bakerstreet | Otherwordly meme

Otherwordly meme

Otherwordly Meme

Sometimes all you need is a word to spark off an idea.

1. Post a comment with your character's name, canon, and any preferences you may have (no shipping, no smut, etc.)

2. Leave the comment blank or post a word or two in the body.

It may also help if you list scenarios you would like to play.

3. Reply to other people, either with words you picked out, or words they posted as prompts for a thread.

( A cleanup of the previous Otherwordly Meme. )

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Might want to let him know beforehand.

[At the thought of it, Gladio took his phone back out from his back pocket to shoot off a quick text. If anything, that should get Prompto to haul ass back here to take a few pictures.

He started up the stairs to get his pack, shooting an amused look over his shoulder. While he couldn't see the prince as more than his charge, friend, and brother in arms, it would take a blind man ( or someone as dense as Noct ) not to know his sister's interest.]

He's probably still sleeping. You wanna go wake him up?

Oh, yeah. Guess that'd be a good idea, huh?

[She looks sheepish and turns away face away to hide it as she continues behind. It's moments like these Iris is especially grateful for her brother. So caught up in the excitement of it all that she never took the opportunity to actually let Prompto know.

The question that follows makes her glance towards the spare bedrooms and her hand reaches up to cover her mouth for just a moment. A short moment because she's reaches over in an attempt to flick her brother on the back of the arm. She takes a step directly behind him so he can hear her whisper. She knows Talcott can sleep through her morning escapades, but she doesn't want to accidentally wake Noct. Even if he seems to be a heavy sleeper, it's not a risk she wants to take.]

You should have told me sooner, Gladdy. I've just been stomping around here all morning.

Or take some pictures, I'm sure he'd enjoy that too.

[The small flick at his arm made him chuckle, low and rumbling. While his sister could deal some serious damage, it barely registered, but the fact that she was annoyed enough to show it was adorable.]

That guy would sleep through an earthquake. You don't have anything to worry about.

[He poked back at her, amused.]

And cut it out, would you? You're not too big to tickle.

[Gladio gently pushed the door open to the room where they were staying, heading over to his pack to fish out the package of greens that they'd been given.]

[Hearing him laugh, even though it wasn't her intent, gives her a sense of relief. Her brother's comings and goings were infrequent and they would be even more so when the group left for Altissia. She doesn't know how much longer she would be able to hear that laugh.

For a moment after, her arm is raised to poke him back, the teenager in her petulant and determined to get the last word in. Even if that word's a simple poke on the arm. His threat lingers in her mind and she lowers her hand back down with a resigned sigh.]

Maybe not too big, but I'm too fast. There's no way you could catch me.

[She may not be willing to poke him back, but this was victory enough.]

Hey, how many greens do you have? Think we could keep some here?

They may have wanted it to speak for itself.

( If it had needed a good name to make it something then it might not have been as nice of a painting, but instead you remember the work rather than the title - or the title becomes a talking point, as it had here )

There are many tales that it could tell.

( Scenery could be used to tell so many stories, most very far from the truth )

[Honestly, he had been expecting Iris to poke him again out of sheer rebelliousness ( she was at that age now, wasn't she? ), and he hid his grin in the guise of looking deeper into his pack when she didn't. It was always gratifying to know as an older brother that his word still had some sway.]

You might be quick, but I have stamina.

[Or at least, that's what he liked to think as he ran across the sands of beaches and kept a slow but steady pace.

Finally finding the small pack of greens he'd been given, he tossed it over to his sister.]

Iggy and Prompto have most of them, but the place we rent the chocobos from are pretty generous. They make sure we never run out, so it should be fine.

Oh yeah?

[The response was almost unnecessary. He spent his life training to be the prince's shield and she had done-well, she had lacked in that area. There wasn't room for argument in that area. Yet, as she caught the greens with both hands, she couldn't help to add:]

I still think I could take you.

[She said that with all the brazen confidence of someone who probably couldn't, but would do her best anyway. With an excited smile, she held the bag up and turned to walk out the door and down the stairs now that she had her prize.]

Let's hurry up and feed them. Maybe they'll stay the whole night and we can have our own chocobo farm.

