Summary: As Layton settles in for the night, an unexpected visitor turns up. Things take an odd turn.
Rated M for sexual themes. Hurt/comfort. LaytonxDescole obviously and Descole is actually French here. (I didn’t think it good enough to publish at the time--before MM came out--but it’s been sitting in my drafts forever. May as well.)
Hershel Layton's legs curled up together atop the stuffy leather recliner that sat in stark contrast to the clutter of curious curios surrounding it. A novel laid on his lap as he carefully weighed every word in the book savouring the linguistic delight that filled his mind. His plain night-shirt billowed out slightly from his cozy slouch whilst his tousled hair drooped down in clumps over his relaxed face. He brought his thumb to his mouth for moisture and turned the page. An amber glow radiated through the dusty fringe of the antique table lamp at his side bringing a special old-world warmth to the room.
A faint rapping at the front door caught his attention. A voice crooned behind it barely audible through the thick wood. The knocking pattern seemed familiar somehow... The professor laid his book down and cautiously tiptoed his way towards the sound. He leaned in precariously with his ear towards the door. The voice drooled out words in tune with knocks, "Frère Layton... Frèssah Layton... dormez-vous? ... dormee-boo~? Sonnez le... matines.... sunny lay...muhtiners... din... din..."
Upon recognition of the voice, Layton quickly opened the door. "Descole?" he murmured.
"Whaaaaaaaat? Don't look at me like that, LAYTON!" his voice echoed with venom. He swayed a bit then leaned against the wall with one hand to steady himself. Descole's signature suit jacket was uncharacteristically unkempt: buttons undone, loose crooked tie, sagging boa, no hat. Even in such a disheveled state, Descole still doggedly wore that mask over his eyes. "Layton..." He slumped his head down, and by extension his whole body, tightly closing his hands into a talon and fist, physically and mentally grasping at words in the dark of the night. "I don't..." He let out a grunt of frustration and slammed his first into the wall to the side of the doorframe and then let it slide down and hang at his side.
"Descole." Layton said quietly as he loosened his grip from the door. He stared widely at the man in front of him. As he inhaled, he immediately recognised the smell of sweet-tasting alcohol lingering on the other man's breath. "Descole, have you been drinking?" he asked softly, "You should..." He briefly glanced down at his side. A small breeze whistled through the night. He looked back at Descole and said plainly, "It's very late. You should come inside." Layton placed his hand on the drunk man's shoulderblade and started to urge him inside.
Descole jerked away upon being touched. "NO! I want... I thi- non! No, that's not it." Even though his eyes were hidden behind a mask, his confusion and irritation felt tangible from the inward pursing of his lips and gritting of his teeth. Descole brought his hand to his forehead, running it up through his hair, curling his fingers in tautly. He briskly inhaled and exhaled, let his hand down, and leaned in toward Layton. "No, I- Hershel..." he said looking him dead in the eye. Descole roughly pushed him forward continuing into the living room kicking the door closed behind them. He placed his hands squarely on the professor's shoulders.
Layton could feel Descole's hands trembling, rattling his shoulderbones slightly from the raw energy emerging from his spine. The professor tried to gently remove the hands from his shoulders; Descole simply gripped him tighter and started shaking his head from side to side. His fur boa dropped to the floor, but neither of them seemed to notice. The warmth of Layton's face started to rise matching that of the desperate scientist closing in on his personal space.
"JE NE VEUX PAS PARTIR!" Descole screamed from his throat shaking Layton violently. Layton dropped his shoulders down and froze; an icy, roiling tension swept over his body. The professor stammered, "I-I don't know wha-"
"Please," Descole stopped shaking him and quietly interrupted, "Please don't let me go." He loosened his grip and slid his hands down to the top of Layton's forearms. His head sagged down in shame and his speech dragged on heavier and heavier for him to push out of his mouth, "I know I'm a failure. Échec... It wasn't your downfall, but mine. You..." Descole tensed his shoulder muscles squeezing his hands tighter around Layton's arms. "You ruined my life, you know," he said with an honest grimace. The sentence echoed out into Layton's ears and the only other noise to be heard was the nonchalant shuffling downstairs from neighbours. "Or at least what's left of it... Tangent, too. I hate all of you!" he shrieked.
