#sayekh

[wargod]

STARTER , @sayekh ( *for vex )

"But is it really? The world's BIGGEST potato? The world is quite big! I mean... there are bigger. Worlds, I mean. This one is still decent sized though!" They speak as if trying to backtrack a rude comment but the comment made was neither rude or inflammatory. Miraculously the deity's politeness had preserved despite the horrendous situation that they were subjected to for a handful of years. Even now, as they sit parked in a convertible just outside yet another roadside attraction, they can't help but be dazzled by this dinky little planet. Dawa was getting powdered sugar all over their outfit as they spoke, funnel cake leaving them looking like a confectionary themself. "Do you think there's a conference? An oversized produce tribunal?"

[almakfi-m]

“but you live, and so does the enemy who has done this to us.” eivor 😶‍🌫️😶‍🌫️😶‍🌫️😶‍🌫️

basim smiles a little, though his brow is furrowed.

the wound throbs angrily, but the thread holds. valka offered to numb the pain as she checked her stitching earlier, but he'd refused. he feels the sting of a thousand needles springing from his side and the sharp burn of air into his lungs when he breathes, and though valka had quietly objected that the rip had been deep and the healing was going to be painful, basim wants to let it hurt.

eivor bears a similar stab wound on the opposite side—and basim thinks, as many times before, that looking at his work feels like staring into his own twisted reflection gazing up at him from the creased surface of a pond. eivor grits his teeth, bears it loudly but without complaint, and when he sinks into the chair in front of basim, the faint sourness of beer instead of the irony scent of blood tells him his stitches are holding, too.

"maybe." basim tells the half-molten candle burning in the brass holder between them. his eyes, heavy-lidded, have caught the russet shade of the flame. "is this how things are settled between us?"

casting the blame on the writhing body of an enemy that can't speak up for itself?

the order of the ancients is not gone. neither is the jinn that brought him here—they have both planted seeds from which will one day spring a stem that will need cutting. but eivor seems willing to sink his hands into the earth to uproot the weeds rather than wait for them to grow strong. peace is an ill fit on a drengr fated for valhalla, basim considers. eivor-jarl watches him with clear eyes, his brow knit in thought. he knows, for all that he's learned from hytham, that a hidden one will not be punished by anyone but other hidden ones; that he has no law to obey but that of the creed. still, when basim bows his head apologetically, he seems to be relieved of a weight.

does he speak to you? have i silenced your shadow, the way you have silenced mine? do you owe me, the way i owe you?

"i do not expect a quick forgiveness, eivor, i have much to make amend for. thankfully, there is still much for me to do."

the children of hurin.

[ingolds-archived]

you make it hard to focus. 🌕 lots and lots of flirting

the confession delights them. it reads clearly in how their face lights up, wolf’s eyes glowing, theo doing their best to fight the smile that wants to appear. their gesture had been purely innocent – something as small as theo bracing a hand on the table beside sherlock’s and leaning over him to peer at the article he’d pulled up for them both scan – but it hadn’t remained that way. sherlock’s shoulders had tensed, flexing up towards his ears, and the pink crawling up his nape had been rose-petal bright. though a fair few inches separates them, theo thinks if they tried, they could feel the heat from that blush radiating off of him. it matches the warmth fanning out from their chest, light and buzzing, honeybees waking up for the first time after a long winter.

they place their palm on the back of sherlock’s chair, fingers curling around the worn wood, and shift their other hand until their thumb touches sherlock’s pinky.

“ should i leave? ” they broach, continuing to test the waters. the desire to find out how much more they can get away with burns through them, but theo ignores it. “ i’d hate to be the reason you submit a completed case file late. ”

@sayekh ( sherlock )

[ingolds-archived]

@sayekh. — i haven't felt this way in a long time. ( sherlock )

it's beginning to feel like sherlock is reading their mind. his words match the very thought that theo has held in their own hands, rotating it slowly to look at each side as if more knowledge will be revealed to them. studying it repeatedly has not granted them insight into the secrets their own heart holds; what it has done, however, is abated some of that fear they carry in themselves whenever theo finds himself growing close with someone again.

sherlock speaks, and theo lays a hand over his knuckles, lights a spark of REASSURING on sherlock's skin. it's underlined by FOND, by NERVOUS theo can't quite hold back; when sherlock glances at them, though, their smile is encouraging, gold eyes soft.