[ The embrace turns, arms relocated and torsos repositioned, so that Venom can turn to Angela properly and press the length of her body flush against his. It requires him to relinquish that tiny grip on that small patch of sleeve, but it's a paltry sacrifice to make for the entire scope of her, hair and shoulders and waist, the rise and fall of her chest. His arms wrap, and it's likely that his grip is too tight to be comfortable. ]

Angela.

[ He enunciates her name slowly, soft vowels skewing her name to sound exasperatingly American. A quirk he can't even count on to be his own, but even that matters less than the fact that he has a name to articulate: Angela Ziegler, affiliation Overwatch, combat medic. Things he couldn't have fabricated, a richness in character that he wouldn't have had the imagination to construct from nothing.

Another repetition of her name, and he gathers her closer so he can slump, inch by inch along the wall, until he's fully seated on unforgivingly cold linoleum with her cooler-than-average body temperature smoking in the crook of his elbows. His head is still bowed, hair still at Angela's fingers' mercy.

He's tired— exhausted with himself, with his existence. One day, Big Boss will put him out of his misery. One day, the weight of his mission will feel less like an anesthetic in his veins. But the thought of waking up in his world one day, upright and armed with no recollection of the soft-smiled angel with cream on her breath, is an acute pain that he hadn't wanted to be reminded of.

So he breathes her in. Holds it. Waits for his lungs to metabolize her scent and break them down into their base components. Nestle in his insides.

Yes, she's real; he can feel her. ]

Just for now. [ He promises. ] Stay with me.

[While Gladio wouldn't have taken that sort of lip from anyone else, this was his beloved baby sister he was talking to. She was crafty in her own right, and she knew weaknesses of his that no one else might be privy to. He turned back to survey her for a moment, serious, before grinning and ruffling her hair roughly.]

Of course you could. You and your army of chocobos.

[He followed after her leisurely, glancing over towards the windows to see if the chocobos were still there, still staring into the house unerringly. They were, until they caught sight of the greens and started to squawk happily, ruffling their feathers conspicuously.]

Just be careful feeding them, and not too much. They could get sick.

Julia isn't exactly in the mood to celebrate -- it would be a weird situation in the best of circumstances but given the circumstances as they were now -- well she's not in the mood much for anything. She feels acutely out of place. There are Quentin's friends, his people, she's an outsider. She's been one since the moment she didn't get into Brakebills.

Sometimes she wonders if it had been better if she had just forgotten magic like she was supposed to -- but how could she forget a thing like that?

It was easier to keep to herself and she wasn't planning on socializing much but when Eliot approaches her she figures it might be good to try to respond. They don't have many reasons to trust her, after all.

When he says the word die something claws at her throat, memories she wishes she could forget (that she had asked Marina to erase from her, too horrible to really remember) and she doesn't want to see anyone else die.

"Julia," Finally comes the quiet response. "My name is Julia."

[ Angela fits up against him as if she's meant to be there— though perhaps in this moment in time, she is. Surely the fates narrow down to even these sorts of simplicities and offers balance to everything. If ever someone falls down, surely there is someone meant to pick them back up when it most counted. She plies him with her proximity even before he squeezes her, and the discomfort is something she can live with. Even were he to fracture her ribs, she'd heal within the hour. It's an insignificant price to pay if he'd take of her what comfort she could offer and bring him back down from the maelstrom within him.

He speaks her name with all the careful consideration of someone raking back over their memory, picking apart each letter like so many strings of muscle and sinew, seeking out the skeletal framework of who she was in his mind. Her arms smooth across his shoulders to hold him close, nails gentle along his scalp as she buries her touch in his hair and the other strokes down his spine as she clings to him, nearly drawn up off her feet with the intensity of his hold save for one lone toe still scraping rubber against tile, feeling as much as hearing the pitched scratch of sand in glass until he gathers her closer still and begins to slump. Her toes touch back down and then some, and she realizes what he's going for and allows her knees to bend, lowering right into his lap, fitting between his legs as she whispers his own back to him, a fond little "Ahab" flavored with her accent as much as her name had been different on his tongue.

