#* ( in character. )

[warspun]

her home seems designed for more than just her,  yet really it seems like she’s the only one living here. he hadn’t seen a ring on her finger,  a good sign,  not that it would’ve stopped him really. the logical conclusion,  an absent father. something of which has experience with,  mentally absent and physically absent.  he’s suffered through both,  though the physically absent had been his doing and for a second there it had looked like he would’ve had to run back to him for help had things not played out the way they had. surprisingly,  when that time had come he hadn’t returned back to him.  instead, like the universe was not working against him for once, another man had stepped up.  a man he owes his extended life to.  leon holds his curious tongue though,  he didn’t come here to discuss her living or family situation.

nor does he want to ruin this moment,  because frankly he doesn’t want to talk about his own situation despite how monumentally better it is from just a simple decade prior.  he had been dying,  but now he was the picture-perfect form of his species and of humans.  however, there’s not making up with his late father,   no closure for himself.  that trauma will stay with him for the rest of his life,  unsure of really how to recover from it  ⸻  almost worse than the nature of war,  almost worse than serving in europe,  almost.  she gazes at him as if he’d put the sun in the sky and he doesn’t want that gaze to turn sour.  plus its really none of his business so he’ll bask in this instead.    “shhhh...” he replies, letting his thumb brush over her lips,  “you don’t need to think about that…  about what would’ve happened,  focus on what did happen.”  on what was happening now,   something he had told himself during much of the war,  focus on what you can control.

her lips part and thumb moves graciously back to her cheek.  the pattering of her rapid heart-beat is something he can’t ignore.  it’s a familiar beating he hears, one of the things he’s still learning to tune out from his enhanced hearing.  but it fills him with a sense of pride,  because he’s the one increased her heart-rate,  making her blood warmer underneath the skin.   “maritza,”  he echoes back,  “maritza guerrero.”  pause,  “guerrero,  I know that name.  oh.  so you’re that maritza.  heard about you from your old man.”  so that’s whose house he was currently standing in.  makes sense,  only one run-in with her father but the names are hard to forget.  “he didn’t mention what a beautiful young woman you are.”  lips purse,   “captain vought,” he answered plainly,  “I would offer my name miss but then I’d have to kill you.”  only one person besides himself knew his real name,  and now it’s something vought needs to keep hush-hush, as much as he wanted to tell her his real name.  to take his mask off,  was not out of the question though.  his helmeted head cocked, feeling a warm pleasant buzz at the sound of her finger outlining the bottom rim of his helmet.  reluctantly he pulls his hand away from her face,  his other one also rising to take hold of either side of his helmet and pulling it off.  his body stayed inches from hers. his helmet hair that has grown out a bit flops out.

ㅤㅤmost of maritza's bright life had been spent in the dark. gender rendered her untrustworthy in her father's eyes, even more so after the tragic and untimely passing of her mother and older brother. he'd come back from the war a changed man, but their deaths had only furthered his change, and now they hardly spoke. he sends letters, dotes on her from afar, but he never mentions work. all maritza knows is that the return-address kept changing, and so she never knows where her father truly is, but she was smart enough to know that his government job meant that he was of some level of importance. if only he'd tell her what. maybe then she would have some leads to follow on her own botched attempt at figuring out what happened on that fateful night. he didn't like to talk about that, either. he kept his secrets, and so she kept her own.

ㅤㅤit was hard to look on with anything but admiration as he answered, glossy petals agape whilst she gazed up at her hero. he was so handsome, quite literally built like the gods his powers threatened to upset; with a jaw so defined that she wanted to reach out and touch it. she'd seen him on the tv's at the diner, but the real thing has her weak in the knees... and his voice was so strong, so captivating, that she finds herself nodding along, agreeing to pretty much everything that came out of his mouth — science be damned. " it's more like the right place, right time if you ask me, mister. if it wasn't for you... " voice trailed off, gentle hold tightening as her fingers squeezed at his biceps, heart racing from both adrenaline and attraction as she buried her fears of the what if's in favour of focusing on what is somehow now her crazy reality. a mundane waitress with a real-life superhero, right here, in her own home.

ㅤㅤplump petals parted to speak, to sing more praise to his strength, but she found herself frozen in place; heart leaping into her throat when his gloved palm but bare fingers cradled her soft, rosy cheek. the hand against his bicep shifted some, snaking underneath his to rest against his armoured chest. could only imagine how it would feel to have his real muscles beneath her palm rather than his charming suit. her other hand was gripping onto the fabric of her skirt, thumb grinding against the fabric as she tries to play it cool. " my name's maritza, maritza guerrero. " surname is spoken with a sense of pride, more for her families memory than her father's work. " soldier boy— or do you prefer captain vaught? i'd ask your real name, but i bet you're not allowed to tell... " the hand in her skirt lifts, soft and perfectly manicured fingers gently tracing along the outline of his mask — pearly whites briefly toying with her bottom lip as she builds up the courage to ask. " are you allowed to take the mask off? i'd like to get a proper look at my saviour, if that's alright. "

[shigayokagayama]

RAAAAAAAA SERIREI SWEEP

[scrletrot]

𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐂𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑, 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐀 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃. though, she always warned the avengers that if she were to cook ... it would be foods from her home, food her mother used to make when she was a child. sokovian comfort food. as long as she had no objections from anyone, a quick store trip around the city usually yielded whatever was needed for the night. & that's what she's going when steve enters, when he inquires of what she was cooking. a pot full of a dark, simmering strew filled with various different vegetables inside. the smell of it filled the kitchen, that & the gentle noise of slower music playing in the background.

