#{{ no need to match length btw }}

[seolinah]

MUSE: jae-hwa park | 29 | social media influencer CLOSED: for @finclgicls PLOT: based on twisted teeth from this post

Jae-hwa rarely followed the rules, tonight was no exception. She just didn't see the point. How could anyone expect someone like her to just be locked away with only her own kind? What was the point in her abilities if she couldn't make use of them? Surely there couldn't be any true harm in slipping into the human world for a night of debauchery. Well, another night anyway.

Her eyes scanned over the crowd, elbows propped back on the bar top behind her. A lazy smile graced over red lips as she caught the gaze of a few timid human that shied away once she'd giving them an ounce of attention. No. As easy as that would be, Jae wanted a challenge. Someone worthy of her time and affection. The difficult part would be actually finding someone to fit the bill. But then again, she had all the time in the world in comparison to the room full of humans she was with.

When the door of the club opened once more, the air shifted. A scent wafted down towards her and immediately her head snapped in attention. A sudden thirst for more than the alcoholic drink set beside her overcame her. The blood of humans wasn't something that surprised her, not when she consumed it on the daily, but this scent of blood was something different altogether. No one had ever smelled like that before. Pushing off from the bar, she followed her nose until her gaze fell upon the human in question. Her eyes widened once she captured their attention. Jae hoped a pretty face and a little lie would hide her true intentions -- whoever this human was, she needed to get to know them if she planned on drinking from them later.

"Please tell me you're not meeting someone right now?" she questioned in greeting. "Because I definitely lied to this guy at the bar saying I was waiting to meet my significant other," Jae gestured aimlessly back, "and I would much rather take my chances talking to you than go back over there and listen to them drone on about their stupid car or job or how their mother calls them about ten times a day. Help a girl out, what do ya think?"

[bitchfiits]

she’d spent the past few nights building up the courage to say something, finger absentmindedly tracing the name inked in the guestbook over and over until it practically smudged. jamie. he looked like a jamie … he had kind eyes from what she could tell (could only catch a glimpse, too busy organizing files while her mother checked him in). sasha wondered what brought him into town, what made him choose the tiny little eight room motel that hadn’t seen a guest in months. maybe it was her curiosity, maybe it was just her need for human interaction — to talk to someone, anyone other than her parents. being cooped up got lonely sometimes. one moment she was behind the desk and the next? looming in the doorway, his doorway. before she could turn back, her eyes locked with his and she froze. a moment before, “no, no. sorry. i uh,” there was girlish display of sheepish giggling that parted her lips, heat creeping up her neck and pooling at her cheeks. “i just wanted to make sure i wasn’t going to stumble upon a dead body, you know, the door being open and all.” clearly she should’ve practiced some sort of script beforehand, but she assumed a few knocks would've bought her some time. “not that there’s dead bodies or anything, this isn’t like bates motel ... promise.” another laugh before she cleared her throat. god she really should’ve stayed put. “no i, um, actually just wanted to see if you needed anything, maybe? i know we’re not exactly the four seasons, but i mean, if you wanted a towel or a snack or something …”

open to f/nb! plot in source.

"shit, sorry. did i wake you?" there's genuine concern in jamie's voice as he looks up and sees them standing in the doorway. he had propped open his room door when he couldn't fall asleep, hopeful the cool air would put him at ease, but he hadn't considered anyone would be around to hear the soft lull of his television. "i can turn it off," he offers quickly, already standing up to find the remote.