A different persona, this one. Her Ahab, the man here in her arms she's come to know, who can simply exist however he pleases, however it felt right to him— her dear, sweet friend who has taken up such a large occupation in her heart. Who has always been there for her and it's simply her thanks that has her returning the favor now, readily giving up her time and tactility to the cause.

He settles on the floor and her with him, hugging him just as tight as he cranes forward to remain within her reach, even boosted up on his thigh. There is no lack of affection from her, not a single sound of complaint no matter how he holds her, no matter the vague discomfort of cooling sweat along her jaw— she's as ferocious as always in the aggravatingly composed manner she had, malleable even as she encompasses him. Nestling against the side of his face and lips at his ear, her breathing as calm as ever as she runs her hand up and down his spine, over the strong planes of his back bent over her as selfish as it is protective. She can feel his exhaustion like moisture in the air as a fog bank rolls off the water, seeping through every crack and crevice between the homes lining the shore, settling deep where it can erode paint and metal; turn it to flake and rust if left to rot.

The thought of returning home with no recollection of those she's met here rankles just as badly with her, so she can't blame him by any stretch for the pain brought on by the rude reminder— it's one with a tendency to sink its claws in and rend, and if there were any whose memory she'd desperately cling to...

Yeah, it'd be this man right here. The very same whose breathing had been shallow and erratic on the verge of vomiting, now taking slow, deep breaths of her perfume softened by the cotton of her sweater, allowing her to nuzzle along the seams of his skin and press a kiss to his temple. ]

Only for now? [ The gentlest touch of teasing in her tone, murmured between them as her fingertips careen back down vertebrae, along his spine. ] I'm here as long as you'll have me, and then I'll beg a few more moments still.

[ She lifts her head only long enough for her fingers to slip from his hair and mop at his brow with the sleeve of her sweater, dipping along the curve beneath his eye and off his jaw, drying the nape of his neck before she rests her cheek back against his and her nails comb back in, swirling down along the tie of his eyepatch where it dug into his flesh. Her eyes drift closed and she listens to his every given cue, to his breathing and the feel of his heart beneath her touch at his back, faint though it may be. To the creak of limbs and the mechanical slide of the well-greased joints in his biotic, the scrape of his beard against her sweater. The tang of his sweat with crisp linens and leather, the suggestion of ocean air still in the hall. Stale antiseptic and gauze atop that, both quickly fading. ]

"Eliot," he responds, just in case she hadn't yet bothered to absorb his name, either. He wouldn't blame her.

"I guess in another timeline, I would've known that already." Yet here they are in this one, and they're stuck with it. Warts and all. And not that it's a competition, but it currently seems like she ended up with the shortest end of the destiny stick.

"I gathered you and Quentin knew each other from before? Like, way before."

Yup, still feeling awkward. But he was committed to making this an actual conversation. Unless she wanted to stomp the brakes on it, there was no turning back now.

[There were some intelligible grumbles that came out of her mouth, protesting the mistreatment of her hair yet again. She took the opportunity to smooth it out, trying to stay quiet until they got closer to the door. The rest of the house had managed to sleep through this much action.

In that short time walking from the room to doorway, a plan had formed. As her minor act of revenge for hair ruffling and to prove that she definitely could beat brother. Maybe not in stamina but-

Well, he had already conceded she had an army of chocobos and while risky, the Amicitia family name wasn't built on safe ventures. She needed to live up to her namesake. ]

Don't worry. I won't let my army suffer from an upset stomach.

[While he had looked out the window, she had opened the pack of greens and now, in the way she doled out potions on the battlefield, attempted to reach up and pat the greens into his hair. Hopefully her plan would go unnoticed as just a friendly touch of the head.]

Come on, Gladdy. Let's go see them!

[ Venom is a beautiful image of a human rendered in pointillism. Step back to the other side of the room, dear viewer, and he's a lesson in dynamism through still art: a vibrating conglomeration of a sum of individual parts, aligned with meticulous precision to create an uncompromising whole.

(But also, consider this— strip him down to his bare elements, and he's a mass of floating dots that never connect.)

