dj / wondering about your subjectivities because they are so SEXY
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Latest Posts by runningwithhellhounds - Page 2
hello!! do you allow using your art in video edits? (giving you credits)
i do! uwu
Pidge is fourteen. She and Keith are pressed against the Garrison wall, both a little breathless despite not having moved for half an hour. The memoir is taking place on the other side of the wall, outside, beautiful day. They can hear everything. This is the first time she's alone with Keith. It's funny how a sentiment brings you closer instantly; a tragedy to call this all-consuming loss a sentiment.
''I could sneak you in, at the end,'' Keith offers, seventeen and blood simmering.
''No. I don't want to see his face,'' she says and immediately feels horrible.
She draws a forever sign in the dry soil and it intensifies her pure agony like she thought it would. She stretches her long socks further past her ankles, hair still long and tied into low buns. She doesn't feel like herself. Her brother was a half of her self-definition.
''It is now appropriate to pause for a moment to reflect on the huge impact the crew will continue to have on humanity’s aspirations. We extend our deepest sympathy to everyone inspired by their spirit.''
Dust is rising from where Keith is thumping his fists on the ground with a devastating frequency. His eyes are clenched.
''Hey,'' she says, lowly. Collecting ignition to continue, firestarter petroleum oozy. But Keith says, ''Yeah.''
He splays his hands on the ground. Looks up, continues looking up. It's too bright for that to be comfortable. She fixates on the bruises on his knuckles and the blood around his fingernail.
''You have blood on your fingernail,'' she says. Keith brings his hands up, stoic and turmoiling at the same time. ''Right thumb,'' she says.
They have come up with a post-mortem communication code, okay? Matt said if one of them died and became a ghost, they would knock three glasses over. It's so so horrible. Keith lays a hand atop of her head.
''Perhaps this is the nature of heroism. Striving to achieve something that is beyond our ability. Even being the best doesn’t protect you from errors. Perhaps that in itself honours space and space exploration.''
Keith clenches his fists again. He had said Shiro would never. He’s too good for errors.
''I guess,'' she swallows, ''I guess we are the only ones who—'' The only ones with this erroneous feeling. This fucking mistaken grief. ''Who believe in them more than that,'' she finishes.
''Well, that's awkward,'' Keith jokes. They smile at each other, vaporous.
''We will now play a special song – the last song recommendation Matthew Holt sent to our station on Earth. Panic Vertigo by The Wrecks.''
Oh no, she thinks. Her mind spills into a stream of no no no, when Keith growls: ''Let's get the fuck away.''
He's already dusting off. He doesn't offer a hand and Pidge is grateful.
At fourteen, the Garrison is holding a memoir for the lost crew and Pidge’s hands feel unstable when she drinks from glasses. On the way to the ceremony, she and Keith climbed off his motorbike at a gas station made for boys like Keith, rogue, creases of their jeans sharp, boots strangely clean. Keith bought them canned coke and she was grateful.
*
She's pulling a yellow pepper apart, thinking, quite uselessly: maybe the illusion of strength stems from weakness. She squished it until it cracked and now the seeds are falling on the counter.
She's a half of a person. But, in contrast to the missing half, an idea is forming within her. In contrast to the missing half, Enceladus is still her favourite moon. It helps her think: Keith, from whom she hasn't heard for weeks, is a cyrovolcano. And she won't remain a flyby. She'll be a rover.
She calls the Garrison three times to reach him and carries her phone as a weight in her pocket for three days before he returns the call, bleeding apprehension.
''Hello?''
''Keith,'' she says, solemn. ''Keith. Can you steal something for me?''
*
Pidge is fifteen and a boy called Lance makes her doubt her insight all over.
She stops in a corridor when she sees him now, well past sleep-time. Lance hovers two fingers above the skin of a girl's hand. His eyes flicker to hers, watchful, intent.
''How does that feel?'' he mutters with a ghosting smile.
''You're not touching me,'' the girl says through the teeth of her grin. Lance smiles elastically in a way that makes Pidge feel like she can snap.
The girl clears her throat, mouth a contour of a smile, and then Lance, too, turns. The girl pulls her hair in a tail, then releases, and Pidge watches it swing behind her back.