[eclvpses]

for: anyone! @bluestarters location: aurora

For a Tuesday night, Aurora was jam packed - which was saying something. Leo was used to a crowd at the club, but he felt especially sardined as they made their way to the front of the line, as desperate for a drink as everyone surrounding them. A thin layer of sweat coated their forehead and smudged the coal that’d been smudged under his eyes by a girl in the washrooms an hour ago, the two of them bonding over a mutual hookup and a line of whatever she’d offered to him. Already impatient as they were, Leo just felt himself grow more annoyed - if anything, their next move was meant to be helpful. One less person for the bartenders to worry about as he helped himself, stretching forward and splaying himself across the bartop until he could clutch onto the first bottle in his range. “Oh, word.” Leo nodded appreciatively, Casamigos label flashing at him - bucket of ice water dumped over his head and ruining the moment when he heard one of the bartenders shout; Hey, what the fuck! A beat passed as Leo made eye contact with them before they were darting off, letting out an adrenaline-fueled shriek of delight as they pushed their way through the crowd, only skidding to a pause when they noticed someone they recognised. “Yo!” He hollered, grabbing his new-found companion and, to their detriment, accomplice, Leo huddling in close to them and concealing the tequila bottle between them just as a security guard huffed past. The man looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. “Ha! Asshole! Helen Keller can see better than you!” Pausing so that he could properly celebrate their victory, Leo uncorked the bottle with his teeth, spitting it onto the ground and holding the tequila towards the other, saccharine grin all but taking over his face, cheeks already aching. “You first. I’m feeling generous.”

[sinfulwildxcard]

@caramialustfulsins continued from x

To say that Joker was still getting used to the layout of the city would be an understatement. The few times that he had been in this world, he had been lucky enough to run into Lady (clearly an alias, but he wasn't going to judge). He was more than competent at fighting demons, but navigation was a no-go. In spite of her annoyance, she allowed him to accompany her. Once she suggested they play truth or dare, it was a relief to him since it could at least get them to know each other better.

It all started when he jokingly dared her to kiss him. Then she dared him to do it back. One thing led to another and soon, they ended up in each others' arms, hands roaming bodies as tongues explored new orifices. The wild card eventually began to kiss down her jaw before doing the same with her neck, nipping and sucking just enough to mark her. Eventually, he made his way down to her exposed midriff before her voice broke the silence. He stopped at that point, worried if they had gone too far, but when she suggested they go some place safer, he nodded.

Picking her up, he carried her to the nearest building. Some "no tell" motel, he figured. He would have kicked the door in, but they were going to need privacy. With a little help from the chains of his suit, he was able to pick the lock and moved the two of them inside, where he set her down on the bed before picking up where he left offf.

[kmadrigalsoto]

❛ ☾ ◟━ LOCATION: carriage falls country club / mayoral ball

❛ ☾ ◟━ TIME: during the blackout period

❛ ☾ ◟━ STATUS: open to those in the vicinity

One moment, it was nothing but chatter, laughter, music, and the clinking of glasses all around as the vast majority enjoyed the celebration. The next it was darkness all around with worrisome partygoers and brewing chaos. It didn't help that alcohol was served and surely enough would mean future injuries to come for those who had a little too much and weren't careful. Did she even hear some glasses break? At this rate, Kimberly's heart sank completely as soon as the blackout took place. To see her and her team's work go to ruins as she wasn't sure what to do next brought her anxieties to the forefront as she immediately reached for her phone to see if she was able to get signal for any news or incoming messages. Instead, she was met with nothing.

"Shit." she said outloud to whoever's next to her. "Okay don't panic...Surely there's a generator that needs to be up and running right? Why did it have to happen now!? I spent all day getting ready and I did not look this cute just for all this to not be seen." She used that as a front since it pained her to even comment on her and her team's hard work at this point and she was doing her best to not be on the verge of complete tears. "Like I'm sure you look cute too, but I can't even see shit to even determine that. And no, the phone's flashlight doesn't even count especially since it has crappy lighting and we should be conserving battery. Anyways, are you okay though? You didn't like trip over your own feet or anything like that?"

[liraspins]

@gollldrush asked 📚 lira and leo!