Layton recoiled at such harsh words. He tried to pull away, but Descole only reined him in closer. "Jean, Stop!" he pleaded. They were fire and water in a crisis, one trying to burn the danger away and the other trying to slither away in retreat, both canceling each other's efforts out boiling into steam. "Why, Hershel, tell me!" he demanded, "I don't understand it! Je ne com- WHY!" His sweet, alcohol-laden breath carried the last pained word right into his face leaving the professor with no room for his own air. Layton's eyes opened wide with fear and anxious excitement, his whole body coursing with energy rising from his toes.
Descole abruptly grabbed the back of Layton's head with his right hand, tilted his own head, and forcefully pressed their lips together; his left hand closely followed, pulling them together with an unprecedented force of passion. Layton's shoulders tensed up in surprise as his head was pushed down in reaction to the pressure put on his face; he started walking slightly backwards, but Descole kept pulling him forward, the pair making an odd tango towards the other side of the room as Descole slipped his shoes off along the way.
Both their mouths hung open as Jean pulled away for a moment. Keeping one hand on Hershel, he slowly pushed up his mask from the nose with his middle and index fingers and tossed it on the ground. They looked into each other's eyes for the first time. Descole's hands fell slack; he earnestly looked hard into Layton's eyes searching for some sign of reassurance whilst the professor himself simply stood in awe of the raw icefire in Jean's glaucous eyes. Then, as if their mouths were oppositely charged magnets, they dove right back into another kiss flagrantly disregarding the placement of their mouths often missing the mark intoxicated by each other's musk. Their hands roamed across each other every which way never content to settle upon one spot but always bringing their bodies closer and closer.
Descole took his hands off Layton's head in a fit of impulse attempting to wrangle the buttons on his jacket apart whilst still keeping his mouth near his partner's. Layton instinctively understood the cue and took the lead pulling him back towards the couch during which time he pulled his lips away for mere fractions of a second to hurriedly undo every button that wasn't undone already. Jean wriggled his way out of his jacket, casually tossing it on the floor behind him. He then weaved both his hands up Hershel's chest gliding up and over his waistline feeling every every follicle of hair sending electric sensations up both their spines from bare skin-to-skin contact; his hands reached the top of the professor's shirt and he pulled it up over his head. They stood a few feet from the leather couch against the far wall. Descole pushed the newly shirtless man down onto the sofa. He bit his lip in anticipation.
Layton's chest heaved up and down heavily with his hands falling down to his sides on the sofa. Jean took a moment to catch up in his head and slowly kneeled on the ground in front of Layton. He inched his way mouth first towards Hershel's right nipple teasing it lightly with the tip of his tongue while placing his right hand on Hershel's other pec squeezing the other nipple lightly. Then he switched to sucking with his mouth as he clawed his way downwards to the elastic on Layton's boxer briefs.
Layton rapidly took hold of Descole's right wrist in a kneejerk reaction and gently pushed him away from his chest. Descole's eyebrows rose in the centre and his jaw slackened, looking like a forlorn child. The heat shared between the two men hung in the immediate air like a stagnant cloud.
"Jean, I..." he breathed. "We can't. Not like this." The professor was trying his best to exercise a deal of self-control here as his underwear was significantly tighter than Descole's pants at the moment. He looked up at the ceiling, took a breath, and started listing all the pharaohs of Egypt in his head starting from the First Dynasty: Narmer, Hor-Aha, Djer, Djet, Merneith, Den, Anedjib, Semerkhet, Qa'a... Jean continued looking up at him, confused by the sudden reluctance. Layton closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. Satisfied he had suppressed the fire in his loins, he once against spoke to Descole, "I'm sorry, Jean, but I can't take advantage of you like this. It wouldn't be right."
Descole lowered his arm onto the professor's leg. His lower lip trembled and his eyes quavered like an unsteady flame about to go out. "Do you not...want me?"
Layton opened his mouth to speak but let his jaw hang limply for a few moments before speaking. "Maybe another time, but not tonight," he reassured putting his on Jean's and holding it tight.
Descole let his hand go to sit down next to Layton. He turned his head away, deliberately hiding his face, yet started winding his hand along the couch out of his view towards Layton. Hershel grabbed his hand with one of his own and used the other on Jean's shoulder to pull him closer. The movement and pressure of their hands said all that needed to be said wordlessly. Descole once again shook against Layton's body, but this time it was a soft jerky motion. He started sniffling a little pulling up mucous in his nose, then that turned into small tears barreling down his face, and then all at once he was full-on sobbing sharply breathing in wet air and breathing out in uncontrolled bursts. Layton continued moving his hand back and forth in an assuring manner. Descole balled his hand into a fist, opened it, and clung to the professor leaning head upon shoulder, wrapping an arm around his, and keeping his other hand with Layton's. It wasn't the most comfortable spooning position, but that ultimately didn't matter.