''Hi,'' Pidge says, ''Lance.''
''Hi, Pidge.'' He grins, pulls the girl's hand behind his back and holds it there with both hands. ''Look at that. Won't tell if you won't.''
Pidge runs her fingers through the hair at her nape. She thought familiarisation would come more slowly. Not letting go of the girl's hand, Lance pulls a key ring from his pocket, spins it around his finger. It's something kitsch, lowbrow and vibrant and nostalgic. She isn't like that. He's vibrant and she compares herself to extraterrestrial objects.
''Won't tell if you won't,'' she repeats.
*
She can't fall asleep, just keeps thinking, defined, almost geometrical thoughts. It's often like this. She just lies frustrated.
She thought it would be easy, that she would uncover the assembly of concepts of her and re-cover them with a new sheet. Instead, she is stuck. What drives science forward is the universality of laws. Eyes open, duvet light on her chest, she is stuck. Can't go forward. She can't develop herself, no universal laws apply.
A week ago she broke a plastic fork without meaning to and didn’t know what that meant.
*
Lance walks into the dark dining hall where Pidge sits slouched and they both start.
''Oh, uh, hey. Pidge. Wow, right? I didn't know the dining hall was unlocked at night, but looks like you've known. What are you reading?''
She glances down at her tablet. She's coordinating outputs of Garrison detectors. The device on the backside of the tablet is reading the academy’s data analyses. Lance comes close enough for its light illuminate him and she tilts the tablet away from him, towards her stomach.
''Wikipedia,'' she lies. He grins.
''Is this referring to your, what it that, a tablet?'' he points at the special offer sticker in the corner of her tablet that she scraped from a sandwich wrapping.
''No,'' she says, ''It’s referring to me.''
''Yeah? How so?''
How funny that a person so whole is asking her this. ''You want me to tell you why I think I'm special?''
''Sure,'' Lance crosses his arms.
Her neck cracks when she tips her head up. Maybe this: she has, in a way, cracked all the joints in her body, cracked her everything, new shape recuperating under the always-loose clothes. Who is she? Primordial soup of a person. Chemically potent. An isomer inverted. And can’t stop thinking about that. The transition, the hoax, has made her the embodiment of metacognition.
''I cognise about my cognition,'' she says. Lance’s eyebrows shoot up and it makes her want to cross out her answer. ''I’ll find aliens,'' she covers up. Something less irritating, less out of reach, and no less sincere. Lance beams, whole body moving illogically with enthusiasm.
''Me too! Man,'' he says, closer now, and Pidge concludes magnetism attracts him to things, never repels. ''Please tell me you have a plan. Humanity has lived so long without aliens, it’s time.'' He straightens up with intent. ''Are you going to cognise something for the Garrison? Or, I mean, if we can reach Kerberos. I mean. Maybe we’ll have the tech to go further just when I’m allowed to fly higher than fifty thousand feet.''
''Yeah, well. Icarus only flew too close to the sun because his wings were shit.'' Lance grins, but then tilts his head.
''You look upset,'' Lance says – because he seems to live on the outside of himself. She shakes her head. Typing tempestuously from her home floorboards, she thought: the Garrison would be a she-unknown zone. She’d be a hoax, and people wouldn’t know her. But actually, no. She can give what she can give.
''Some officers don't take girls seriously,'' she says.
''Oh,'' Lance sounds surprised. ''Is there someone you like?''
''No. That girl, what's her name? Do you take her seriously?''
''The one from the hallway?'' Lance asks and it makes her feel infinitely worse. ''Whoa, dude. Yes, I take Alleine seriously. I'm not just, I don't know, playing. I have respect.''
She sweeps her electronic chips into a pile on the tabletop. She’s not trying to be inflammatory. She just feels her bedrock being attacked.
''They have internal worlds too, you know.''
''Dude. I know.'' He folds his arms and she doesn’t know what to say. He half-laughs, looking to the side, arms unfolding. Okay, adventure over for tonight. See you around. Nice talking to you, Pidge.''
''Lance,'' she calls. He turns, tilts his head a little. ''I like your confidence. Keep it up.''
''I like yours,'' Lance smiles, just by the door, when the door swings open, an officer stepping in.
