the drab four

anonymous asked:

what the fuck your andriel-meeting-while-in-hs au has me fucked up. i love it. amazing. you considered turning it into more than that one drabble then know that i would def read it.

anon: 10/10 would be down for more of that Jake au!!!

anon: Ohmygod please make that a thing

soooooo apparently y’all liked it? for those curious, here’s part 1, and there is at least one more scene in my head if y’all want it

Of all the things that Andrew has been forced to give up and change about himself, he’s refused to stop smoking, and he’s refused to stop wearing his armbands. He’s not giving up his nicotine, and no one is seeing his scars.

“Jake” - that’s not his real name, Andrew has learned, and his current name is Noah - doesn’t seem to mind the smoking, though it’s obvious that his mother has tried to quit and is bitter at Andrew for making that worse. Good. Fuck her.

“Antagonizing her isn’t going to help anything,” Jake says, watching Andrew from the corner of his eye as they wait on the sidewalk for “Brenda” to get them from school. 

Andrew drags from his cigarette. He doesn’t care. She hasn’t been welcoming to him since he joined in their little runaway tag-team. Trust must be hard for her, not that he has any pity for a woman who packed up and ran at the first sign of trouble. 

Jake sighs. “You find it amusing, don’t you?”

“Nothing else to entertain me,” Andrew says. He doesn’t want it to sound meaningful, but it does, and Jake isn’t stupid, even when he’s pretending to be.

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Blood Brothers - or the one where Hux and Techie are twins.

I wrote angsty/fluffy family drama with Clan Techie and Hux. Because that’s a thing I do now. 

Thirty years after losing him during the siege of Arkanis, General Hux finds his twin brother in a shipment of prisoners. 

Two and a half standard days.

Three-thousand and six hundred and seventeen minutes. Two-hundred seventeen-thousand and twenty seconds. Twenty one. Twenty two. Twenty three. Twenty four…

Numbers tick by in his head, familiar, comforting, like a heartbeat, while his hands twist themselves into idle empty knots. It isn’t much of a distraction, but he knows how to make do. There are nine of them left in a room that is exactly fifteen meters squared. Measurements slot into place with a glance, the sound of his irises clicking reverberating through the hollow parts of his skull. Five meters by three meters with a drab grey ceiling four meters overhead. Everything is grey. The bare walls, the floor, the ceiling. He feels too garish against it. Obvious. He isn’t exactly sure what environment he’s meant to blend in with, all of the too-bright colors of him, yellow and copper and fish-belly white, but it isn’t this. He sticks out like a bruised thumb, however much he tries to disappear into the walls out of sheer force of will.

His hands move invisible wires. He needs something to do with them or he’ll start to panic again, and he’s already picked the sleeves of his shirt to fraying. Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine…

They’ll come for him next, probably. It had been the loud ones first, the ones who shouted and pounded at the walls while he curled into a corner, eyes shut tight, and tried not to exist, but they were all gone now. The twenty men from Peach Trees who had first been herded into this room culled down a few at a time; eighteen to fourteen and now just nine. Everyone huddles along the walls in little clusters, vacant-eyed and numb. It’s just the dregs left, cowards and addicts. Like him, they’ve all reached that zen state of exhaustion where they’re just too tired to be scared anymore.

A little part of him suspects that he was always meant to end up here. It feels like something has come full-circle. Like a code locking into place. He knew it somewhere in his gut when he saw the red and black emblem on their ships. The sounds of blaster fire, the march of armies in white boots and faceless helmets. Of course this was how it would end. That jagged edge inside, where if feels like something was torn away a long time ago and the resulting wound scabbed over but never healed, twinges. It’s a phantom pain, like the ache in his eye sockets no matter how much he rubs.  

Close your eyes baby, don’t look. It’ll be okay. It was his mother’s voice, maybe, although he probably doesn’t remember it right anymore. Sometimes when he is waiting for sleep, curled up in the little nest he had made for himself behind the server banks, he tries to remember her face. She died when he was five.

Time has worn the oldest of his nightmares down to almost nothing, just fear and panic and the all-consuming terror that something was missing, the distant rumble of an explosion, and his mother’s voice soft beside his ear.

There are no beds in the grey room, nothing but a low bench spanning one side, so they sleep on the floor or slumped against the walls. There’s a tap on one wall that will dispense cold, faintly metallic tasting water into cupped hands, but no one has been using it to bathe. The room stinks of fear and other things, but he’s smelled worse.