Lira had been eyeing this girl at a party. The place was chaos incarnate: neon lights flickering like they were powered by the sheer audacity of the band, music that sounded like someone had put an angry washing machine in charge of the bassline, and a crowd of people so loud and colorful they made tropical birds look reserved. In other words, a perfect Saturday for Lira. Her pockets jingled with a night’s worth of scam money, half a bag of weed, and some extra kibble for Pontus, who was laying at her feet and periodically eyed the mosh pit. It was mid-sip that she first noticed the girl who was looking more than a little uncomfortable as some guy with the social awareness of a rock yapped at her with the persistence of a malfunctioning car alarm. Lira tried to look away—honestly, she did—but her eyes kept drifting back. Like gravity had decided to get personal.

The girl’s polite smile stretched thinner and thinner, while the guy yammered on, oblivious. Lira let out a long, dramatic sigh, the kind that said, Fine, universe, if you’re going to insist. Weaving through the crowd like a tipsy pinball, Pontus trailing her steps, she tapped the guy on the shoulder, flashing him a smile that was technically polite but carried the distinct aroma of bitch. "Hey man, you look like you could really use a cigarette. Or a walk. Or a long trip off a short pier. Why don't you take five?" The guy blinked, first at her, then at the girl, then Pontus, and lastly at the room as though calculating his odds of coming out of this with his dignity intact. And after muttering something vaguely insulted he wandered off toward the bar. Victory! The brunette grinned at the girl, holding up her empty bottle like a prize. “The trouble with having an open mind,” she said, tone rich with faux-wisdom, ���is that people keep trying to put their shit in it.” She raised her bottle in a cheers. “So... Ya here for the music, the beer, or just to see how many bad decisions can fit in one night?”

[hypocratic]

@rvolving for roman.

Sun in Venice has been a near permanent fixture. His sunglasses, meant most gravely to conceal his identity, have found more fulfilling purpose in their intended, manufactured use; like his wine key—bought and carried in his front pants pocket as protection—exclusively piercing corks. Frederick chooses to lounge at a table outside the restaurant despite the heightened exposure. More walk by and see him, but their gazes are glazed grazes; the image of him—as attractive as it may be—never permeates their long term memory. Inside the restaurant, it would be different. The world there is sedentary. Stares stew and stir as long as the meals do.

The sun begins to strain into the dark; stars like tiny, orderly perforations. Everything here feels individually placed yet comprehensively whole. Stone brick roads and homes and private wood pillar piers. His white linen shirt (borrowed from Benedict Hemingway's closet) fit the day well, but in this sinking temperature the short sleeves and two generously opened buttons at his chest (no further, or his scar would peek through) chill him. Unshaven graying-speckled hair no longer than a centimeter along his throat and face (appropriated utility like the sunglasses, the wine key) retains his body heat well. Like a warmed towel laid across the jaw.

His dinner is done. Plate removed. His legs are outstretched beneath the table and crossed at the ankles, socks peeking out. The edge of the shoe heel not hanging over the other is neatly stuck-tucked into the bevel-bubbly bricks of the street. Frederick remains to finish his wine. He overhears the waiter at the table next to his informing the guest they have already sold their last bottle of that selection. Bored and buzzed, Frederick interjects: "Pardon me. I am a glutton. I bought the last Super Tuscan. Would you—?" He tilts the quarter-emptied bottle by the neck towards the man, raised brow mirroring—amplifying—the gesture. "Like a glass?" Positively unfettered ambrosial notes when one knows, for certain, the oak barrel the grape juice fermented in contained wine and only wine.

[rebelscaped]

food truck alley, midday, current time (no specific date) / @anchoragestarters

The remainding few pieces of xiaolongbao he'd ordered had been sat neglected on the bench table long enough that it had started to go cold, the soup having seeped out of one and into the polystyrene tray that held them. Although Kael had never been known for his appetite, it was not because he was not hungry that his lunch had gone ignored but rather that he was much too focused on other things; in particular, inspiration had hit and the most inconvenient moment and he was now stuck scrawling away on a pieces of scrap paper he'd found in his bag. The one he was on right now had been a flyer for something at some point, he hadn't bothered to flip over to check. Songwriting wasn't something with which Kael troubled himself quite as often these days; since he'd joined the band, those duties had fallen into hands besides his own. He harbored no ambitions of going solo but it felt nice to cling to old passions. Besides, the lyrics he penned were often personal and more occasionally, they were too vulnerable to be seen by anybody but Kael. He was fine with this. He might have even considered it a cheaper alternative to therapy. (Or was it more like keeping a diary?)