Angela feels like magnetism when she holds him, like she could gather inwards and have the ends of Venom's components touch just by the will of her tenacity. Like she could make sense of this as something corporeal, something she can sink her fingers into and stitch together like sinew and muscle. He's run ragged by his own recollections, proverbial fur bristling and canines digging into his own gums, and still, she's gentle with him.

The sweating stops before the harsh breathing does, and his grip around her shoulders loosens in fractions. His nose bumps against the outline of Angela's ear, where the scent of her perfume is strongest. She has lines he can recognize, shapes that he feels at ease with. He's memorized the way she rises and falls, and the cadence of her voice, and that steadies him far better than the usual militaristic routine of counting primes or naming States.

The ringing in his ears is the last to go, replaced by Angela's words of encouragement.

His reply to her is just off-kilter, disjointed, but achingly sincere. ]

I believe you.

[ Not exactly the most one-to-one response to "I'm here for you". But he crowds her, knees drawing up to trap the smaller body into the curl of his own, and mouths it again— I believe you.

It takes a few more seconds for Venom to regain control of his twitching bionic, but the stutter of clicking joints finally cease and leave the both of them in a wash of white noise. The sound of fluorescent lights flickering above them. The low drone of climate regulators. The hum of the vents.

Brings him right back to Dhekelia. He almost laughs. ]

—Most patient doctor I've ever met. [ He rasps, when he finally finds his voice. ]

[ Angela knows. Ahab is a solid presence and could often be taken for a rock to shelter through a storm beneath, but Angela knows that every now and then, he's sand held to shape beneath a fiberglass mesh. The slightest wind could sneak beneath the base and expose him for what he is, so many granules of sand pouring into the water or scattered on the wind. Fissures run through him more numerous than his scars and he's shown them to her one by one, allowed her the chance to run gentle fingertips along jagged edges and do her best to secure them lest they widen. He'd never hurt her, those edges wouldn't cut her, and she doesn't fear him in the least.

So of course she's gentle. It's to be expected from those who love you, isn't it? It's the very resin she pours into those fissures, attempting to solidify him, pull him together.

His hold on her may loosen but her own does not, keeping him just as close as his nose nuzzles at her pulse point and his breath is still harsh at her neck, damp, but he's steadying. Torrential downpour ceasing, his surface smoothing back out even if the seabed's churned within him. It too will settle, she's sure. Her eyes close with the admission and his legs draw up to draw her ever closer, feeling his lips move at her collar as she hugs him a little tighter, pressing another kiss in his hair where her lips linger, heels of her hands gentle at his temples.

He's never come apart so badly and Angela realizes with a drop in her abdomen that she doesn't know what she could possibly do beyond this, should it not be enough. I'm not a miracle worker came cheekily enough when she could nearly prop herself up to such accolades, but the reality of it settled in and wasn't easy to shake. A heavy shroud at her shoulders clinging tight, and she gathers him up all the tighter as if they could get any closer without digging into one another's flesh.

No matter how she may tease or all her little jokes, the ferocity she squeezes him with conveys her uncertainty; she can only hope she won't let him down. Fail him when he's relying on her the most, when he believes in her so sincerely.

Slowly, the twitch of metal fingers at her opposite waist eases to a stop, and she hadn't realized how loud it'd been until the silence yawns wide where it'd been. Distant thrums enough to draw one to sleep with their monotony, and it's the feel of his hair at her lips that keeps her from drifting. She can't get the leverage to settle into a rocking motion and the only song that comes to mind is the one she'd come to know as something Paz had sung, the one he'd allowed her to listen to back on the Midway Hub as she sewed up the gash in his back.

Not the best choice, when he's struggling to hold himself in one place. So she remains quiet save the steady, quiet sound of her kisses dotting him every few seconds. An easy and new little staccato between them to keep from droning on.

The next one careens along his cheekbone with the curl of a smile, her touch smoothing back over his hair to lace her fingers over the nape of his neck, ponytail brushing her knuckles. ]

Hopefully the only one you've held in your lap; I don't want to scrounge around for some long-lost store of jealousy, after all.

