Roan's Fusions

[roanfusions]

Faolan took a deep breath. It had been.. a while. Since he'd seen the memorial room. Here where crushed crystals resided in the only graveyard theyd made. Crystals couldn't be left partially broken- once irreparable they had to be killed completely lest they turn into an Antirnity or into Corruption. Vermin was truly the best to show for what having a cracked crystal was like.

He walked down the hall where names and urns are placed in the room, each covered in the flowers and gifts of mourning. Finally, he finds what he was looking for. Vahlia..

He sighed, quietly as he sat down. There was talk of stopping the ship. Letting it dissipate. Faolan figured he'd stay in the damn thing until the last second - he'd already gone to war for never leaving. He pulled out the flask, swirling the liquid to get a sense of how much was in it. Nowadays he always operated with a slight buzz - it kept things down sensory-wise.

There were probably ways that he could keep em down that wasn't whatever weak shit humans call alcohol, but he preferred this. The self destruction... it called to him. He looked up at the words on the memorial and skimmed them. There was no urn.

Vahlia's corpse was in him. He felt it everyday. Like a second skin. He reached over to trace the words on the plaque with his finger. He'd read them a hundred times. They were to blurry right now to read - tears, he thinks. He hadn't had enough to drink for it to be that.

In fact, the buzz was starting to fade. There was the low hum of every mechanic in the ship and a dull ache as every code interlayed into the very universe started to drill into his skull. Sure, he was able to filter it out in battle - it was easier with a crystal in him and a sturdy fear of death. But now, in the peace of the end of a war, it buried holes into his mind.

He knew the price to editting himself was something like this. Its not like fundamentally rewriting yourself to fuse with a crystal. It made him more susceptible to the code, now, made him a little sponge. It was his greatest hatred that he can no longer live just being able to read it. No, now it flowed through him unnaturally and made its manipulation so much harder. Worse off, he still didn't know how to bring back dead crystals.

He doubted he'd ever know. Nevertheless, his buzz was fading. So he tips the flask back and drinks the rest of it. Feels a familiar burn down his throat.

Right. He came to talk to her. Even though her corpse was in him. A mirror would be more appropriate. But the grave would do.

"Hey Vahl," He says quietly, resting his head on the marble slab. "I really miss ya. Theyre talking about ending the ship. Makes sense. The wars over. I think if they do, though, I have to decide if I'm going back to Vhext."

There was a long silence. The truth was he knew from the beginning he would probably never return home, its what made the homesick so thick. He had always been othered. The odd child who could speak in sentences from way to early, whos mischeif was always a little to clever for his age. The way he learned every academic he could so quickly they ran out of education they could provide. How he would've been the "perfect" Alpha- to perfect. He was uncanny on Vhext. His father knew he was a freak. And though he never said it aloud, it was unspoken.

Faolan never fit in. His mama tried so hard to get him to, but the weird kid was always the weird kid, no matter how skilled. Thats all Faolan was at home. The other.

So he left. He told himself it was temporary. It was supposed to be temporary. To show that he could bring back something of worth from a different planet.

But he didn't go to a different planet.

And now, one war later, he is even more of a freak then before. Returning to Vhext was a far off dream; a fantasy where he could go back to familiar lands and smells and sights and family. And it was probably going to stay that way. He was to... not-Vhext now. To other.

"I don't know if I can go back. What'll they think of me, you know? Most of em have only known war in fairytales. Territory disputes were nothing like what we saw. Even when hunts go wrong theres.. theres an understanding to it. Death wasn't even... the worst. If you died on Vhext soil, you returned to Vhext. No ones seen war. I wake up screaming so often. I shake when something reminds me of it. How do I... how do I explain. I was already different before. Its so much worse now."

His eyes were fighting to stay open as he sipped the last few drops of alcohol. "I'll probably just stay on this ship. I don't think... I don't think I can go home anymore."

[eduardosaverin7-archive]

Not soulmates but it always had to be them and they weren’t destined to be together but they were doomed to be but also it took everything for them to get here and also it was never supposed to happen but also it always was and had to happen this way. Hope this helps

[fishtrouts]

disgusting garbage dragon

[roanfusions]

I dunno add if u want just a starter

He grew where things should not be grown, he was a thing made of scavengers and carrion. The kind of thing that fed off the filth of others. When his ears rang and the world felt like it was underwater and his memories warped present and future he was oh-so-aware of it, of what he was, his name could change a thousand times and he’d never escape it.