Layton gripped Descole's hand and whispered in his dulcet baritone voice, "Je suis ici. You're still here. And I'm here. And that's all that matters right now."
You fumble with the fabric of his shirt, feeling the furrows of his chest underneath the fabric, pushing the cloth upwards, tracing the lines and flesh between heavy, warm kisses sopped with passion. The shirt manages to come off, and in counteract, he works on the fastenings of your pants, ripping the button out of its hole and unhooking the teeth of the zipper. Suddenly he pulls away, but for a brief moment looks at you, the space between your mouths feeling humid and empty, and then in a moment of abandon dives in towards your neck, mouth-first, forcefully sucking the tender flesh therein. You can’t help but let out a soft moan, and decide to retaliate in kind, directing your hands from their aimless feeling up top to go southward. Amidst more kisses here and there and everywhere, you fitfully pry his belt apart, then goes the button, and finally the zipper. He starts becoming impatient and thrusts his own pants down following your lead, then his boxers. Devilishly, you smile and pull away, only to find blocks of erect skin-coloured pixels attached to his body. You did it. You finally became anime.
monopolylogue
"This is a bit...awkward, isn't it? Not quite what I was expecting."
"But he's so good at it! It's no wonder he's playing every part."
"I'm not quite sold on the half-costumes and running about the stage."
"But it's the best one-man show around!"
"This isn't doing Hamlet justice, Harold. I'm leaving."
----------------------------------------------------
infantly
The man cried infantly, "But, honey, I don't WANNA go to the meeting! Your coworkers are poopy heads and I don't like them."
"You're coming. You have to."
"Waaaaaaaaaaah."
----------------------------------------------------
forswat
Forswat and forlorn, he stood at the finish line contemplating his life's decisions. Was it worth the pain to be here, right now? The long nights alone because his career was too much for a family?
Then the cheering came. "Bob, #1! Bob, #1!" As the Gatorade was dunked on his head, his only thought was, "Fuck that noise."
----------------------------------------------------
restaurant
The restaurant was on fire. Somehow, it took a good minute for anyone to notice, since it seemed like it was already on fire by the sheer panic of getting all the customers served on time, and getting all the food out, well done and delicious. There was one family just sitting there.
"This is fine."
----------------------------------------------------
artifact
She'd sought the ancient artifact for many years and it was finally in her grasp. So close, she could taste it. She was sitting down in the sand, brushing away the dust from the piece in the ground, when suddenly JUMBO DAN COMES CLUNKING IN and falls on top of it. "Fucking goddammit, Dan. You're fired."
----------------------------------------------------
hirudine
The nurse slowly peeled the leeches off his body.
"Mmmm, yesssss, gooood. My blood feels better already. How...hirudine..."
"Yes, sire," she said as she ducked away into the adjacent chamber.
"Sir, I don't think we can hold the line for much longer!" A voice echoed over the radio with urgency and desperation, firing off a few rounds before becoming silent for a few moments then resuming, "Teams Alpha and Charlie are DOWN and teams Echo and Foxtrot are missing. Repeat: Alpha, Charlie DOWN. Echo, Foxtrot MIA. There's only one squadron left on the Southern front and they're suffering heavy losses. The place'll be overrun any minute now!" The radio emitted static noise then abruptly cut off with a kshhk.
The man holding the radio clenched it with his hands in an attempt to reduce his nervous shaking. Snot drooped onto his shirt, already stained by the grime and blood he had to go through to get to this point. He sniffed in and turned to his colleague. "D-do you think this'll even work? Imeanwhatifwecan'tproveit and and and OH GOD what if it's worse on the other side and the door might come crashing down any minute now and-"
"SHUT UP! I'm trying to get the calibrations right," she said tinkering with a curious-looking device with a dial. Her concentration was focused on that machine and that machine alone, guns and imminent death be damned.