[ Nothing has changed. The easy rapport, the ease with which her lips find his skin, the way her touch fits to his body with just the right amount of pressure, flattening to knead his shoulders. Whatever had happened, whatever this was, it hadn't changed that between them. She won't be the one to ask, but he should know the question at the tip of her mind. What happened? ]

What an admirable leader.

[Gladio shot his sister a quick, amused grin as went to open up the windows. Some of the chocobos were noticeably more unsettled than others, squawking up a fuss and heading towards the back of the crowd to make room for their bolder brethren. In all the fuss, it was easy to miss the light pat Iris had done to him, though he turned to look at her questioningly.]

Sure- hey!

[One of the chocobos, eager to get at the greens, starting snapping at his precious locks.]

[It was prank she knew, once her brother saw realized what was going on, she would pay for. It's hard to care when faced with the image of a chocobo plucking at his hair and any attempt to hide her amusement ended poorly.]

The Caem army has spoken. Looks like they chose their first target.

[In between bouts of stifled laughter, she inched closer to the window, eagerly holding out a fistful greens in one hand. They sniffed the food cautiously before plucking it out of her hands. A huge smile spreading across her face when they do.]

Look, look! They're taking it!

"I guess so." It's validating to know that she had been right in thinking she belonged in Breakbills, that something went wrong. Something had. And she was sent through a much darker path because of it.

She hadn't absorbed his name, so she's grateful to hear it now. Though they've had a few run ins here and there it's never been long enough for her to bother to learn his name, to learn anything about any of them beyond being Quentin's friends. She's been caught up in her own causes, her own problems, it leads to a bit of tunnel vision.

"We grew up together." She replies with a sad smile. It had been nice, reconnecting with Quentin and coming to Fillory with him. She had felt distant from him ever since he got into the school and she didn't. Since she had to go underground and find other ways to learn magic.

"Founding members of the Fillory and Further Fan Club," he deadpans. A touch of humor. An attempt, at least.

"Thanks." There. That's a place to start. "For making sure he got here. Even though you had no reason to believe we'd trust you."

He still doesn't, entirely. But... he doesn't not trust her, for a certain value of trust.

[ He doesn't expect Angela to fix him: it just can't be done. Science can't reinstate something that no longer exists, and the power of will alone can't bring back a face or a name that Venom can't even recall. So he has to live with it, and hope that his resignations are enough to keep his fragments together.

His resignations, and the steady presence digging grooves between his already-scarred skin. He welcomes her grip on him, tight and searching. Her cold hands warm him— he takes one and presses it to his mouth, kissing at the fingertips before blowing a hot breath over the heel of her palm. Something given in return for her persistent flutter of lips over his cheek. ]

...Wouldn't be able to tell you if I did. But the answer is probably 'yes'.

[ As in, yes, she's the only one that's been tucked into him like this. The only one who cared enough to speak to him, look at him, and in turn, the only one that Venom cares to do the same to in kind.

The unanswered question sits in the air, and Venom mulls over it with gentle nips along the side of Angela's hand, tracing up to a pinky that he takes between his lips for just a second. With that done, he finally gathers enough of his words to string into a sentence. ]

What you saw— part of it. [ He owes her at least some explanation, as much as it digs at him to articulate the subject of his past. His chest stutters with an uneven breath, but it smooths over once he finds his center, once Angela brushes his hair with her fingers again. ] That was something that happened in the past. When I woke up from a 9 year coma.

"There's only so many times you can see the same act without getting bored." He regards her with some sympathy. "And you've no doubt been stuck watching that your whole life."

Laura nods, letting just enough of the bitterness into her expression to show him it exists while still demonstrating her grace to the room at large. "If nothing else, it makes it easy to recognise posturing and outright lies dressed up in finery. What was it that one Regional Governor called it? Ah yes, 'alternative facts'." She can't help but roll her eyes.

Call them off then.

[Through gritted teeth, Gladio pushed the chocobos off, patting at his hair to both try to get in back in place and find the incriminating pieces of greens in his hair. He held them up to Iris with a small scowl as if to say 'seriously?' before wiping his hands clean of them, kicking her lightly in the butt as a reprimand for her prank. Between her, Noct, and Prompto's mischievousness, he was headed for an early grave. And possibly baldness.