Of course it came as a shock, then, that a strong gust of wind came in just at that moment and whisked the papers right from under his pen. All Kael could muster as a response was a quiet grunt of surprise. The wind had calmed as quickly as it had picked up, as was the way of Anchorage's unpredictable weather. (He supposed he ought to have been used to that, given how much time he'd spent in London.) Most of the paper had gathered at the legs of another bench. Another occipied bench. Mostly under the bench. "Oh, fuck me sideways," he hissed under his breath, as he pulled himself to his feet and marched over, the gravel crunching noisily under the weight of his heavy New Rocks.

"Ey, if you don't mind moving for a bit, I need under here," said Kael, brusquely. Usually, he'd more polite than this. He wasn't a naturally rude person, but in times as frantic as these, he had a way of forgetting to filter himself. His gaze dropped to the bench table and his eyes widened as he finally noticed that a few sheets had landed squarely in this person's food. (He was so not reimbursing them for this.) Slowly but surely, eye contact was made. "Don't touch that."

[deiscension]

﹄ ◇ ; @drownedgxds

     ⌜◈⌟    ▌ ──  Shi Qingxuan isn't alone.

     Of course she isn't. She never has been. From natal cry to the dawn marking the second decade in which she is somehow still alive and vaguely well, Shi Qingxuan has never been alone. Haunted. Cursed. Afflicted. Possessed. She's heard all manner of words used to describe her condition, usually uttered in abject horror and revulsion or steeped in nauseating amounts of pity (or, in her brother's case, said with such personal affront one might think he was the one bearing a curse, not his younger sibling). Though each interpretation of her condition has its differences and nuances, each of them carries the same implication: her life is not her own, and misfortune will be her companion from cradle to grave.

     On the more corporeal front, there are the servants her brother sent ahead of her to prepare this half-drowned, dreary manor as her new dwelling. They may as well be ghosts in their own right. Always out of sight, smoothing sheets after she has left her bedchamber and they are certain she won't be returning any time soon, preparing hot baths without spilling so much as a single drop of water to give away the pathing of their foot traffic, setting and clearing away meals only after her presence no longer lingers in the dining room (she's toyed with the idea of bursting into the kitchen while the cooks are at work, taking a knife and clumsily chopping whatever vegetables haven't yet been cut, wedging herself into their conversation as though she's been there the whole time). The only attendants she ever shares any space with are those who help her to dress and undress. Those poor women practically flee when dismissed no matter how cheerfully she relieves them of their post, terrified beyond all rational thought of catching whatever horrific affliction has laid waste to the once promising younger Shi.

     It wasn't always like this. Before her exile relocation, servants and tutors used to look upon her a degree of fondness that would soften the sharp glint of disgust or fear. Sometimes she was even allowed to receive pre-approved company. In those days, more was expected of her than fleeting flights of fancy and drinking herself stupid. But of course, she had to go and ruin that.

     It should not come as any great surprise that she is not alone. She knows she never will be. And yet she's laid awake into the early hours of the morning these past few nights, turned towards the doorway, sheets clutched to her chest, waiting for the bedcurtains to part and reveal the manor's other occupant.

     Because it does have another occupant. A ghost.

     Not hers; she would know if it is her ghost. Hers is one of gluttony and decay, all teeth and acid, its stomach a burial mound of every good thing she has ever had, any good thing she has ever done. If it was hers, she would have long since been abandoned. Or she would have been devoured, picked clean down to the bone, her blood soaking into the floorboards the only sign she ever existed at all.