Vermin.

The word had curled around their teeth and hissed into his mind and a thousand times he’d heard it hurled at him like a weapon. It should hurt, he thinks. It should stab him with thorns and pain and terror but it doesn’t.

Vermin.

A thousand times, it should feel like needles in his skin. To have been told, oh so sweetly, oh so menacingly that he was scum and filth. That he lived to scavenge in the dark and wait at the bottom for scraps. The word was hurled and stabbed and thrown and hissed and screamed at him and a thousand times he would pretend.

Vermin.

He would pretend that it hurt, that it was awful. But the word was a weapon to which he was immune, no matter how much hated it. No matter how much he wished, desperately, that it would hurt. But the word curled around unforgiving teeth and met far more unforgiving skin, the kind that was his, the kind that did not hurt when he wanted it to.

When he chose his name it was his secret, his home, his only life line. That he had his own name, and identity, and existence. That he was not trash, not scum that could be thrown away with ease. Because it was his name, his place, his soul had a tag and he was desperate to keep it.

But when they asked for his name it died on his tongue and felt heavy as lead. That sacred thing, the bearing of his soul, his precious, precious name. He could not speak it to them, could not let it taint with their tongue. It was his name and they could not have it.

“Virgin.” The word did not fit but it was the word that found home in his mind. It was a name, not truly his but a title he found he could take. He knew of what it was supposed to mean, but to him it was something different. His name was virgin, it would never be spoken in the lips of others. His title was the same, it reflected his name.

But one day he whispered his name into someone else’s skin and oh what life and joy it brought to hear someone else say it! What great wonder it was for someone so close to his heart to whisper his true title, to sear his name into his skin with great care. What beautiful melody it was to hear someone speak his name and know it was his name.

But no one else could know. His name was his and only he could give it. It could not be spoken by those who were not given it. He could care for a million people, but his name was not for millions. It was only for the people close to him. The people that made his heart wish for a brand to which only they could sear.

But his name was no longer virgin, the title left and he found it wrong and displacing. His tongue turned to lead when he tried to find an alternative. What title was his but not his name? What title could he give? What was he?

Vermin

He knew the word was meant to be a brand of pain, a brand of inferiority. A way to tell him he was disgusting and wrong, a way to force him to bend to their will but it rang so justly right to him.

He was the creature who could make riches out of nothing, the creature that would survive long after the world had fallen. He was vermin, he did not know how to make the word hurt him the way he knew it should have.

He did not know how to make himself unimmune to the weapon so harshly used against him for so long, the weapon that never worked no matter how desperately he wanted it too.

“Vermin.”

His new title, his new name. Something to brand his existence so that others could call upon it.

But right now, it did not matter. His ears rang, he felt like he was underwater. The cookie he was biting into tasted like sand. The lights were to bright, the world was to loud.

He knows no one will see it, they have no reason to look. If they did maybe they would notice the way his hands shook, the way his expression was so blank as it stared at the cabinets in front of him. The way the elbow, propped on the counter behind as casually as always was his only support.

The world was underwater, his memories were mixing past and present in a burning mass. Everything was wrong, he barely knew if it was real. But it did not matter.

Because he was doing what he was always doing, and no one knew to look when they weren’t told too. Because he was standing where he was always standing, doing what he was always doing. He lost himself to the monster of routine to hide away the days when he knew he would need help. Because he was vermin. And no one helped vermin, and he did not need help even if he desperately wished for it.

His ears rang, the cookie tasted like sand. His hands shook, he was staring at the cabinet, blankly. Always blankly.

Behind his eyes despite the lack of emotion he can see the memories of the past. He felt like he was underwater, he was drowning.

Somebody save him.

No one would.

Somebody please.

He was doing what he was always doing, when people walked past they barely noticed him. Routine burns into your brain, you barely notice it. He was background to everyone. They had no reason to seek him out, and even if they did they would not know. He was so good at pretending.

The cookie tasted like sand. He was drowning.

Please, help.

There was no one there to pull his head above the water.

[roanfusions]

Sometimes he can pull himself up, sometimes he can kick and swim and rise to the surface, gasping and sputtering and trying so hard to stay above the water.

The water is to deep right now.

He is staring, he cannot stop staring at the cabinet. His ears are ringing, the cookie tastes like sand. It tasted like sand, he was chewing sand, swallowing sand.

His movements are mechanical, always the same. Routine, it is ugly and brutal and the world around him moves but he is stuck, he is drowning.

Help him.