The radio came on again, the voice interspersed between the rat-a-tat of gunfire: "WE GAVE ALL WE GOT! ... YOU HAVE TO DO IT NOW! ... N...TIME.. FT..." The voice began to come in scrambled. "COM...NDER...GOING...T...FALL"
The woman bit her lip pouring her last moments of effort into making the final tweaks to the device. "Okay, I think I've got it!!" She pushed a button to activate the device, then sprang out of her chair.
"Are you sure the timeline divergence is right?"
She grabbed him by the shoulders putting them in the transportation target field. Her hair looked fried framing her sandy cheekbones dried of sweat and tears. She looked at him, the light in her eyes nearly faded like a soulless creature looking unto the void. And he looked back to her, clutching her vomit-green woolen sweater, his age lines and cracked glasses starting to fade into the vortex.
"Yes." Her brow angled down, mirroring the gravity of her words. "We must stop Andrew Hussie. We can't allow Homestuck to happen."
Fandom: Professor Layton
Rating: PG-13 for heavy innuendo, implied yaoi
Genre: Crack, Humour
Summary: The real story behind Descole and Layton's rivalry.
Disclaimer: Please do not take this seriously in any way. Also, I apologise in advance to whomever feels they deserve an apology. THIS IS THE DUMBEST OF THE DUMB, OK? Especially because I only revised it once.
Author's Note: This takes place in Layton's uni days before he met Claire.
Friday night. Downtown London. All the pretty young things and flings were out for nights on the town, checking into the hippest, jumpin' joints in town. One of the most famous clubs at the time was Club Ambrosia, known for its glitzy decor, pumpin' anthems, and a fabulous ensemble of multinational male hotties in its employ.
Inside the club, the party was already thoroughly underway. The lights flashed on and off in time with the bass hits throwing a heavy splash of the colour on the dance floor populated by a sizeable crowd of healthy youthful men gyrating in ways an initiate wouldn't think possible. There was an undertone of smoke coursing through the main room providing just enough coverage to make the area seem more mysterious without overbearing the lungs of the patrons. The walls sparkled like they came straight from a young girl's garish fantasy; likewise, the pyrotechnics were also over-the-top, sparkling in all the colours of the rainbow highlighting the smooth muscle tone on the dancers' chests. A few hoots and hollers could be heard every once in a while from the clients. Even the bartenders seemed to be having a good time bobbing along to the music with a smile.
Meanwhile on the precipice of the premises, a fresh-faced Hershel Layton was tugging at his cap. "Are you absolutely sure we should be here, Clark?"
"Relax, Hersh! College is the time for experimentation. You need to have fun once in a while, ya fuddy-duddy." He elbowed him playfully. "Gotta try everything at least once, yeah?" He eyed him for confirmation, bringing his hand to his fledgling beard for emphasis. Layton continued looking down twiddling his thumbs. "Come ooooooon, we're already halfway in! Let's get a drink in you, and for god's sake, lose that ridiculous box of a hat!" he said taking the hat in question and tossing it outside like a Frisbee.
"Wha- but- n-nooooooo!" Layton whined whilst being dragged away further into the club. A grimace spread across his face as he slowly watched his hat slip away.
Inside the club, the music volume lowered temporarily. The host made an announcement in a booming baritone, "Everyone give a warm round of applause for Alexei!" Scattered claps and whistles were heard all around. "Alright!! Gents, get ready for our number one diva, hailing from across the Channel and into our pant-- ooooop, I mean hearts-- the mysterious masked man, Jean Descole!"
Hershel swiveled around on his bar stool watching the stage in awe as Descole made his entrance.
Sashaying on stage in a cheap cloak, glove, and mask combination reminiscient of the Romantic period, Descole comandeered the audience swaying his lithe body to the music beckoning to the audience for some build-up cheers.
"O-oh my," Hershel choked out after another sip of his appletini.
"Eh? Seeing somethin' ya like?" one of the bartenders asked him. Hershel looked to Clark, who was actually sitting next to him but busy chatting with some other group of people nearby.
Finding him unresponsive, he hastily replied, "What, I-- um..." His eyes opened like a deer in the headlights.
"Ahh, it's okay if you're on the...down-low. I understand." He nodded sagely. "So, you're not 'with' your friend there?"
"N-no, we..." he said quietly tugging at his invisible hat. Realising his faux pas, he tucked his hands together in his lap.