     Shi Qingxuan does not know what to make of her preternatural tenant. Sometimes they are so inobtrusive in their hauntings the untrained eye could easily mistake them for one of the long shadows that slowly claims the manor's interior at sunset. Other times proof of their existence is undeniable: a shrouded figure standing still as death at the end of the hall, a half-eaten apple left at the center of the table, vacant stairs creaking in the rhythm of ascending footsteps. She's only caught glimpses of them. Hair dark and liquid as a fast-spreading spill of ink. Skin the pallor of mourning garb. And their eyes. Like twin coins at the bottom of an abandoned well, cold and distant and so treacherously enthralling. A shiver skitters down her spine at the mere memory. Whether out of unease or macabre intrigue, she isn't certain.

     What she does know is she cannot take this tension any longer. She waits 'til all the lanterns and candles are snuffed, 'til the only sound breaking through the deafening silence are the waves beating themselves into a frothing frenzy against the shoreline far, far below her bedchamber window. Then she redresses by low-burning candle, hastily and sloppily, heart all the way in her throat, before taking her own handheld lantern and braving the belly of her manor.

     She paces hallways and lingers in the threshold of every unoccupied room she visits. Part of her wishes to find this other ghost waiting for her just around every corner she turns. The more rational part of her, the one currently berating her in her brother's voice for being such a careless fool, knows it would be best to return to her bed and at least pretend to sleep.

    Instead, she does something even stupider than her current fool's errand. She comes to a stand in the middle of the room and invites the ghost to come to her.

     "I know you're there," she says, and how she wishes to sound every bit the charmed and self-assured young miss of a well-to-do merchant household she's usually so adept at being. What she sounds like is a desperate, lonely girl, her voice a tremulous whisper all but swallowed by the oily dark. Her grip on the handheld lantern tightens. With more confidence than she actually possesses, Shi Qingxuan squares her shoulders and raises her chin, hands trembling as she searches the shadows. "At least, I think you're there. If you can hear and understand me at all, show yourself to me. I won't tell a soul." I haven't a soul to tell. "Just-- please. Please, let me see you."

[anhxdonia]

@godsunderfoot — antioch university, august 5th, afternoon. trigger warnings: religious references!

PERHAPS  THE  MOST  ELEGANT  FORM  OF  BEAUTY  IS  THE  STORY.  Smithed  words,  struck  when  molten,  and  shaped  until  piercing  at  first  strike;  others  daintily  crafted  and  cut  gems  of  prose.  A  professional  fabulist  drips  jeweled  sentences,  their  carats  reflected  in  the  bright,  yearning  nebula  of  the  human  iris,  a  rapt  audience  caught  in  the  splendor.  As  simple  as  it  may  be,  this  truth  bears  repeating:  we  are  a  species  wrapped  up  in  aesthetics,  fabrics  of  our  imagination...  seeking  beauty  in  the  forms  that  cover  the  ugliness  we  harbor.

Many  believe,  quote  rapaciously,  that  beauty  —  some  unspoiled,  earthly,  carnal,  tactile  essence  —  is  terror.  But  one  is  gripped  by  fear,  horrors  that  subsume  underneath  one's  skin  when  encountering  the  unfamiliar,  unknown.  When  one  believes  they've  never  witnessed  it  before.  Beauty  is  a  terror  when  it  is  FOREIGN.

Maharth's  fingers,  ashen  at  the  tips  with  the  finest  dust  of  Hagoromo  chalk,  underline  the  word  terror  on  the  blackboard.  He  is  still  a  lover  of  the  Classics  and  basks  in  Inquisitive  stares  following  the  arc  of  his  arm  as  he  encircles  the  truth.  He  faces  their  eagerness,  matches  with  a  spark  of  his  own,  and  lovingly  tosses  in  his  kindling,  a  speech:

"  How  we  view  one's  beauty  becomes  one's  truth,  one's  belief  in  the  world  we  live  in...  All  religious  art  has  a  motif  of  untouchable  beauty,  the  peerless  perfect  faces,  serenity  in  the  expression  both  present  and  empty,  seeing  a  world  that  a  mortal  onlooker  could  never  comprehend...  "