''Ah,'' Lance breathes. Straightens up. ''Sir.''
''Good evening, cadets,'' an officer Pidge doesn’t know barely glances at her before settling on Lance. Crypsis, she thinks. ''McClain. Are you testing the admissions?''
Lance takes in the scattered electronics, glances at Pidge. ‘’I — Pidge was teaching me, sir. About – structural aircraft repair procedures. After today's simulation I thought I could benefit from it, and I feel – devoted—'' he stumbles over devoted three times, and she feels her body jerk. Lance looks horrified.
''Bring your devotion to class tomorrow. And don’t test academy rules. Two minutes to clear up.'' Lance keeps his eyes on him as he leaves, breathing in slowly. Shiro was a Garrison commander and she has met him twice. She’s sure Shiro would use euphemisms.
''Jesus fucking Christ,'' Lance says.
''Whatever you want to believe in,'' she replies. Lance huffs.
*
In her head, she once calls her inner voice her articulatory control system. Then thinks: that’s enough. Her insight told her that this person-creation would lead her further than any human has ever been. And her insight is good: she’s picking up data she doesn’t know what to do with. That’s good. Her insight was a carefully crafted thing and she absolutely loves that Matt and Keith are the two people who'd never tell her you're overthinking this. It’s for them. She doesn’t own three glasses, because she believes: in Matt, in herself.
*
It’s her foresight that can’t be trusted much. She talks to Lance and doesn’t feel very real. Maybe she should start listening to music.
*
''Hunk,'' Lance says, back straight and voice loud, ''do you know Pidge? He's a romantic.''
''I'm not a romantic,'' she snaps, climbing carefully over the bench with her tray. Hunk is sitting opposite of Lance and now scoots along the bench and ends up in front of her. His relaxed arms, elbows on the table and hands clasped, look warm.
''Sounds like a compliment, but. Lance, you dick, what did you do?''
Lance grins while chewing. Like Michael Jackson. ''I meant it positively. But I still trade these bad boys—'' he lifts a bottle of juice, ''to compensate. Want, Pidge?''
''No. Yes,'' she snatches it Lance’s hands. She likes the knowing between him and Hunk. It’s different from her, and from Keith. They are both somehow not old enough for it, maybe; don’t have enough real niceties.
''These were out when I was a child, can’t believe I’m getting them in my dream school, too,'' Hunk says. ''Like, the smell. Smells like childhood.''
Treat and threat are such similar words, she thought while drinking coke on a curb with Keith, smelling her way into childhood. And now she thinks it again.
''Good god,'' she jerks, her fork screeching against the plate.
''Whoa. You doing okay?''
''Yeah,'' she clears her throat, a cover-up, a swallow-down. Before her insides disseminate. ''I just lost track of – time,'' she finishes lamely.
''Oh,'' Hunk says. ''Track of time is a good thing to lose. If I were to lose something,'' he smiles.
*
Lance chews like a Hollywood star and isn’t afraid of heights and she is volatile. But maybe she’s past the impact-heavy stage of moon formation. Pidge is fifteen, her hair is short, and she’s the first microorganisms bursting to life. She’s the detection of some geothermal activity. Still uncertain, but onto something.
*
They are perched and tense above the extraterrestrial sample curation building. It's the most perfect of surprises. It's Shiro.
She breathes in. She sends the location to Keith, the rushed word: Shiro. Coordination and causation are her blood type, after all. It's nothing new, to be an in-group spy. An infiltrator. They all start at the explosions.
''No way,'' Lance says, strained, hype-high. ''That guy is always trying to one-up me!''
The desert-night wind cools the sweat at her hairline to a suggestion of a headache. It's all happening very fast. When she speaks, it's taut and dusty.
''Who?''
(on ao3)
you can buy uhhh a sticker or something and help me thrive !
''Stop looking at me,'' Lance says, decisively not looking back at Shiro. He gets Pidge out of his range, but she steps back in and jabs him in the face with a pad.
He is not expecting a response. Shiro will give one, but Lance doesn't mind. He doesn't mind, and calls himself a self-liar, hyphenated. He calls himself a liar like a cheerful punch. Gotta have a relationship with yourself.