“What do they want with us?” The clan member who spoke is bruised and skinny, and scratches his arm like a junkie.

Nobody answers.

As the transport they had been forced onto left atmo, he had seen the compound burning through the viewport, oily smoke reaching up into the sky. It should have been pleasing- gods know he’s dreamt about it enough times, furtive and secret like somebody might pry open his head and find out- but it had just made him want to throw up.

After a long moment someone says. “When they take over planets they take children sometimes. To train for their armies, or-“ and he’s surprised to find that it’s him.

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Once Cas discovered “kid culture,” he demanded Sam teach him about it. He had seen the rise and fall of Rome, watched Van Gogh paint Starry Night, but the culture of children was not one he was familiar with.

So Sam, stuttering his way through it all, taught him what he could remember. Miss Mary MackWelcome to McDonalds, the wonders of double dutch and the rhymes that accompanied them. But no matter how much Sam obliged in Cas’s new obsession, it was never enough to satiate the angel.

“I didn’t have much of a childhood, Cas,” Sam admitted sheepishly. “I seriously think that’s all I know.” Turning to his brother, he asked, “You got anything, Dean?” Even though they both knew that Dean had been less immersed in kid culture than Sam had been.

“Did you show him the S thing?” Dean suggested.

“Of course.” That was, like, the second thing he taught Cas.


“As well as I could remember.”

“Jeez,” Dean sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, a tell-tale sign he was exasperated. “I really don’t – oh! Wait, I remember one now. C'mere, Cas, give me your hand.”

Cas did without any hesitation, barely containing his excitement for being taught something new.

Starting with Cas’s thumb, Dean touched all of his fingers with each word:  "This is your sex noise,“ he said, wrenching Cas’s pinkie back at a painful angle. The angel didn’t so much as flinch, although his eyebrows did knit together in confusion.

Dean threw his hands in the air in resignation. "Okay, fine. Spoil sport.”

“Honestly, Dean, I don’t know what you were expecting.”

“It’s not very accurate,” Cas observed. “But perhaps that’s for the best.”

Sam actually tried really hard to figure out Cas’s kinks for a long time. The problem was that Cas, as an angel, didn’t experience sex like most people did. He didn’t like BDSM because it involved hurting or humiliating Sam, and he refused to do that, even in a consensual situation. He didn’t understand crossdressing and genderplay because he wasn’t accustomed to gender roles in general. Most things (Sam being completely shaven, for instance) he just assumed was a part of sex, and when Sam gave up with that particular kink (letting his hair grow back, to follow through with the example), Cas just took it in stride.

But one thing that Sam noticed was that Cas really really liked marking him up:  Hickeys, bruises, scratches, bite marks, even Grace burns, Sam was covered in them. It was all loving, of course, never violent, but as soon as one mark started to fade, Cas was there to replace it.

When Sam asked why, he got a pensive pause and a more meaningful answer than he was looking for:  “Angels are not allowed any sort of privacy or ownership. We all communicate on the same wavelength – angel radio, as you say – and all angels of the same rank are able to hear each others’ thoughts. Our bodies are not even our own. We have to borrow someone else’s.

"But you, Sam Winchester,” Cas continued, his voice deepening in a way that was both lustful and sombre. “Are mine.”


four drab women
Want Hardship Worry Guilt
wait somewhere far away

a person is born
starts a family
builds a home

the four ghouls
hidden in the foundations


From “cobweb” by Tadeusz Różewicz. The Polish poet and playwright, who was a member of the resistance during Germany’s occupation of Poland in World War II, has died, according to reports in the Polish press. He was 92. Writing in The Guardian, the British-Hungarian poet George Szirtes called him “one of the great European ‘witness’ poets whose own lives were directly affected by the seismic events of the 20th century.”

Różewicz’s older brother was killed by the Gestapo in 1944, and Różewicz made it his mission to refute Theodor Adorno’s dictum that it is barbaric to create poetry after the atrocities committed at Auschwitz. Różewicz wrote, “at home a task / awaits me: / To create poetry after Auschwitz.” Czeslaw Milosz wrote in an anthology of Polish poetry that Różewicz’s “first poems published immediately after the war are short, nearly stenographic notes of horror, disgust, and derision of human values. Long before anybody in Poland had heard of Samuel Beckett, Różewicz’s imagination created equally desperate landscapes.”

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