The  projector,  more  like  a  banner  that  floats  down  from  the  rafters,  depicts  Michelangelo's  Last  Judgment,  capturing  a  sliver  of  its  phenomenal  flair.  The  professor  summarizes,  "  Michelangelo's  Last  Judgment,  his  final  painting,  stirred  controversy  at  its  time.  The  Catholic  Church  was  in  its  Counter-Reformation  movement,  and  the  Council  of  Trent  deemed  the  Last  Judgment's  Neoplatonic  influences  heretical.  Nudity,  in  fact,  was  the  issue...  I  hear  the  snickering,  students.  Stay  with  me  for  a  second.  "

"  Now,  we'd  think  it  baseless,  quite  prudish,  no?  Given  the  fame  of  the  Statue  of  David,  the  Ecstasy  of  St.  Teresa  of  Avila…  The  bodily  beauty  of  mimicked  flesh  and  blood,  as  a  means  of  extending  the  greatness  of  its  Saints  to  the  people,  was  now  rejected  for  being  baseless,  vulgar,  and  Godless.  "

Maharth  wonders  briefly  how  the  indictment  fell  on  Michelangelo  when  the  commissioners  who  pulled  art  after  art  from  him  betrayed  him.  Did  the  artist  burn  up  in  shame  when  the  poet  Pietro  Aretino  accused  him  of  defiling  the  Sistine  Chapel,  of  denigrating  it  to  a  whorehouse?

"  That's  what  I  want  you  to  think  about,  students.  Expressions  of  piety.  What  is  religious  beauty?  What  is  artifice  and  truth?  Upon  completing  his  last  painting,  Michelangelo  wrote,  'Neither  painting  nor  sculpture  will  be  able  any  longer  to  calm  my  soul,  now  turned  to  divine  love.'  What  divine  beauty  drives  a  pious  servant  to  agitation?  "

His  lecture  ends  with  synchronized  silence  before  students  and  some  faculty  onlookers  remember  the  time  and  place.  Then,  as  if  coming  out  of  a  daze,  they  shamble  out  of  their  desks,  the  nooks  at  the  edges  of  the  room  to  leave.  As  the  newest  member  of  Antioch  University's  roster,  Professor  Chandrasekhar  fields  ravenous  last-minute  questions,  chatting  with  the  engagement  of  a  beloved  old  friend  who  has  a  train  to  catch.  It's  only  after  the  regulars  dip  and  the  field  of  people  thins  out  that  the  professor  notices  someone  in  the  midst,  stately  and  tall  even  when  far  back  in  the  room.

There  are  continuing  education  courses  for  adults  at  the  university,  so  the  age  of  the  man,  sculpted  in  rugged,  well-defined  features,  does  not  illicit  any  curiosities  from  the  professor;  however,  the  lack  of  academic  equipment  (no  papers,  pens)  hints  at  Maharth  that  the  visitor  may  not  be  a  simple  course  auditor.  Well,  there  is  no  hurt  in  asking.

Or,  there  shouldn't  be.

"�� Good  afternoon!  The  lecture  wasn't  too  long-winded,  was  it? "  Maharth  calls  out,  hand  cupped  around  his  mouth.  He  follows  his  greeting  with  easy,  long  strides  to  the  man.  Hand  out,  fingers  loosely  together,  knuckles  forming  soft  ridges  like  a  clam's  shell,  he  signals  his  invitation.  "  Professor  Maharth  Prasad  Chandrasekhar.  Charmed  to  make  your  acquaintance.  "

[quietlyblooms-gone]

open to mutuals | in which chiyo doesn't want them to leave <3

" thank you, " softly chiyo mutters as laces are untied and shoes discarded, careful hands helping her beneath a comforter that feels heavenly against her skin. typically she'd never go to bed in street clothes, but the night calls for an exception; she's had just a tad too much to drink, feels much too tired to worry about dirty clothes. no, chiyo's more concerned with squeezing her pillow as tightly as she can ( the pressure against her chest soothes something that she can't name, doesn't want to name ).

she feels the bed shift as her companion stands, and eyes like melted chocolate stare up at them. belatedly chiyo realizes she's grabbed hold of their wrist but doesn't let go. belatedly she realizes she's allowed her pillow to fall to the ground, half-risen upon an elbow, though she doesn't care. she just doesn't want them to leave.

