#❰ ･ﾟ Ⅻ. ― ASKS. Macbeth. ❱

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💬 + Macbeth stole his carpet from a cave in a far away desert !!

Send 💬 + a rumor // accepting

"Actually, I killed a man for it."

And he would do it again.

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this is my expression whenever my coworkers say something Stupid

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Juvia is crouching, feeding the cats far too many treats, once again. And with Macbeth’s looming presence, she turns to him. “Do you want one too?” She gives the bag of cat treats a shake. It’s only a jest; after all, Macbeth is the honourary house-cat. / from juvia, disaster roommate ☺️

Ah, he’d been wondering where the cats had disappeared to. And there they were. Surrounding Juvia like she was some sort of cat magnet (holding onto treats did tend to have that effect after all).

The white Maine Coon (The Great Beast as he referred to her as, or Moon Moon as she was unfortunately, technically called) nudged her face against Juvia’s knee, while the small black cat, Onyx, balanced on hind legs to gently rest a paw on her and try to reach the bag of treats. The bribery was shameless.

He crossed his arms and watched in silent judgement, crimson eyes narrowing at her question, signalling his lack of amusement. Lucy and Juvia (along with the other visitors they had) tended to draw certain similarities between himself and the felines. He could see it, and didn’t mind it really, truth be told, but he couldn’t let them know that. Besides, he’d rather be known to them as something far more annoying.

“No,” he said, after a moment of deliberate, long silence.

With great and slow purpose, he unfolded his arms so that he could slip a hand into the back pocket of his pants. He withdrew a small bag that Juvia might just recognise as the chocolates she had brought earlier. “I’ve already got my own.” A smirk tugged lightly at the corner of his lips as he shook the bag at her.

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[ patch ] sender carefully patches one of receiver's wounds / beth

[ 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄 ] -- 𝑛𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑐𝑐𝑒𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔

A lull in the war. A brief respite between battles. A chance to regroup and tend to wounds. With everything that had been going on, he’d found himself separated from his usual comrades, a fact that unsettled him more than he’d like to admit. Perhaps if he’d had one of them near, it could have been them that helped him now (or at the very least, their presence could have been reassuring), instead of the blonde Fairy.

Despite the urge to move away from her, he kept still, even preventing himself from showing distaste at her proximity (for truly, the injury was less uncomfortable to him than sharing his personal space). He kept wary crimson eyes on her as she worked, studying her face and own visible injuries. His gaze shifted to the wound on his arm, which held her attention currently, and he watched as she cleaned it.

Her ministrations were gentle, yet efficient, allowing him to hope the process would be finished soon. Perhaps once she was done, he would look for his guildmates and see how they had fared thus far. The trouble was, he didn’t know where to look.

For the first time since she had offered to help him, he spoke.

“Do you know where Sorano is? Or any of them?”

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The silence continued to stretch out between them, making itself comfortable. This was all fine with Zilla, who was relaxed behind her owl mask. Macbeth was a former criminal but there were some of those in Raven Tail so she didn’t balk much at that. Or at all. Then, an idea popped into her head and she reached into her pockets for her pencil and sketchbook — she always kept them close within her jacket pocket. “Excuse me, Macbeth, but do you mind of I draw you? I wish to draw this moment.”

@shadowqueens

It was surprisingly rare, in his experience, to find someone that didn’t feel the need to fill silences, who didn’t make the air crackle with unspoken emotion, and who didn’t display loud body language or unnecessary movement. Zilla’s presence, he’d decided, was okay by him. She was quiet. Peaceful. In fact, neither of them had spoken a word in quite some time and it was hardly noticeable, certainly not uncomfortable.

He rested with his arms folded and his eyes closed, mind playing a familiar game of visualising his surroundings as he enjoyed the light breeze around them. Raven Tail. An interesting guild. While he wasn’t entirely sure why the council had placed him there for the time being, he found it made a rather nice change from the usual guild he was forced to integrate himself with, Sabertooth. He contemplated their differences, and the potential meanings behind his presence here now, but such thoughts paused as his current companion spoke up.