"Well," he beamed a sympathetic smile, "If you wanna know about Jeanny Boy here... He's a complicated fellow. If you couldn't tell by his get-up, he's got a reeeeeeaaaaal flair for the dramatic. He ain't called the 'Queen' for nothin'. But he's very, ah, friendly towards everyone here if that's what you want. If you're that smitten, you might just talk to him after his show. He likes fresh meat. ... That's you, newbie," he punctuated with a wink.
Sensing the end of the brief conversation, Hershel's attention slowly drifted back towards the stage. The French man already had his gloves pulled off and was sauntering out of his cloak with his back turned to the audience. He took it half off and pulled it back down as a tease. After some lighthearted jeers from the crowd, he pulled it all the way off, turning back around with a smirk putting his hand on the pole.
One would normally expect super buff men at a club like this, complete with massive biceps, an inverse triangle-shape chest, and a jawline so square it could cut you. But this man, Descole, brought a different power to the pole: grace. What he lacked in pure bulk, he made up for in subtle, lean musculature and manoeuvrability. He embodied the Adonis look, although with more raw edges to his sexuality than the lighthearted touch of the Classic which was apparent in the saucy style of his dance.
He leaned in towards the pole, grabbing it with both hands flexing his chest muscles all the while, and with his feet around the bottom of it he started spinning around it. The crowd reacted favourably whilst Layton was simply mesmerized. Descole continued doing one-handed spins on one side of the pole which emphasized the curvature of his silhouette beautifully. Then he spun around to the far side of the pole and started shaking his hips seductively down to the floor, closer and closer, until he lifted himself off dancing his legs in the air for a while, then wrapping himself around the pole by the knee to slide back down.
Hershel simply sat back and watched, admiring his acrobatic ability. That man twirled up and up and down and down and around, showing off his incredible core strength, all the while titillating the audience with his overt charm. At some point during the performance, he had taken his trousers off to reveal stretchy hotpants with the French flag emblazoned on the rear. Layton couldn't precisely recall all the details; seeing those pants actually flustered him a good deal because of the way the borders between the colours were accentuated by the contours of his ass. Not knowing how to react, Layton just continued sipping his drink whilst watching the stage. Descole was so talented rolling around on that pole it looked like an extension of his own body, and somehow it almost seemed sacred. Like his skinny hips and legs were beyond just that and transformed mere slinky sex appeal into that of the divine right of Lust. Ambrosia was his and his alone.
After the show, including a long period of applause, Jean was putting his clothes back on, items he found rather unnecessary, in the dressing room. "Johnathon, fetch me my boa."
"Aye, sir. ...butthat'snotmyname."
"Excuse me? What was that?"
"Nothing, sir." The dimunitive man grabbed it from the rack and gingerly wrapped it around the other man's shoulders.
"That's what I thought." Descole downed a gulp of water from the cup sitting at the ready in front of his personal mirror and exhaled. "Tell the boss I'm done for the night, Johnny Boy. I'm going to, ah, rustle up some tips." He flipped what he could of his short hair as he walked into the main room of the club.
His coworker Benito, a bushy, bulky Italian man, looked up from his table as he saw him coming. "Hey, Jean. Seems like it was a good night for you."
"Yes, yes, yes. Boys throw money at me, girls fawn over me. We all know I'm great. Have you seen any new guys in here today?"
"Er, there was one guy who was watching you pretty closely. See that dorky guy over at the bar?"
"Ohhhhhhhhh, the quiet type. I like, I like. Good choice, Benny." He pat him on the shoulder as he was leaving, which he shrugged off because didn't particularly enjoy it.
Descole was on the prowl and he was not going to lose his prey.
Layton was taken aback when he saw an elbow appear seemingly out of nowhere on the bar table until he noticed there was a man attached to it. But it was the man, the French man, the Queen, so that just made him panic more. "C-c-can I help you, sir?" By this point, Clark had completely forgotten about Layton and was chatting some other people up elsewhere. Hershel desperately looked around to find him, his tether, but instead he was lost at sea without a buoy.
"Yes, you can, handsome," he replied in a low voice. "Start by telling me your name."
It took a several seconds for Layton to process speech to thought to thought to speech, and even then he ended up stuttering a bit first before finally getting out, "H-hershel. Hershel Layton."
"Oh, how quaint. Very ... English. Very proper. So, I assume you're from around here, then?"
"Errrrm, yes." He downed another shot for confidence. "I s-study, yooooooour b- I mean, Gressenheller. An- archaeology. I-I study archaeology. At Gressenheller University..."