" could you stay a while longer? " her voice sounds so small, fragile. " please? "

[captainseamech]

Closed starter for @saviorclaimed

             Despite the war finally coming to an end and the beginning of Cybertron’s restoration, High Tide stayed on Earth most of the time to help the team and assist any other Cybertronian found around by relocating them safely to Ratchet. Even though he loved to help the best he could, there was a bitter taste in his mouth since he heard about what happened to Optimus.

             He wasn’t there. He wasn’t there to help in any possible way. He wasn’t there to stop that act of self-sacrifice from happening and he dreaded it every single time, even when he went to recharge and always woke up after the same horrible dream of his. He’s grown tired after that. Tired and with an aching spark.

             One day, however, he got a ping on his datapad, asking for permission to board on his ship. That was odd, there was no identification with the message and the sender didn’t tell anything else. Maybe it was someone who needed help, the captain concluded as he granted permission to come aboard and, not so long after, his radars caught a signal flying towards his ship.

             That’s even more strange. But according to the signature reading, although not identifying once again who that was, it was 100% an Autobot signal. Huh, he didn’t recall the last time they had a seeker on the team, so maybe they’re coming over to get proper advice from the captain, who knows.

             High Tide decided it would be best if he met whoever that was upfront, stepping out of his cabin and now standing by the deck in the open, squinting at the sky as he witnessed a dot flying closer to his ship. He just hoped it wasn’t a trap.

[feranmut]

SHE'D THOUGHT LONG ABOUT THIS 一 where they could possibly go that both might at least take some semblance of pleasure in. the great library of xalphina had been considered, albeit briefly, before deciding it may be best elsewhere. from the small things she knows of alhaitham, she knows he isn't one who enjoys excess sound, much like a draken librarian reading several books aloud.

so, here they stand amidst a sea of planets and twinkling stars, a cosmos beckoning them with promise of the slightest glimpse of home. it was a quieter place, one he can read in were his attention to wane, not to mention some treats were any desired. though a brief thought passes her mind as they wind through some of the paths, one meant for their little display, as a hand shifts over slightly as if it were meant to take his own... until it freezes just beyond touch, immediately tucking itself away from view. no. maybe that wasn't a good idea.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀what made her think it was in the first place?

❝ Mm. I do not see Terra. At least I don't think. What of your world? ❞ it was idle chatter, one to push away that minuscule skip of her heart in hoping he hadn't noticed her pitiful attempt.

@hetuvidya

[thxta]

𝑰𝒏𝒔𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 — 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑡𝑎 / 𝑇𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑒

⦗ @timelxrd-victorious ⦘

The newly turned vampire-Time Lord hunched over the lab table, blood-sweat dripping down his forehead. His hunger was becoming almost unbearable after several days without any blood, and focus was proving to be a challenge. The vials of liquid before him shimmered under the harsh lighting of the TARDIS laboratory, their contents bubbling and changing hues.

He gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the cravings gnawing away at him. This serum could potentially change everything for him - allow him to walk in the daytime, maintain his vampiric powers, and avoid the agonizing pain of exposure to direct sunlight. It was an essential part of his plan to create his own vampire coven.

With a frustrated hiss and growl, Theta pushed himself up from the table, sending test tubes clattering to the floor. The veins around his eyes were now dark and prominent, betraying his hunger. He knew he couldn't concentrate any further, and decided it was time to feed.

In a blur, he flitted across the laboratory and through the corridors, his vampiric speed taking him to the TARDIS' control room. Flicking switches and pressing buttons, he set course for modern-day Earth. Once there, he could find a suitable target, satiate his thirst, and return to his work with renewed vigor.

