#<< cas needs his dysphoria hoodie

[laertesthelocalstranger]

Laertes appears again, crouching in the air and eyeing the person- a woman, bundled in an overlarge coat and wearing rosary beads- with a curious mix of excitement and hunger. They begin to walk, not touching the ground, but descending through the air with a sort of leonine grace. That look in their eyes shines clear and unobscured. He is going to cause damage before the day is done.

She bears a smile that looks nothing but predatory, but that same mischief is there. They’re not acting themself right now, but it’s still Laertes.

Usually, she feeds as a kid, knocking people off-balance with the mixture of childish features and an uncanny smile. Today, they could be Puck himself, here to make a mockery and perhaps worse of his chosen mechanical.

The rifle is gone, a staff in its place. But that same weight, that same offness hangs about it like a bloodied garland.

Laertes wanders the back alleys with a rifle that is comically large for her. She carries it loosely in their hand, with the lack of care of someone who doesn’t know much about the weapon. He brought it because of the increasing number of mannequins she’s spotted tailing her- and maybe because he likes the feel of it in his hand. Holding it makes Laertes feel safe, something he’s gone months without- though it’s only a safety in the way it’s safer to be higher up on the food chain.

Laertes feels odd- a mounting adrenaline high building beneath the surface, waiting for something to tip it over into action. They don’t know what it is, or why, but the buzz beneath their skin has him in a lovely state- jumping from one moment to the next using instinct and whim alone. He doesn’t have the patience to think, and so he doesn’t. And isn’t that what he’s wanted all along?

The thing in their gut paces, a live wire inside of him that has Laertes charged with energy and taut as tightrope, as an overstretched spring, as a bowstring waiting to be released.

[casandaxel]

“I- hey-“ Cas wanted his sweatshirt back. And he didn’t want Laertes to get blood on it. So now he had to follow.

Laertes wanders the back alleys with a rifle that is comically large for her. She carries it loosely in their hand, with the lack of care of someone who doesn’t know much about the weapon. He brought it because of the increasing number of mannequins she’s spotted tailing her- and maybe because he likes the feel of it in his hand. Holding it makes Laertes feel safe, something he’s gone months without- though it’s only a safety in the way it’s safer to be higher up on the food chain.

Laertes feels odd- a mounting adrenaline high building beneath the surface, waiting for something to tip it over into action. They don’t know what it is, or why, but the buzz beneath their skin has him in a lovely state- jumping from one moment to the next using instinct and whim alone. He doesn’t have the patience to think, and so he doesn’t. And isn’t that what he’s wanted all along?

The thing in their gut paces, a live wire inside of him that has Laertes charged with energy and taut as tightrope, as an overstretched spring, as a bowstring waiting to be released.