No one will help him.

Gasping, breaking through the surface, he needs help, he needs a boat, an island, he is kicking, desperare. The water is choking, he can’t breathe. There is no boat. No island.

He is drowning. His head is underwater, everything moves so slow and he is crushed by the weight of an unforgiving sea. The pressure is not comforting, it is breaking. It crushes and crushes, so slow but rising. His rib cage cracks, his bones disjoint.

He is going to die, he thinks. Someday, in this water. It will take him and he won’t be able to rise.

He knows this is not that time.

His ears ring, his hand shakes, the cookie tastes like sand. He knows no one will help. There is no one to pull him up and out of the water, no life boat.

And sometimes there is fear and it is a whirlpool, sucking him down into a vortex and he can scream and struggle and that, that is when help comes. Because he can call for help, when he is being sucked into a vortex and he is choking on air because he is scared and they will keep him safe, they will save him.

No one will save him, not now. Because he is not asking for help. He can’t help.

In the halls the lights click off, everyone is asleep. Robotic texts make people assume he’s okay, in his room.

He is drowning, he is dying, he is being crushed he cannot escape the water in his head. Leaking the past into his blood stream and crushing his bones.

Vermin finds that no one is around to see him he is shaking a lot more. The ringing is louder, he’d bite into the cookie but it tasted like sand and he’d dropped it.

“Vermin?”

Help him.

[roanfusions]

Dimitrius' eyes are staring back at him as Vermin moves his gaze from the cabinet to Dimitrius. Dimitrius is like a small boat in a sea he is still sinking down, looking up and watch the sun slowly disappear. There is no anchor chain to climb, nothing to help him rise.

"D.. -mitrius," Vermin says slowly. It feels like his mouth is made of cotton. His entire body shakes, but he forces himself past the ringing in his ears. Cotton in his mouth, his head is underwater. He can't think.

"Hey," Dimitrius says, voice knowing, "What do you need?"

Vermin blinks, slow, forcing himself past the everything in his brain. "I'm drowning," He responds, "I'm drowning, D."

"I've got a boat," Dimitrius responds, "An anchor and a wet suit. I'll find you and pull you out, tell me where you are."

Dimitrius has seen him like this before. Dimitrius has saved him before. Slowly, Vermin feels himself start to try and swim. He knows he will fail. Dimitrius will save him. "Vermin," he mumbles, he is shaking so much more now, "My name is Vermin."

"It is," Dimitrius says easily, "It's also Romulous. Can I come closer?"

Vermin nods. "They used to call me Vermin all the time.. like a weapon," he whispers, as of its a secret that will break them. Dimitrius steps closer. "Why didn't it hurt?"

Dimitrius opens his arms for Vermin to step into. "Why didn't it hurt?" He repeats, voice cracking, shaking like the rest of him as his vision blurs and tears burn hot behind his eyes. "Dimitrius, why? Why?"

"It's alright," He soothes, arms pulling Vermin into a safe embrace, "Sometimes weapons fail."

Vermin buries his face into the scent so wholly Dimitrius', "It should hurt," he says, voice breaking as a sob pulls itself out his throat, "It should hurt."

[cursedpossums]

[cursedpossums]

Could I get a him in these trying times?

him

[cursedpossums]

[screaming begins again]

[coyotesmokebreak]

[galaxianbitch]

How do i articulate how fucking Premium this content is

[ratjamtime]

@sa1remake

[that-is-sure-something]

@dragons-with-bells

[zervuska-haidis]

[barkingdog]

[champagnemanagement]

[roanfusions]

@seans-personal-oc-blog its vermin in the shower

[roanfusions]

He had nothing but time.

When this universe started, there was a big bang of energy, and from it spilled code. People liked to glorify. The birth of their being must have been huge. Must have been splendid, and arcane and full of magic and wonder. In reality, it was slow, and anticlimactic.

He was alive before the concept of alive had existed. Born with time, he was not oustide of it. Almost everything bent to the will of time, and ultimately, the universe. He had met Time, before the Time Lord was born. Time was old and ancient. He did not have wisdom, and he did not have the opposite either. Time was simply absolute. Very little escaped his hold.

Kara had long since abandoned any fight with time. People, living people, they tried desperately to get ahead of it. To live longer, to breathe faster, to travel through it, use it, discsrd it. Time was malleable to them, even when reality finally made them realize Time did not change for anyone, they still tried.

