huor/taekonaut 1x1
denim and glitch are on the run and end up in a magic house
denim and glitch are on the run and end up in a magic house
He’s a guy Glitch used to know. They fought once or twice and he’s the same as he was the day he broke Glitch’s nose; short, scraggly, visibly intoxicated, and completely unable to shut up. He sits in the booth across from Glitch, leaned close with his arms on the table, finalizing the plan with a mouthful of bar peanuts.
“Here I am recommending you take an early train out,” he holds up the cracked front of his phone and scrolls down a map for Glitch to read. “The place is just on the left, see? You’ll be safe there.”
Safe.
Next thing Glitch knows his apartment is reduced to two pairs of pants, a shirt, his toothbrush, and his favourite book, and he’s on the front steps of his new home. It’s huge, built on top of itself haphazardly and twisting upward as if each new floor was built with no regard for the last, with the kind of peaked roof you see in monster movies. He’s half expecting lightening to jolt overhead (which makes him remember the fight, his new powers, and dread bubbles up in the pit of his stomach faster than he can shake it off), and when nothing happens he stops gaping at the assortment of windows that crowd the walls and goes inside.
He sits in the kitchen of the safe haven, in a faraway daze that makes his scalp prickle and his chest freeze whenever he breathes in, thoughts muted by the fog. Mostly, he’s tired. He plays with his coffee, sits on his hands, and watches the minutes pass.
Safe.
“Here I am recommending you take an early train out,” he holds up the cracked front of his phone and scrolls down a map for Glitch to read. “The place is just on the left, see? You’ll be safe there.”
Safe.
Next thing Glitch knows his apartment is reduced to two pairs of pants, a shirt, his toothbrush, and his favourite book, and he’s on the front steps of his new home. It’s huge, built on top of itself haphazardly and twisting upward as if each new floor was built with no regard for the last, with the kind of peaked roof you see in monster movies. He’s half expecting lightening to jolt overhead (which makes him remember the fight, his new powers, and dread bubbles up in the pit of his stomach faster than he can shake it off), and when nothing happens he stops gaping at the assortment of windows that crowd the walls and goes inside.
He sits in the kitchen of the safe haven, in a faraway daze that makes his scalp prickle and his chest freeze whenever he breathes in, thoughts muted by the fog. Mostly, he’s tired. He plays with his coffee, sits on his hands, and watches the minutes pass.
Safe.
(Negate)
The door opens and the sound of the house decompressing startles Glitch so bad he almost jumps out of his chair. The flinch sends a splash of coffee over the table that washes up to the book he’d been reading, soaking quickly into the last few pages and turning them brown. He picks it up and shakes it wildly, hoping to reverse any damage, but only ends up flicking drops of coffee onto the front of his sweater and that is when he slows down.
He takes a deep breath, forces himself quiet, and slows down (but he can feel the prickle of heat building in his palms). He stands still for a moment more, listening in case the light bulbs overhead burst or the secret service rushes in with their guns ready or the roof collapses, but eventually he realizes what he hears in the front hall is a single person. A single, non-threatening person.
He flicks on the kettle and rocks back and forth on his feet, hands tight over the lip of the counter, trying to resist the urge to run over and make friends. He wants to talk about his old life (the word ‘old’ echoes in his mind) and his friends, about how he hasn’t texted Daniel in over an hour, which is a new record, and about how his apartment was the perfect size because he could see every corner and that left no room for monsters but he stops. He stops. He’s in the unofficial witness protection program. The details of his life will have to stay buried.
“Hey, hey, didn’t see you yesterday,” he says, peeking out of the kitchen, while he brain sputters around this guy’s got no damn business bein’ this hot. “I saw everyone yesterday, y’know, everyone. No one said much, sure, but I saw ‘em. ‘Cept you.” He skirts the edge of the doorframe and comes to lean back against it, hands folded and pressed into the wood. “You new or what? I’m new, got here yesterday really early. Super early. My name’s Glitch, mostly. Anyways, I got hot chocolate water comin’ to a boil in the kitchen if you wanna have some. Or tea, I guess, but you look like you could use a hot chocolate. Cures the soul, y’know.”
He takes a deep breath, forces himself quiet, and slows down (but he can feel the prickle of heat building in his palms). He stands still for a moment more, listening in case the light bulbs overhead burst or the secret service rushes in with their guns ready or the roof collapses, but eventually he realizes what he hears in the front hall is a single person. A single, non-threatening person.
He flicks on the kettle and rocks back and forth on his feet, hands tight over the lip of the counter, trying to resist the urge to run over and make friends. He wants to talk about his old life (the word ‘old’ echoes in his mind) and his friends, about how he hasn’t texted Daniel in over an hour, which is a new record, and about how his apartment was the perfect size because he could see every corner and that left no room for monsters but he stops. He stops. He’s in the unofficial witness protection program. The details of his life will have to stay buried.
“Hey, hey, didn’t see you yesterday,” he says, peeking out of the kitchen, while he brain sputters around this guy’s got no damn business bein’ this hot. “I saw everyone yesterday, y’know, everyone. No one said much, sure, but I saw ‘em. ‘Cept you.” He skirts the edge of the doorframe and comes to lean back against it, hands folded and pressed into the wood. “You new or what? I’m new, got here yesterday really early. Super early. My name’s Glitch, mostly. Anyways, I got hot chocolate water comin’ to a boil in the kitchen if you wanna have some. Or tea, I guess, but you look like you could use a hot chocolate. Cures the soul, y’know.”
(Negate)
I, Ashton Carter, hereby claim Intellectual Property of all personally written works and themes, acted as the writer under the online pseudonym "Huor", a registered member of www.rprepository.com, herein under the premise of copyright laws and potential copyright infringements, wherein these rights include, but are not limited to: copyright, trademarks, patents, industrial design rights, and trade secrets. Any inventions falling under the individually expressed ideas or themes of the claimer to be produced and sold for marketable profit, such as and not limited to character design, will be taken as a direct violation of this claim. Any and all copies, recreations, and unauthorized distributions of the above stated themes, written literature, characters or individually expressed forms of ideas or themes without permission of the claimer, Ashton Carter, will result in the utmost consequences that can, and will assuredly, be followed through with in a court of civic and or criminal law, dependent on the nature of both or one of either the individual(s) violating the Intellectual Property claim or the property itself.
I have no way of knowing that.
It's nothing personal. I'm being responsible.
Edit: Just to clarify -
The aforementioned reply is a written warning. I'm taking the responsibility of letting you know, mainly because I feel like you won't know what to do if you violate the Intellectual Property laws of this country. I'm not attacking you, but I cannot logically sleep at night knowing you have permission from me to draw Denim.
I think you need to drop it. This doesn't mean a thing to you unless you purposefully draw art of him or write about him and claim he's yours.
It's nothing personal. I'm being responsible.
Edit: Just to clarify -
The aforementioned reply is a written warning. I'm taking the responsibility of letting you know, mainly because I feel like you won't know what to do if you violate the Intellectual Property laws of this country. I'm not attacking you, but I cannot logically sleep at night knowing you have permission from me to draw Denim.
I think you need to drop it. This doesn't mean a thing to you unless you purposefully draw art of him or write about him and claim he's yours.
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