Still, the spike of irritation melted away at how happy his sister looked to be feeding chocobos, shaking his head with a small smile despite himself.]

Of course they are. These're probably leagues above wild grass.

No wa-

[Before she could shake her head and finish denying his request to have the bird called off, she saw him pluck the greens out of his hair and responded to that scowl with a nod, as if saying 'Yeah, seriously'.

The little kick showed her she got off easy, all things considered, and she waved it away with a small laugh. Being the benevolent leader of the chocobos, she let the bird take the rest of the grass out of her and turned around, standing on her tiptoes to brush whatever greens remained on his shoulders.]

Maybe we could find a way to grow some here on the other side of the field.

[Noct's job could be carrots and Gladdy's could be chocobo grass.]

[ The expectation may not be there but it won't stop her from trying regardless, in all the gentlest little ways. For his own peace of mind if nothing else. What would she do if they uncovered a drastically different man? What if the man he'd once been isn't anything like Ahab, didn't have his careful touch or the calm presence that could wait out any storm. The man she'd only known as Medic had been kind and smiled easily, held a gentle presence with a loyal ferocity to keep his spine straight, but he hadn't been Ahab either. Where Medic had been amiable, Ahab is stolid. Subdued where the younger had put his energy into moving forward and accomplishing tasks, a bounce in his step that said "I'm doing honest work and saving lives, this is what I was made for" with pride.

When he reaches for her hand laid on his shoulder, she'll let him take it without fuss and stroke down his back with the other, smiling with the feel of scarred lips and whiskers against her fingertips before he breathes warmth against her hand, slender fingers curling as if she could catch and insulate it. Her legs curl beneath his as her grip eases up on him as well, still held close in the curl of his body and encased in his body heat, idly nuzzling at his cheek as he dotes. ]

I'm glad I remain exclusive, then. Your very own doctor to hold.

[ Another little kiss, softer and lingering near the corner of his mouth, all too fond to be considered "doctorly" by this point. There is nothing medically sound about this particular approach, nothing to say the way he nips along her hand and draws forth breathy giggles with the tickle of his whiskers would cure his dissociative episode, yet the contact and her steady affections had grounded him all the same, her patience and tactility offered up for his well-being. His affections returned only leave her fonder as his mouth works up to her pinky, fingers curling once more to scritch his jawline with the proximity, turning her touch to cradle his jaw once he's "freed" her. The lion letting the shepherd pull the thorn from his paw, as it were.

He begins his explanation and she listens, feeling the stutter of his chest against her own, beneath the hand working along his spine in time to his breathing, pushing back from his jaw to curve up behind his ear and thumb along the shrapnel buried in his brow, smoothing over his hair. She plies him with her touch and eventually he starts up again, clarifying— the hospital, at least. The details finally sink in as she thinks back on it, no longer caught in the rush between scenes, the flurry of swapping props and costume changes and hastily-done makeup before the curtain draws up once more.

The empty flower vase was a sore thumb, the dispassionate and almost mocking tone of the doctor on hand. "Be calm," he'd said. How long had Ahab even been awake, by that point? Even swept up in the maelstrom of visions, Angela had immediately seen how disoriented he was. She'd heard the race of his heart on the monitor, his eye desperate to focus. Immediately dumped with images of his missing arm before he'd even been able to move his neck and see for himself, muscles atrophied due to neglect. ]

Even for a vision, I'd wanted to drop that doctor. [ You know, to the floor. Murdered. There's heat to her tone even as she speaks calmly, the faintest hint of hackles raising. Defensive, protective— dispassionate physicians that didn't care about their patients were lower than dirt to her. ] Had it been so bad the entire time? It was a military post, wasn't it?

[ They should've taken care of you. What a silly and impotent thought, when she realizes she should've been there. Would that she could have. Perhaps he would be better off now, not so heavily scarred to match his soul, where memories of his time in the hospital wouldn't leave him on the verge of vomiting, sheeting a cold sweat. ]

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Otherwordly meme

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sorry for the slow, life got kinda crazy

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no worries! I was jazzed to see this pop up in my inbox

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