I’m going to do these each in a post of their own. First up: barbecue season!
"This is amazing,” the woman from down the street, the one with the truly atrocious perm and the small dog that always seems about one wrong look away from lunging at someone’s throat (Pitch can’t remember her name, thankfully has limited interactions with her, Sandy is much better at people) coos in a kind of rapture, licking barbecue sauce off of her fingers. “I mean, everyone says writers aren’t paid enough, why don’t you pack it in and become a chef somewhere?”
Sandy, over on the other side of the patio sharing a drink with a small knot of polo-shirted young fathers from the neighbourhood, catches Pitch’s eye and winks; Pitch feels his smile turn from a forced grimace to an easy, genuine grin as he jokes, “No, no, I couldn’t ever run the risk of having someone else discover my secret ingredient.”
@xxdaimonxx informed me that a prompt from @luigigrivera for a three sentence fic went astray, and that they were feeling down, so I’ve written a mini-fic to try and make up for that <3.
In which Lord Mansnoozie asks the Lady Proto out, after a fashion.
Later, once people were no longer too embarrassed to talk about it, it would be a huge scandal; there would be a media frenzy, an inquest into the cafe, how hallucinogens might have made their way into its baking or its beverages, how a whole room full of people might have instantly and simultaneously lost contact with this plane of reality.
But all that was in the future, which seemed very far off and not at all important, not when Sandy and Pitch had an entire coffee shop full of people at their disposal and a chance to exercise their less-than (more-than? Other-than) human natures.
Sandy paused in drinking in terrified delight for long enough to press something like a kiss, lengthening shadows under the fading sun, roller-coaster peaks, luminous creatures in the black abysses of the ocean, to the thoughts he recognized as Pitch, and reflected that not being able to decide whether to give the humans transcendental experiences or an uncontrollable desire to copulate had resulted in the best possible sort of compromise.
He’s not cut out to be a prophet, he’s tried to explain to the bright being with a thousand burning eyes that’s taken up residence in the corner of his bedroom, on the ceiling; his faith has suffered too many devastating blows, his once-unwavering belief cracked to the core, his immortal soul - whatever little there may remain of it - broken past healing. There must be others, those who could carry the message with the kind of conviction, the kind of inexhaustible, inextinguishable fire, that it needed - deserved - had to be someone younger, stronger, surer, better suited in every way than himself.
The bright being only rustled their many wings (too many wings to all fit into the space the being seemed to occupy; it wasn’t only because of their brightness that they hurt to look at) and said, in that voice-that-was-not-a-voice, that that was for neither of them to choose.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Revamped Chapter 9 is up!
Happy Birthday emeraldembers! Oooh man this ask is like, months old, so it’s almost like a surprise birthday fic?
Anyway, here it is; 1,315 words for you:
Summary: Sandy’s a boxer, Pitch is a guy who runs a lot. They go to the same gym and Pitch is awkwardly obsessed with the little heavyweight.
One-two, one-two, one-two. Sandy attacks the heavybag like a machine, his little tape-wrapped fists making the canvas sway like Pitch knows his own never could. From his place on the treadmill, Pitch can watch every hit, every combination, every hook and jab, everything he doesn’t even have names for. He can watch Sandy add footwork to his exercises, watch him move so light on his feet despite the extra weight he carries, but hey, that’s not surprising, right? He’s watched him matter-of-factly lift the kind of weights Pitch had thought were only at the gym for show, he knows that under the padding Sandy’s dense as a neutron star. And it’s easy to see as Sandy keeps working, flex of all the arm muscles, yes, and as he sweats and his t-shirt clings to his back, flex of all the shoulder muscles, too. But he needs the speed with the strength, most other heavyweights have a much longer reach than he does, Pitch guesses, though most of what he knows about boxing comes from brief snatches of overheard conversation between Sandy and North.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Revamped Chapter 6 is up!
Sometimes I like alternate origin stories for Sandy (and Pitch). They’re practically baby spirits here. Also, before you say I am doing the thing, I did the bright spirit/the dark spirit bit because they don’t have names yet.
Very pre-blacksand if you want.
“Do you dream?” The thin dark being who is not yet Pitch asks the round, bright being who is not yet Sandy.
Never, they answer, or always.
The dark being scoffs when they don’t continue. “Are our conversations always going to be this extensive and clear?”
So you like words. I don’t, the bright being signs, or whispers, or—the dark being finds it difficult to tell. Somehow, it is communicated.
I’d rather show you.
“You would accept my company?”
“I don’t know.”
The bright being smiles and beckons them to sit beside them on their cloud of light. A strange cloud. From the corners of their eyes it looks almost as if it is fragmented into millions of tiny grains.
Once they’ve settled, the bright being lifts their hands and directs the cloud to the east, their flight swifter than that of any bird.
Before they reach the dawn, the bright being carries them down into a small village and into a tent where a woman sleeps. Watch. The bright being leans out from the cloud and over her in defiance of gravity, and presses their hands to her temples. At once, in shining gold above her head, the dark being can see a vision of a village much like the one in which the woman currently slumbers.
With an intent look tempered by a smile, the bright being plays with the golden images, shaping them into wonders the dark being has never seen on the earth and doubts they ever will.
They go on shaping even as dawn breaks, and the dark being continues to watch in wonder, even as they must shrink and slide around the tent to avoid the ray of sunlight piercing through the entrance.
Finally, the woman stirs, and the bright being moves away. She opens her eyes, and the images dissolve. That moment is one I don’t know, the bright being explains. There’s a difference, for them, between dreaming and not. A vast difference. I feel the change in them, even when I’m not so close. I’ve never felt such a change, so perhaps I’ve never dreamed. But the way the world is to me…I can already do all the things their dreams let them do. So perhaps I’m always dreaming.
“I want to try dreaming,” the dark being says. “Please? Anyway…” he looks away, “I have to wait here as long as the sun shines.”
The bright being nods. I like to make dreams, you know. You don’t have to ask. If you like it, I’ll make sure you always have them, even if you’re not like the others I give dreams to.
“Always?” The dark being repeats, watching the bright being as they curl up in a shadowy curve of the tent.
Forever and ever, the bright being signs, and the dark being closes their eyes. When the sun moves around, the bright being puts on more of a body to shield the other. The warmth of the sun on their physical back startles them with delight, and they put it into the dream, since the dark being can’t feel it any other way.
They think, if they dreamed, they would dream of moments something like this.