Rae's Diner, for indiachick
Title: Rae's Diner
Recipient: indiachick
Rating: G
Word Count or Media: digital art and a drabble to go with it; 750 words
Warnings: temporary (canon) character death
Summary: Somewhere in the woods a lonely heartbreak diner stands.
Her name is Rae.
Well, it's much more complicated and convoluted than that, but for humans, her name is Rae, because humans like simple things they can say easy and roll around in their mouths. She's been around for a long, long time, village to town, town to city, city to wilderness.
It's a gift and a curse, what she has. A touch of hands, that's all it takes for her to feed. Thankfully, she's not the monstrous kind of a thing that feasts on flesh and blood and asks for more. These were invented much later on when the Great Maker's fantasy grew twisted and vicious, his fallen angel son taking up the monster masterpiece together with her who they called Eve. Rae was a much earlier design, made to make it easier on humanity, to alleviate their suffering rather than add to it, bloody and gory.
Rae gorges herself on pain and sorrow and heartbreak and licks her fingers clean after. The human who she's been finger-locked with leaves all the lighter for it. Tears go up into smoke at the mere touch of her hand.
Everybody wins.
Rae's seen rise and fall and rise of civilizations and traveled the world. No matter where humanity is, no matter what they're doing, building huts or ships or computers, there's never a shortage of pain. She's never out of food, never starves even when humanity does.
It's only fair she feeds them in return, so she opens places to sell food in: taverns and carts, cafes and coffee shops - but she moves as quick as she comes, because never aging a day can only be blamed on a good skincare routine for so long. They burn witches at some point and she'd really rather not have to deal with that. It stings, chars... takes up your whole day to deal with.
Eventually, Rae opens a diner off the main routes, somewhere in the woods of America. It's nice and quiet and people pass her by which means she can stay for a damn long while, much longer than she would be able to stay in a town or a big city (not to toot her own horn, but her pie is very good). This way, almost no one comes back, all travelers and vagabonds just passing her diner by.
She eats up a lonely man's heartbreak over his fiancé leaving for breakfast and pats a scorned mother's hand for lunch. For dinner, she's going to have herself whatever woe it is that the long-haired man in the corner is having.
Rae introduces herself. As usual. Asks him what he would like. As usual. Reaches out to touch his hand. As usual.
And she chokes, she chokes hard.
It's pain and loss and grief and anger and more pain intertwined in a barbed-wire mesh ball sitting firmly in between the man's ribs. He's lost- yes, he's lost his brother to something with sharp claws and teeth not so long ago and he's blaming himself for it. That nice black car standing outside of the diner's his.
And Rae can't do a damn thing for him. That pain's too big and the man's too well-accustomed to it, too used to cradling it to his chest like a mother cradles a baby. It burns his fingers but he still holds on, revenge running through his veins like fuel, jaw set like a wounded predator animal.
Rae knows, she knows oh so well there are ways to bring what's lost back, yank it from behind the veil and back into this world, and if anyone's ever done anything like that, it'd have to be this guy. It's always messy and earth-shattering and gnarly, when someone opens hell's mouth wide open. She's not looking forward to that.
His plaid matches her checkered tablecloth. His shoulders drawn inward. He doesn't look dangerous, but the most dangerous things never do.
Rae's going to open her next business somewhere far, far from America. Amsterdam sounds pretty nice.
She doesn't want to be in the blast wave when this brother of his is inevitably in his arms again.
Rae sets a plate of pecan pie in front of him. On the house, she says, and he thanks her and drops his head. The plate's left untouched, but when Rae goes to wash it, the drops left over on it sizzle into smoke when she tries to wipe them off.
The door slams behinds him.
Yes, Amsterdam. Definitely.
Recipient: indiachick
Rating: G
Word Count or Media: digital art and a drabble to go with it; 750 words
Warnings: temporary (canon) character death
Summary: Somewhere in the woods a lonely heartbreak diner stands.
Her name is Rae.
Well, it's much more complicated and convoluted than that, but for humans, her name is Rae, because humans like simple things they can say easy and roll around in their mouths. She's been around for a long, long time, village to town, town to city, city to wilderness.
It's a gift and a curse, what she has. A touch of hands, that's all it takes for her to feed. Thankfully, she's not the monstrous kind of a thing that feasts on flesh and blood and asks for more. These were invented much later on when the Great Maker's fantasy grew twisted and vicious, his fallen angel son taking up the monster masterpiece together with her who they called Eve. Rae was a much earlier design, made to make it easier on humanity, to alleviate their suffering rather than add to it, bloody and gory.
Rae gorges herself on pain and sorrow and heartbreak and licks her fingers clean after. The human who she's been finger-locked with leaves all the lighter for it. Tears go up into smoke at the mere touch of her hand.
Everybody wins.
Rae's seen rise and fall and rise of civilizations and traveled the world. No matter where humanity is, no matter what they're doing, building huts or ships or computers, there's never a shortage of pain. She's never out of food, never starves even when humanity does.
It's only fair she feeds them in return, so she opens places to sell food in: taverns and carts, cafes and coffee shops - but she moves as quick as she comes, because never aging a day can only be blamed on a good skincare routine for so long. They burn witches at some point and she'd really rather not have to deal with that. It stings, chars... takes up your whole day to deal with.
Eventually, Rae opens a diner off the main routes, somewhere in the woods of America. It's nice and quiet and people pass her by which means she can stay for a damn long while, much longer than she would be able to stay in a town or a big city (not to toot her own horn, but her pie is very good). This way, almost no one comes back, all travelers and vagabonds just passing her diner by.
She eats up a lonely man's heartbreak over his fiancé leaving for breakfast and pats a scorned mother's hand for lunch. For dinner, she's going to have herself whatever woe it is that the long-haired man in the corner is having.
Rae introduces herself. As usual. Asks him what he would like. As usual. Reaches out to touch his hand. As usual.
And she chokes, she chokes hard.
It's pain and loss and grief and anger and more pain intertwined in a barbed-wire mesh ball sitting firmly in between the man's ribs. He's lost- yes, he's lost his brother to something with sharp claws and teeth not so long ago and he's blaming himself for it. That nice black car standing outside of the diner's his.
And Rae can't do a damn thing for him. That pain's too big and the man's too well-accustomed to it, too used to cradling it to his chest like a mother cradles a baby. It burns his fingers but he still holds on, revenge running through his veins like fuel, jaw set like a wounded predator animal.
Rae knows, she knows oh so well there are ways to bring what's lost back, yank it from behind the veil and back into this world, and if anyone's ever done anything like that, it'd have to be this guy. It's always messy and earth-shattering and gnarly, when someone opens hell's mouth wide open. She's not looking forward to that.
His plaid matches her checkered tablecloth. His shoulders drawn inward. He doesn't look dangerous, but the most dangerous things never do.
Rae's going to open her next business somewhere far, far from America. Amsterdam sounds pretty nice.
She doesn't want to be in the blast wave when this brother of his is inevitably in his arms again.
Rae sets a plate of pecan pie in front of him. On the house, she says, and he thanks her and drops his head. The plate's left untouched, but when Rae goes to wash it, the drops left over on it sizzle into smoke when she tries to wipe them off.
The door slams behinds him.
Yes, Amsterdam. Definitely.