Draw him? He opened one eye in curiosity, noting the sketchbook and pencil in Zilla’s hands. He turned the request over in his mind for a moment as he closed his eye again, then gave a small nod in response. “You have to show me once it’s finished,” he stipulated. He had quite an interest in drawing too, after all.

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💖 hugs for macbby boo✨

/ from seraphias

Send 💖 for my muse to give yours a hug (or yours to hug mine) // accepting

@seraphias

The scenario reminded him of past experiments he’d seen (and done), with watchful eyes observing the introduction of two creatures into the same environment. Except…in this case, it was himself and Sorano as the creatures, and the eyes watching them were not alight with some sort of scientific curiosity, but wariness. The council didn’t like any former members of Crime Sorciere reuniting after all, especially not those that had been part of the Oracion Seis. It had taken many months of ‘good behaviour’ to allow such a chance now. A fact which burned him in such a way that it threatened to reignite his old ways.

His hands slowly clenched at his sides as he waited in the room, the unfamiliar urge to pace bubbling within him. Movement then immediately drew his attention to across the room, crimson eyes focusing on the door that opened and the figures that entered. Accompanied by a pair of guards (who were frustratingly unnecessary, in his opinion, given the magical limiters in use), Sorano moved further into the room.

Something shifted in his chest at the sight of her. He stared intently, assessing any minute change in her, noting the length of her hair, and there was something different about her face, he thought, a touch of softness perhaps. Satisfied that not too much had changed, tension eased from his shoulders. His usually detached or uninterested expression altered with the rare hint of a smile, cool eyes warming enough to match the nature of their colour.

“Sorano…” Her name fell softly between them, yet held a measure of relief that was strong enough to be palpable to those who knew him well. And she knew him well indeed.

He didn’t need to step towards her, as she was already moving. Her arms came around his waist in but a moment, tight, secure, her head resting against his chest. There was no time lost before he returned the embrace, wrapping his arms around her, his head lowering to rest in the crook of her neck. A certain tightness settled within him, and he knew it was not due to the hug itself.

Almost in contradiction to such a feeling, and in contrast to his vice-like hold on her, a peculiar peace soothed the edges of his being, relaxing the coiled tension he held within himself. Soaking in such a feeling, in the familiarity of her warmth, her scent, her very presence, he was not inclined to release her anytime soon and would be reluctant to do so even if she let him go now.

He'd often heard it said that home could be a person, and he knew in that moment that it was true.

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" Your mannerisms make me think of something. " He pondered for a second, looking straight at Midnight. " A cat. You're like a cat. " A statement completely said out of the blue. // for Midnight : )

Crimson eyes flicked up, finding the speaker and awarding him with consideration of his words.

A cat?

He tilted his head slightly and turned the idea over in his mind. Cats were one of his preferred creatures. They were agile and nimble ( most of the time ), with the tendency to land on their feet, and they were independent. They tended to do things on their own terms and follow their own path. There were certainly worse things to be compared to.

It was curious...did he really come across like a cat? He mused about it as he sent a glass tumbling from the table with a deliberate ( but not malicious ) push, simply for the fun of it.

He let the silence sit for a moment before giving his response, words he never thought he'd ever direct at Jellal of all people.

"Thank you."

Even if the comment had not been a compliment, he would take it as such.

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“123 movies got me again...” Lina sheepishly handed over her laptop. Maybe she should get a new one at this point (it was 8 years old now) but where would she be without walking into this shop every now and then with it? Other times she just visited with gifts. Speaking of! Lina went into her purse and pulled out some good ‘ol chocolate syrup. “And here is some tip!” Bright smile, Lina—bright smile. Maybe he won’t kill her.

He was going to kill her.

Well, that was until she pulled out the chocolate syrup anyway. She knew his weakness for chocolate, damn it.