"Ah, I've dabbled a bit into archaeology myself. I'm a great lover of history, you should know." He paused to think moving his head so that his chin made an invisible arc in the air. "Mmm, I have a great artifact or two at my place. You seem like a man into the ... Classics." His entire body seemed to slant over at that last word.
Layton perked up a bit. "Oh, really? What kind do you mean specifically?"
"Oh, it's quite..." He paused again, this time holding his tongue on his upper lip a moment, then pulling it back in again to finish his sentence, "Fascinating."
Out of the corner of his eye, Layton saw Clark and a group of men come back over towards the bar area, partially obscured by the dim lighting and partially by his de-sobering. "Ohhhh, Clark!" He gestured him over with a hand. "Jean here says he has some really fascinating artifacts!!" The blaring music took audial precedence over everything else in the intermittent silence as Clark eyed Descole over, separating from his group, then asked his best friend for a word alone. Descole seemed less than pleased at this "borrowing", but there was nothing he could do to stop them, so he bided his time watching every move of the naive, dot-eyed man.
"Hersh, mate, you really don't wanna mix in with that guy."
"But I was just told he likes making new friends. Friends are nice, and he said he really likes history and ruins, too."
Clark furrowed his brow attempting to think of a way to take his sentiment and wrap it up in a nice, bow-tied package. "Mm, he's really, ah, aggressive. And I think he really 'likes' you. And knowing his reputation, you won't hear from him again after tonight. As a friend, I just don't think it's a good idea."
"O-oh. Well, maybe if you didn't go off on your own..." He folded his arms defiantly.
Hershel's lippy pout was the ultimate guilt trip. Scratching the back of his neck he admitted, "Okay, okay, you're right. Next time and from here on out, I won't leave ya. Just don't leave with him, okay?" He beamed a smile at him.
"Alright. Let me just go talk to him again..." He walked back over to his previous chair as Descole shot him an inviting look whilst Clark kept an eye on him from afar.
"So, no trouble here is there...?"
"Well... I have to tell you that I can't go with you." His eyes wandered a bit down and to the side.
"Come on. Let's be direct." He placed his hand on Layton's arm. "I'm interested in you. And you're interested in me, right? I saw you looking at me rather intensely during the show. I don't blame you..."
True, he was quite captivated, but there were too many uncertainties here and his trusted best friend had told him to say no. After all, he only knew this man's name. And what if he wanted to... Oh no, that was definitely too much. Too, too much to handle. "I...won't deny it, but..." He gathered his inner strength and told himself to be assertive. "But I can't go home with you and that's final," he ended by pulling his arm back and away from Descole's hand.
Aghast, Jean turned up the corner of his mouth. "Well, that's just--" BAM! His fist slammed into the bar table alerting everybody in the vicinity to his state of mind.
Instantly, Clark came back over and took his buddy by the shoulder. "WHOA. We should get out of here." Layton was too shocked to say anything, but he went along with Clark's gentle prodding.
"LAYTOOOOOOOON! Come back here!" his voice shaked with the raw power of the lust that consumed him. "No one says no to the great Jean Descole! NO ONE!"
The club patrons nearly in unison shot him a questioning glance. One or two of the other men urged Clark and Hershel out of there, both quite shaken by the experience.
"WHAT ARE YOU ALL LOOKING AT!? I'M THE FUCKING DANCING QUEEN! BEGONE!" He waved his hand flippantly, storming off to the dressing room.
And with a shaky hand on his make-up table, Descole whispered to himself, "Someday I shall have you, Hershel Layton."
that man, he spilled it all
spent it all looking at old photograph albums
picking and plumbing every scrap of memory from his mind
sweet jellies only tasting bittersweet
and solid.
birthdays and weddings and vacations and
things of a person
and places
no longer known.
except the feeling of
alone,
he spilled it all, hacking up acrid liquid
feeling chilled, feeling fine
finally
turned up the heat so fast
he died slowly by frost.
The stern of the motorboat gleamed in the afterglow of the setting sun, bobbing up and down in rhythm with the mechanics powering it. Five somewhat bulky average-looking men sat in the boat, each dressed in plain cotton T-shirts and heavy duty jeans held up by cracked leather belts. They had cast their safety vests and hard hats aside in one corner of back of the vessel; it was much too hot to keep them on as evidenced by the unsightly pit stains adorning some of their shirts and the sandy, rough texture of their faces hardlined in the dried sweat on their facial stubble. The men were in various forms of relaxed posture: legs open wide, arms fanned apart, leaning back with a slouch. It seemed as if they were temporarily sharing a common silent sigh from the day’s hard work.