“ neither have i, ” theo admits, but it's honest and warm when it leaves them, a confession that does not challenge them to speak. “ i was frightened of it at first. i'm not anymore. ”

prompts for deep conversations / accepting

[ingolds-archived]

@sayekh. — i can't help but think i should have done more. ( sherlock )

it's spoken quietly into the purpling, dusk air, below the drum and drone of traffic plodding along below; if not for the strength of their hearing, and that they find themselves listening closely to everything sherlock says, they might have missed it. gold-green eyes cut to the side, theo watching sherlock swing his legs over the lip of the roof, heels knock-knocking at worn brick, how he leans his weight back onto his hands and has his face tilted up towards where the stars begin to wink above.

they think back to the day's events — reading the newspaper over twin steaming mugs, the muted voices of other academic minds at the museum, sherlock's hands quick and eyes quicker as he scanned a file — and wonder where his mind has gone now that the world drifts closer to sleep.

“ don't we all? ” theo murmurs, similarly hushed. they glance back out over the city, linking their fingers together in their lap. “ lingering on the mistakes we made won't change that they happened. all we can do is try to do more as we continue forward. ”

prompts for deep conversations / accepting

[overclocksaaa]

@sayekh / danse: you weren’t doing any harm that i could see. fallout: new vegas starters / accepting

"Yeah. Well." Theoretically it should be somewhat eye-opening, perhaps, a reinforcement of the shift things have most definitely taken since the bombs dropped, to have anyone think this has been anything but an abject failure on his part.

It's like this: He'd been given a simple milk run of an errand, being available and being unfettered as he is, generally, in his movements, to strike out Tenpines Bluff way to touch base about a new group of raiders in the area sniffing around, obviously thinking the settlers there are easy pickings, as isolated as they seem to be. It's not even been something he's dusted off the old thumbprint lock briefcase for, because sabotaging a new group of raiders in a shitty makeshift camp in the foothills hasn't exactly been something he's considered to be Iron Man caliber; it takes too long to charge the suit components these days by generator, it just hasn't seemed worth the expenditure, and would have wasted time getting out here, besides.

And that...While maybe not exactly a mistake, is still something he feels more than a pang of regret over. To be clear, no one's died. There's nothing damaged that can't be fixed with a little elbow grease and spackle. But it's him getting a nice little wake up call in the form of them managing a small ambush on the little homestead - little more than a scouting party testing the waters of the Minutemen-flavored defenses - to remind him this isn't like the days of yore, where this kind of seemingly easy task wrapped up with the Wrecking Crew or Paste Pot Pete (well, Trapster) in jail for the night, the week, the month, without having to break much of a sweat and no real hit to the wallet, when it's all come down. Those days seem almost quaint, compared to viciousness of the raiders of the Commonwealth.

"Didn't do much good, either." What he wants, as he drops himself onto a rock down the steep hillside from the settlement, away from the bridge, is a nice, quiet place to brood in peace. He should have brought the briefcase, as one point of self-flagellation. The fact that Tenpines is isolated enough for raiders to try and set up in their backyard for another. He's going to have to move up the timetable for making something out of the old disposal grounds, see if he can't upgrade and reprogram the defective sentry bot lurking in the yard. Zimonja could use the extra security, as well; it's just as vulnerable to even small time raiders as far out as it is from anything else but Tenpines.

"They're still gonna have to replant that corner of their tato plot. And those idiots still managed to make use of the-" He waves a hand, indicating the chaos of it all, the gunfight, the distraction fires lit in the old, dilapidated shed the settlers there had been living in at the first - put out now, thankfully. "-To go poof. Maybe no harm, exactly, but it sure as hell wasn't exactly help. I don't call breaking even a win."

[demonstigma]

@sayekh (Nick ) // raze sc

"Just you and me left huh?"

Marco says after the last of two leaves, leaving just these two men at the poker table left. He grabs the deck, holds it in front of him to shuffle and deal again.

"What do you say we...up the stakes? I'm thinking beyond...traditional loot, you know?"

[vindicain]

❛ what you want is very wrong. ❜ ( sherlock ) ✖ horror themed starters

silence falls for a long, pointed moment, the gap cain leaves after sherlock's statement charged with something, pregnant with promise. he should have something witty to say, a biting, sarcastic comment to make him eat the words he so confidently and carelessly spits out into the world. it isn't unusual for his motives to be questioned; the press does it as regularly as cain slips unseen into dark rooms and leaves without a speck of blood on him.

why does this bother him so?

cain watches him, and he waits, and he stays very, very still.

“ what i want, ” he begins, his consonants strong, harsh, “ is for the world to be a less cruel place. imagine, for a minute, what it would be like if people stopped hurting each other and taking advantage of the weaker individuals around them. ” too angry. cain hears it in his own voice. he carefully leans back in his chair, aims for nonchalance as he crosses his arms. “ is that so terrible? ”

@sayekh