The concept of humanity did not start with humans. Humans were simply the only ones who put a proper name to it. At first it was many things, added together and slowly making a concrete definition of what it was to believe alive in the way creatures like humans were. Kara existed long before that concept came into existed.

Kara had watched the universe grow, and he knew that even if it ended, he would not. Because time was immortal, and he was almost the same.

[possessive-suggestions]

…They did what… to you? No. I will make them pay. You’re fucking mine. And nobody, nobody, lays a goddamn finger on you.

[trainthief]

Me when I get my car back from the mechanics and the adjustment on my seat is all wrong

[primeemeraldheiress]

This is the funniest fucking addition

[roanfusions]

"Look at you. Needing me," Paris coos, finger tilting Sascha's chin up as he grins, leaning close. "Thought you hated me."

Sascha keeps his mouth shut, glaring at Paris and waiting for an answer to his fucking question. The hatred simmered the air, kept an audience that didn't exist at bated breath. Paris leans away, hand outstretched to take something. "You know I'm not your friend without a price," he says, slyly.

Sascha keeps the glare, taking Paris' hand and bending down to kiss it, just once. He drops the hand the moment it's done, straightening his back. "Give me the fucking memories."

Paris smiles, producing a marble sized object that appeared to be glass. But it was more then that. It was the memories, emotions, and essence of someone. He had kept it safe for as long as it needed to be. Now, Sascha needed it to save that… dog. She was hardly worth Paris' time.

Sascha takes the marble, spinning on his heels.

"I do expect gratitude," Paris muses. Sascha pauses, turning around and walking right back. With a quick sweep and move, Paris is slammed against the wall.

"You think I'm going to thank you?" Sascha growls. "You had her memories and you didn't think to even give them back!"

"Why should I?" Paris asks. "She was happier without them. And so was everyone else. It hardly made sense to give it back."

His smile made Sascha's blood boil. Sascha presses Paris hard against the wall, before abruptly tossing him to the floor. That mildly shocked Paris, who frowned at his spot on the floor. Looking…. Up at Sascha.

"You're an arrogant selfish prick," Sascha says, "You're so fucking pretentious it's unbearable. I hate you."

Paris grins, "Doesn't change that you needed me," he pauses, "...Sugar."

Sascha raises his foot, and Paris sees it coming closer before he hits black. Paris has the bruise and a reoccuring bloody nose for two weeks, and his tooth is ever so slightly chipped.

He'd never seen Sascha look so genuinely angry.

[roanfusions]

Lights flashing, Vermin crying, Sable remembered him screaming in his mind. Vermin begging for the pain to stop, for everything to stop, that he was so so sorry he didn't listen. Desperate to get out and away from the pain.

Sable telling him where to go, what to do, so much pain.

Sable knowing he failed.

He failed to stop Vermin.

He failed to save Vermin.

He failed.

Vermin never did let his nails grow out long.

[roanfusions]

The sound of a fire crackling, they didn't know why or even how they started it, but they both sat and watched it burn. Fire reflected in Romulous' eyes, he smiled, brightly.

"You know that time when I got shit faced and fell in a fire 'cause I was sad? That shit was fuckin wack," he says, Vermin slipping through. The two were the same, but Dimitrius knew the differences. Knew that he had facades for everyone. It was how he operated.

He was always blase and blunt, he found his past amusing. Not necessarily amusing, but... casual. It was normal to them, after so many years of living. Romulous knew his past hurt, and he didn't let it dictate his life anymore.

They were just memories stamped in time. He was just like time, and he knew that even if he couldn't die, his was limitted.

"I'm sorry you were sad," Dimitrius says gently. Romulous' smile falls a little, his eyes glance up at Dimitrius before back to the fire.

"Yeah, it was... a shit time," He says softly. Admitting it in the open was different. "But hey, I don't wanna live in shit anymore, you know? It fucked me up, but I'm getting better."

Dimitrius hid his surprise, remembering, years ago, the same person in front of him.

"I'm sorry you went through that," Dimitrius said.

"Yeah yeah, whatever, it didn't do shit," Vermin scoffs. "Quit it with the party shitting."

"Yeah," Dimitrius says, softly, "You are."

Romulous rolls his eyes. "Whats that look for? You look like a fuckin teddy bear."

Dimitrius chuckles, throwing something in the fire to keep it burning. "Whatever, mouse."

[deathandmysticism]

Plague, Dance of the Rats, 17th century

[actuary-tattoo]

Me n the girls

[coolfriendlygay-deactivated2018]

new yorkers having fun