Until one of them finally spoke up, “I know we’re not s’posed ta really question these construction gigs we get, but, er, some of these architectural features… I gotta say…”
“It’s crazy, innit!?” the gentleman across from him piped up excitedly. “Ya got those loony TOWERS all over tha place, uneven flooring in some spots, not to mention the height and proposed colour scheme! It’s a nightmare! Just what on EARTH was the architect thinkin’!?” He threw his hands down for emphasis.
A third chimed in, “Y’know, what me and the boys workin’ on interior notice are the… have you SEEN the interior blueprints?” He looked around meeting the eyes of his coworkers with a raised eyebrow. A few seconds passed and he said, “Well, suffice to say they’re pretty out there. He's got this whole ‘royal chess master’ theme goin’ on and in some of the rooms there’s a plan for… ah, raisable cells, like jail cell bars.”
The group collectively furrowed their brow at this revelation. A fourth man spoke up to break the awkward tension, “So, like, ya think he’s gotta fetish or something?” He chuckled whilst giving the rest of the gang a roguish look.
The first guy replied, “Maybe! But seriously, who builds a soddin’ CASTLE out here? He’s obviously some sorta eccentric millionaire, but a CASTLE? I guess he has some issues…”
The second said, “Come to think of it, do any of you know the person who commissioned this project anyway?”
The fifth, quiet man sitting in the forward corner raised his head from a slouching position and said, “Name looked French. ‘Jean Descole’. That’s all I know.”
The fourth man scoffed and said, “Well, that explains a lot.”
Meanwhile, the very man in question sat at his drafting desk looking down upon his castle plans positively beaming. “What a great success this shall be! My new abode will be lushly luxurious on the inside but intimidating and fearsome on the outside! It’ll inspire awe from all who gaze upon it, especially those foolish contest victims. Eternal life? HAH! Some people need to educate themselves in the true way of science.” He let out a rather nasal laugh.
“And THIS time the damn Homeowners’ Association can’t say a THING about my fabulous taste in architecture. No Association rules or pesky zoning laws on a REMOTE UNDISCOVERED ISLAND! Hah! Cheap charlatans don’t know a thing about the fine and proper…” he crossed his arms and turned his nose up at his imaginary audience. “That’s the last time anyone tells me where I can’t build or how to dress for swimming or where to put a pink flamingo! I should just shove that bird up their…” he trailed off as he got up, threw his chair to the ground, and stormed out of the drafting room.
The four young, intrepid adventurers walked proudly down the last stairwell in the castle, a paladin and warrior up front and a bard and rogue in back. “At last, we reach the final room in this abandoned castle. There are no other entrances or exits. Surely, the treasure we seek must lie within,” the paladin proclaimed loudly to his fellow party members. “Surely it must,” the bard replied. The rogue kept a hand on his dagger hilt whilst the warrior remained stoically silent.
They arrived at the bottom of the stairs and stood a moment in quiet in front of the shoddily-kept wooden door. The paladin tried opening door with confident bravado. He tried again. “It appears to be locked. Sir Rogue, lend me your skills…?” The rogue gracefully took a lockpick out of his satchel, crouched down, and put the pick towards the door…
“AAAAAAAAAAAGH!!” a male voice came from within. “M-master…” he whimpered.
“We have to help him!” The paladin shoved the rogue aside and kicked the door down so forcefully it landed several feet away from him.
The party stood aghast trying to take in the sight before them: a scantily-clad buxom woman in black leather corseted up to the nines was busy flogging a rather average-looking naked man chained to the wall. The woman turned her head toward the interlopers, and the man’s dick went slightly limp at the smell of the adventuring crew.
“OH MY GODS, that’s like the FIFTH fuckin’ adventuring party in here THIS MONTH!” the woman yelled at them. “It’s a fuckin’ abandoned dungeon. What did you seriously expect to find in here?”
((Forcing myself to write things. Whether I end up hating this later, who can say... There's a fine line between nonsensical genius and poppycock. I guess I'd call it stream of consciousness because I had no clear idea or goal here.))