~

The city bustled with life, a perfect hunting ground for Theta. He prowled the darkened alleys, his vampiric senses heightening to pick up on the scent of blood, the beating of hearts, and the warmth of living beings. It was in that moment, as the familiar sound of a TARDIS materializing reached his ears, that the scent of another Time Lord wafted through the air.

Theta's nostrils flared, and his eyes widened. The scent was unmistakable, and his hearts raced, not just from hunger, but from the excitement of seeing an old friend. But as Theta's mind struggled with thoughts of wanting to feed, a flurry of mixed emotions raced through him.

Theta fought the urge to follow the scent, knowing that if he did, he might not be able to stop himself. Instead, he focused on finding a suitable human target, his eyes scanning the shadows for a victim. He spotted a figure walking alone, their pulse quickening as they hurried through the alley.

Theta launched himself at the unsuspecting human, his fangs elongating as he bit into their neck. They screamed, but they were silenced by Theta's hand over their mouth. The taste of the blood was intoxicating, and an immediate sensation of euphoria washed over him.

[balteren]

open starter with: winifred and anyone! location: café do paço time: early evening

Winifred sat, pale-faced aside from some well-placed rouge, her nails bitten down as far as they could go. A cup of cocoa sat in front of her, only a few sips taken, and any heat that it once held had long since disappeared. The idea that a soldier from Cardiff had not only been implicated in the Reckoning, but was assassinated? It was horrible. And that wasn’t even considering those damn letters. Millions of questions raced in her mind as she stared blankly into the courtyard. Was there something she could have done to prevent it? Is it possible her brother was at all attached to Kaiden- or could Kaiden have had something to do with her brother’s death? And at top of her mind: could she, as the ruler of Cardiff, be implicated in any of this? Was there a chance she’d lose her head? Was someone coming for her, and could she suffer the same fate as Carwyn?

Her train of thought was promptly derailed by another sitting next to her. She jumped at the sound and forced out a self-deprecating laugh. “You’ve caught me rather wrapped up in my own thoughts,” she said, clearing her throat and throwing on a more welcoming expression. She lifted the cup of cocoa to her lips, fighting the urge to recoil at its unexpected tepidness. “Feels a bit morbid to be enjoying something so sweet, after such a horrible event. But perhaps we deserve a little sweetness, now more than ever, no?" She hummed to herself and nodded in agreement to her own statement. "I think we deserve it.” Her tone was flirtatious, for some reason. Perhaps it was her shield of choice, tonight. After all, it was hard to talk about “feelings” when the lips were otherwise occupied.

[zackastor]

open starter

location: Lake on the Beckett Farm

Every morning like clockwork, Zack went for a swim. Military had drilled discipline into him, and that discipline wasn't going to go away just because you returned to civilized society. It was still pretty quiet in this part of Redwood, not a lot of people out and about and not a lot of people living around these parts of the settlement.

The water was pretty cold, the night having cooled down everything, but it was just what Zack needed to get his body going proper. The feeling of not being able to breathe, cold pressing in on him the first time he let himself sink below the darkened surface of the water. His body slowly warming up as he began swimming, every fiber of his being filled with energy.

Just that this morning, he wasn't quite alone. It was Rex who noticed them. Zack let his German Shepherd roam freely in the mornings, which the dog normally used to race around the shore, sniffing and doing whatever dogs did. Just that when this morning Zack climbed out of the water, he saw Rex standing near the shore, teeth bared, growling and barking at a figure among the reeds.

"Rex, down." Zack called out, and the dog oblidged, lowering itself into the grass, eyes still fixed on whoever was there. Zack narrowed his eyes as he made his way over to whoever it was. "Sorry 'bout that. Rex gets a little territorial. He won't hurt ya, though." Zack put on a somewhat friendly smile, though it didn't quite yet reach his eyes. "Didn't your parents teach ya it's rude to stare?"