hotel lobby. “Isn’t there a wax museum nearby…? The one with a bunch of different celebrities?”

“Madame Tussauds.”

“That's the one.” He retrieved the leaflet, along with the camera that had been tucked beside it. Brandishing it like a trophy, he flashed his companion a mischievous grin. “I wanna get a picture of me picking Tom Cruise's nose.”

“Ahh, of course,” Salim drolled, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “An appreciation for the craftsmanship that would no doubt make the sculptor blush.” 

“Hey, you've got your way of appreciating art, I’ve got mine,” Jason fired back. “Few better photo ops, if you ask me.” 

“Of course not. Big Ben, Tower Bridge, Trafalgar Square. They all pale in comparison to a finger up the nostril.”

Salim insisted the museum was within walking distance, even if the weather wasn't ideal. A persistent drizzle prickled Jason’s face, as frigid winds whipped through his jacket. Still, it beat another train ride—and was definitely an improvement on the biblical downpour he’d endured earlier in the week. 

Despite the odds, the journey was…nice. Owing significantly to his company. Salim kept a lively pace, pointing out landmarks and sharing whatever fun fact sprang to mind. Whether it was appreciation for London itself or simply the fact that Zain was there, it was clear he’d immersed himself fully. Nothing loud or overbearing: just a constant, steady optimism. 

This didn’t change when they reached the waxworks. He patiently captured every photo—of which there were many—each painstakingly optimised for peak hilarity. It turned out they didn’t have a Cruise, so Jason had settled for Pitt and Freeman. Standing between them, with finger guns aimed up each nose, he grinned broadly as the camera flashed. 

Blinking away stars, he approached Salim, placing an expectant hand on his shoulder. “Did you get my good side?"

“Which side would that be?” 

Jason attempted to feign offence, but his juvenile smile refused to budge. He couldn’t help it, having taken great joy in the clapback. The longer he spent with Salim, the more it felt like he’d known him for years, with the teasing forming part of a well-established dynamic. 

The sentiment was clearly mutual. Once he found another figure to pose with, taking on a particularly ridiculous stance, Salim almost lost it. He struggled to keep the camera steady, his chest and shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. The same sparkle from the gallery flickered in his eyes, most noticeable when he glanced away from the viewfinder, studying Jason directly.

Jason, with his bicep flexed and lips puckered, realised he wanted to capture this, too. Not just another snap of himself acting like a dumbass. He wanted proof this moment was real—that they were sharing it because they had both survived. Finding their way back to each other, to become more than just memories fading across a desert. CENTCOM be damned.

He motioned for Salim to come closer, an invitation which took a moment to register. Once the other man understood, he hesitated, as if far more comfortable behind the camera than in front of it.

“Come on,” Jason urged with an exaggerated groan. "Don't leave me hanging here.”

Salim eventually agreed, though not without lingering reservations. He shuffled into place, stiff as a board, and awkwardly angled the camera. With his elbow jutted out, he tried and failed multiple times to get them both into shot.

In growing fear he might lose an eye, Jason decided to help. He encouraged Salim to lift his arm, whilst draping his own around his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. Looking up at the camera, he smiled warmly and waited for his companion to do the same.

As his body relaxed, Salim slowly mirrored the expression. His smile was a bit forced, lips pressed into a thin line—but he seemed content, leaning against the younger man with a quiet appreciation.

Just as the photo was about to be taken, a commotion erupted from across the room.

The men turned their heads, curious, as a toddler proceeded to weave through the maze of display ropes. An exhausted-looking man was chasing after them, but was no match for the formidable speed.

The child ran straight into Salim, knocking him off balance. A click and a flash captured the moment, light twisting around them in a distorted arc. The man, whom Jason presumed to be the child's father, quickly began apologising, words spilling out faster than he could form sentences:

“I’m so sorry—skipped a nap—always like this—overtired—”

Salim checked the camera, ensuring it hadn't been damaged when he caught himself. He then turned to the stranger, dismissing the apologies, assuring him that he understood from personal experience:

“My Zain was exactly the same at that age. Always on the move, I couldn't take my eyes off him for a second.”

Coincidentally, the frazzled father had just made the same mistake—taking his eyes off the prize. Jason, about to suggest retaking the photo, was interrupted when a sugar-fueled blur darted between his legs. Within seconds, the toddler had climbed onto Celine Dion and was swinging from her arm like a feral chimpanzee. 

Not wanting to be implicated in any damages, he shot Salim a look, signalling with his shoulder toward the exit. The other man, understanding the cue, politely ended the conversation with the stranger. They left amid the sound of a snap and thud, followed by despairing groans and hysterical crying.

“Christ, was Zain really that bad…?” Jason asked Salim, somewhat afraid of the answer. 

“No. Absolutely not—I was just trying to make that poor soul feel better.” 

The camera had been forgotten, returned to the safety of Jason’s satchel, just in case any tiny tornadoes came rushing past for Round Two.

[oddarette]

Yep, I made a frutiger aero soft soap alien… 💧🐠🤍🫧🧼

[celaquinn-ichard]

The cleanomorph

[partywithponies]

Strange racists and homophobes on the internet seem to have access to an alternate way cooler version of TV than me. "every white character on TV is in an interracial relationship" "every show has a gay couple in it" "main characters keep having to secretly be bisexual and nonbinary" "every show has gratuitous full frontal nudity" like damn promise?? What channel???

[khtonicheskij]

the truth must be told

[frenchublog]

[nondelphic]

i’m not procrastinating. i’m allowing the story to ferment. like kimchi. or a crime scene

[hysterialevi]

How I imagine Jason out of uniform