The dog days ain't over.
You can sit in the dark all you want. You can cry. But do you produce any tears anyway? Does nothing come out of that little duct? He lived his whole life as if in a dream, a constant passing-by, looking-on. Is he a hero? The world is in such a state no worse than when he was born. Borne of a fluffy, transient substance -- dreams.
Nothing in the head, nothing to do in bed. Nothing, nothing, nothingness. Armchair philosophy. She sat upon her luxurious crushed throne, dawdling pleasantries, twirling the idea of a world upon her thumb. A pretty world. A clean world. A piece of trashy art strung about. About where? That place... that place... that place with the things, no, EVERY THING. Sitting in the darkness of an abandoned fortress-attic. Not gathering dust like a hoarder, but merely letting the dust congregate in the vicinity. Dust is funny like that, going around sitting on top of things. Who does that?
Plenty of people. They sit their fleshy, rotund asses upon every chair of superiority they can. POMF! like they're featherweight bottoms. Airy sounds between the smug cheeks on their faces. Hah. Hah, hah, hah, hah, hah, hah! Better than everyone. No play fair. But it's hereditary!
Last night I
slept
With the peace of
death
Her bony, brittle
merciful marrow-hands
creeping and
resting
on my shoulder
Thus I
drift
after awaking
in the morn
That cold place
inhabiting
me
in white.
Album Writing: Between Two Lungs by Florence and the Machine
Didn't edit much or revise this at all. Just free writing.
It's over. There's nothing left here. There's nothing here for you. Go. Go anywhere you like. Do whatever you like. There's nothing here.
It was an intensely sunny day; the kind that seems so surreally bright like a pretend photograph. She just started walking down the street with her dog on a leash. Her dog, Smiles, was living up to his name with a grin as shaggy as the rest of his caramel-coloured fur. I remember the dead red leash bobbing up and down and she simply left. The two of them rose up and down down the street further away from my timid rabbit heart, hearty with guts and tangled strings that could no longer make any sort of melody. She was soothed by her own drums playing in her subconscious.
My eyes felt like citrus fruits watching her go: acidic and heavy. That's the problem about truth and reasonability: it's no one's fault. Fault isn't even a thing to be considered. It's difficult to let go and have that much perspective. Difficult sometimes to not feel strongly. As far as I know, her legs just carried her as far out of town as she could go. I just stood there feeling lost and suddenly without a comfortable place in my mind to return to.
I was in deep. Claws-deep, heart-eating obsession. Limerence. Our relationship was like a limerick but without the funny ending. Quirky and just right but with a rhyme so reasonable. I guess maybe her insides were howling for something more. No black and white, nothing broken, nothing opened and shut, no fire. Sometimes I feel like there's a glass plate between myself and others. Sometimes I wanna kick, but nothing happens on the outside. I malfunction.
But it's okay. She had a blind eye for malfunctionaries. That girl's kindness just made me cry.
This internal drumming always comes on when you're around. A beat, tapping, in tune with my mind. Louder than anything else I've ever heard. I can't hear anything else; it just gets louder and louder. It's so alive and makes me feel as if you reached inside between my lungs, grabbed my heart, and shook it around to make me dance. It's almost a spiritual feeling; so good it'd make people believe in a god. Louder and louder, I wish I could let you hear it! What I would give to play it for you.
But I'm blind to all but the light and you're deaf to all but the sound.
The sound of what was, the remnants, the other days.
She crooned in closer to him from behind, clutching his shoulder to hold them together. She blew breath in his metal ear and around them all the flowers in the sky sprouted, exploding up in twinkles and tintinabulations. Then he in return inhaled deeply and blew out a mighty wind into the deep grey night sky. The stars, the cosmic burning flowers, started to fade. Not a flickering, but a slow dimming. He took my left hand in his and pointed at one floating down with his other. I was fixated by that falling, drooping star. He opened my left hand and held it out as that star glided down into my grasp. I stared at my palm. There was a little vial of light enshrined, and by the time I turned my affixed gaze back towards the sky all the lights had gone out. Twilight. You smiled at me the best way you knew how, happy to show me your creation. That blank, empty sky and the light I had... beautiful and yet... I was blessed with an epiphany. I pulled my hands inwards and started to open the bottle I had -- he placed his hand on mine as a gesture to stop.
The darkness felt safe, like a womb, so there I stayed in the darkness with him for a while.