''Good,'' Shiro says, arms folded, at ease, barefoot. Barefoot. A walking exposed nerve – and assured. Hell. ''You can twist your foot when you knee.''
What a cliché, what a fucking cliché. I'd still hear – say something like, I'd choose you twice, a cliché like that, and watch m—
''You twist your foot when you knee,'' Lance mutters, steps back in defense, too far. Into the pretense of safety.
''Mhm,'' Pidge glances at Shiro, and starts circling around Lance, ''head transparency.''
This is the opposite of losing oneself in a crowd. This is self-awareness you don't know what to do with. Counting your steps on accident. Singled out by himself.
''Okay,'' Lance says, ''okay, break time, Pidge. Go go. I'm going.'' This feeling is so him, quintessentially, that he could personalise words for it.
Shiro's arms are folded, at ease, and he's too still be a this distracting. He's smiling. ''You're walking on your tiptoes.''
Lance steps down fully, stepping backward. Don't hide.
''I'm not,'' Lance says, wholly grounded.
''I didn't say anything, muffin.'' Shiro is smiling.
Right there. Right here. Lance's brain screams faux offense, take take, and it screams you choose muffin, and it screams are you making fun?
Oh, Lance is intrigued. People aren't just distractions. They shape what you look at and you fall into piece-by-piece reappraisal. People are really fucking powerful.
Lance's mind is screaming: be serious, I'm serious.
He is distracted, and he likes it.
''Stop looking at me,'' Lance says.
(shiro watches lance train)
Lance lifts the walkie-talkie to his chin. Shiro's.
Yeah – he recognises the weightlessness inside his body: it's a funeral feeling.
nĕw chåptër
''I'm gonna go,'' Jean says.
''You didn't say anything.''
....series....fic......voltron apocalypse au.......
Lance drops the trash bag on the asphalt in front of the pharmaceutical manufacturing. He has never thought the thought before: you can run out of anything.
if any of y'all'd like to follow me
a ghost of a boy
by @runningwithhellhounds (link above)
“It’s not a phase,” you hiss.
The fucking implication.
A month of watching red and gold on the court, and you hear indoctrinated values; like it’s an event-caused disturbance; like a stage of grief. The fucking words.
A crack, then another, and Shiro thinks, is that what electrocution feels like?
''Shiro,'' Lance breathes, shaken.
Lance spins towards him, full body. ''Excuse me? I literally haven't said anything.''
''Your voice is all in my head. I can't think, it's making my head hurt.''
''Keith,'' Lance hisses.
System breakdowns happen like this: automated alerts pop up. Fuse activation necessary. Deactivate fire detectors.
''I probably won't say what you're hoping to hear,'' Jean says.
Lance crashes because he doesn’t see it coming.
Jst mam tko miljon vprasanj zate ker je res kul da sm najdu nekoga k je iz slovenije k je interested in art in res nocem bit annoying ampak a si se sama naucila risat? In kok dolg ze rises? Pa a mas kdej tezave z art block?
!!! ej, mejt, verjemi da nisi annoying. sama v smislu da me nihce ni ucil ampak je moja mami dobra umetnica in mam njeno podporo, kar pomeni da mi subtilno nastavlja akvarelke na mizo. ze od vedno prakticno? s tem da sm mela intenzivnejsa obdobja, do nedavno nism risala 3 mesce. v izpitnm obdobju decembra sm si pa kupila sketchbook hehehehe. tok redko rism da tezko govorim o art blockih, ampak mam tok zdrav odnos do risanja da mi ni problem zajebat in nism nekej stuck? kr zmer ko ti nekej ne gre al pa ne ves kaj bi narisal lahko narises enga merboya, a ves. kaj pa ti? dej me kje dodej pls! danajakurnik na insagramu :))))) kr mam vec za povedat in je tole ze dolgo
dude youre croatian?????? fucking nice dude youre my fav aftg artist
dude!!! slovene!!! where u from? im INTRIGUE
Tvoj art je freaking goals in si zelim da bi bil enkrat vsaj pol tok dobr kokr ti v risanju.
kolega!! hvala! z veseljem te tut naucim kar znam, zelo resno mislim, napisi mi :)))
Lance crashes because he doesn't see it coming.