He shifted his hold on the laptop in order to take the treat, a sigh heavy on his lips as he stared at her with narrowed eyes. How many times had he fixed her cursed laptop now? He’d lost count. Yes, it was his job and he was getting paid for it but, he certainly felt like he deserved a pay rise for dealing with this repeated ( and frustrating ) situation. They could call it the Lina Bonus™ or something.

“Evangeline.” He used her full name like a punishment and let the moment drag for an uncomfortably long time. Then, finally – “One day I’m not going to be able to fix this relic, you know.”

That day was far off, he knew, but she didn’t, and so he hoped she would at least make more of an effort to be careful.

"Do I need to permanently block you from accessing such sites?"

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'so is this... natural?' sting proceeds to touch HIS hair. :)

Almost as instantly and seamlessly as his Reflector magic could knock away a magical attack, Macbeth knocked away Sting’s hand, the action accompanied by a glare and momentary snap and baring of teeth.

The discomfort and distaste for contact ran down his spine and spread across his skin, unsettling him as if he were a cat with its fur rubbed the wrong way. It took a moment for him to calm himself (sudden touch tended to cause a spike of murderous instincts), his body shifting back slightly and his eyes fixing warily on Sting.

“As natural as your stupidity.”

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‘RISE & GRIND, SUNSHINE ! it’s time to go to work !’

Surprisingly, Macbeth had a few luxuries in life now, all thanks to the deal surrounding his pardon. The council-funded unit he lived in was one of those luxuries, though it was certainly nothing fancy, just a simple and tidy space containing the bare minimum. The bed within said unit was a comfort he enjoyed most however, and was where he was currently bundled in a half-asleep state.

The choice of who had access to the unit was a luxury he did not have, unfortunately.

Hence, the, now too familiar, voice of Sting Eucliffe came charging through the small area just a moment before the dragon slayer himself threw open the bedroom door.

Macbeth, barely visible beneath a pile of blankets, cracked an eye open to pin him with an irritated look. “You’re early.”

And full of far too much energy.

That would just have to change, now, wouldn’t it?

Knowing he would be dragged from the warmth of his bed in one way or another, Macbeth decided to leave it on his own terms. He tossed the blankets aside, eyes fixed on Sting all the while, and reluctantly got up. With sharp motions, he snatched clean clothes and began to get dressed, and whether Sting left or not made no difference to him. He had long decided he would not let the forced company have too much influence over him. Though, the influence over his morning routine and sleep seemed to be something he couldn’t yet prevent.

The urge for revenge burned softly in his chest as he moved with Sting through the apartment, mind churning. Ah. An idea.

It was true that Sting’s magic allowed him to easily sense and dispel illusions, however, that didn’t mean they weren’t at all effective, just that they wouldn’t work for long on him. Macbeth had learnt over his years as an illusion mage, that sometimes the smallest illusion worked the best, which was all the more useful due to the fact he could only access a fraction of his magic at the moment. But only a fraction was needed for some illusions.

Such as moving the appearance of objects over just enough to cause missteps and trouble in the attempt to avoid collisions.

Or making doors appear to be open, when in fact they were shut tight.

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"Did you sleep okay, Midnight? You look like shit. Want me to fix your hair for you?" / she has chosen death

Sleep okay? He responded with a slight scoff and narrowed eyes at her comment and offer.  

“No rest for the wicked, as they say.”

It crossed his mind to remark upon her own appearance, just to rile her, but he dismissed it as too much effort for the moment.

Idly, he picked up the braid resting alongside his neck and brushed the end of it over his thumb. The thought of anyone getting near his hair would ordinarily have him filled with displeasure, but for the moment, considering it was Mary and she hadn’t outright invaded his space yet, he eyed her with curiosity and wariness instead of disgust.

It had been some time since he had allowed anyone to touch his hair, did he even remember what that was like?

“I suppose so...” he said after a moment, “But if I don’t like it, things won’t go well for you.”