@apologizelater asked, " DANCE WITH ME ? "

green eyes had lifted in surprise when he asked, a brow raises as hand continued to manually stir the content of the pot. mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. then, her wrist is being grasped as steve goes to tug her away from the stove, from the island. ❛ steve- ... no, no. the food will burn ! ❜ despite her protests, wanda smiles & allows him to lead her into the space between kitchen & living. free hand out stretches for magic, extended from herself, can shoot out to magically lower the temperature of the stove. to keep the spoon stirring the stew. eyes return to steve just as hand rests on her waist & other hand takes her free one, ❛ if the strew burns, i'll be sure to let everyone know it was you. ❜ wanda chuckles.

[harpersoath]

"repeated threats of murder will get you scruffed and put in air jail."

it's just a polite reminder. not to any specific tail having, cowboy hat wearing bhaalspawn in particular, of course. just a general friendly reminder.

[lunarsprincess]

Setting Prompt 007 @stories-from-the-warp

SETTING PROMPT 007: the ruins of an ancient structure lost to time.

❝ Through me... Is the way to the city of woe. Through me... Is the way to sorrow eternal. Through me is the way to the lost below. Abandon... ❞

The Princess' hands are smeared in dirt, gravel stuck between each finger and in the folds of her red palm. It had taken the better part of five minutes to clear the cellar hatch well enough to read, and another five before that to pull the corpses off it. Her tongue moves in guttural clicks and pops, faithfully repeating the inscription in its original dialect: the extinct language of an extinct people, the first colonists of Bela Tegeuse.

It left a bitter taste. She corrects it with a candy. And another. And perhaps one more. Switching to her cleaner hand, she sulkily licks off the sugar as she continues reading.

Even now, when she could no longer remember what age they built this temple before she consigned them both to the fire, the disappointment of having her own creation used for the compliments of Slaanesh lingered —— now, it festered into anger. How could it not? Yet another crop of obscene idiots had sung princely praises in her words, had writhed in that creature's name, and yet again, it had been her chore to send them to their master.

So lost is she in her poetry, she does not notice @stories-from-the-warp is stood behind her until her eyes fall to the last sentence, a candelit shadow upon the floor overlapping her own crouched one. The shock is palpable; she blushes, refusing to turn her head out of sheer shyness, and stretches out her bag of candy.

❝ Ah! My apologies! If I had known I had an audience, I would have read it in Low Gothic... Please, help yourself to a treat... Ahh, how rude of me... ❞

[thethirdlotusprince]

Sir, respectfully, you sound like you got hit by a bus

Im not neaf sny steests

No bus cam hit me

[tempusde]

IT TOOK YEARS OF STUDY TO GET HERE. agatha couldn't say how many - time is a strange, liquid thing, a concoction of mortals' to judge the lines of their existence by, a lens through which to sort the vastness of the multiverse into categories. as she has studied and learned and understood, she has come to the realisation that nothing is so simple. the flow of it slips through her charred fingers like water, and she lets it go.

distance is useful, even as she is in the throes of her plan to correct it.

here, incidentally, is the following place: a small suburban town, somewhere in the northeastern united states. a universe that is not her own, but is similar enough. a home that is also a prison. [ this is not something that has happened to her yet, or possibly ever will. she looks at herself, brought so low, made so small, and the dark thing sharing space in her chest roars. she is angry, too. she would be no matter the circumstance. ]

" what happened to you, my dear? " there is something of the roar in her inflection, a low, growling danger - blackened claws trace the line of her other self's jaw, already charting vengeance. that is to say: who do we need to kill?

plotted starter / @wcrpbubble.

[greenmther]

𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐎𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐘 𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐆𝐎𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋 𝐒𝐎 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐄, to act less than her age. mature by her fathers idea, but she didn't often feel so on the inside. not when she was with rhaenyra, the closest person to her . . her best friend . . the young woman whom she had known for as long as she could remember & whom had some special part of her heart. ( today, the pair had taken a day for themselves . . . no council meetings, no visits to syrax, not other pressing matters. just them spending the afternoon together on the beach this time just outside of the keep. ) alicent with hands gathering light blue skirts between fingers allowing waves to crash against her feet. the damp, salty air has made the fringe of her hair wet & salt tastes in her mouth every time she breaths inward. the moment had been peaceful until alicent gasps at cold sea water being flicked against her face--head turns, smile pressing to lips while shouting, ❛ rhaenyra ! that's cold ! ❜

【 ✧ @perzonye liked for a starter ! 】

[islandiis]

[ he's reappearing after. a very long time. with his arms full of an ungodly amount of vegetables. ] [ he's looking very sheepish. ]

...hello. [ please take some cabbages from him. please. ]

[warspun]

🌡️Temperature!   iPhone needs to cool down before you can use it “useless piece of shit.” dean mutters letting the damn thing fall to the dirty motel floor over the door of the mini fridge.  he’s bare-foot, sitting with his head resting against the cabinet,  long passed caring about the suspicious looking stains on the ratty carpet because it’s just too hot   ⸻  too hot to wear much of anything for that matter.  the only he’s left in are his boxer briefs and even they’re soaked with sweat. risking a glance to @peacespun who is faring just about the same as him:  fucking miserable.  of course the one place they decide to stop at has air conditioning that’s busted.  would’ve been a nice warning before they’d actually paid for the room.   “hey,”  dean clears his throat,  watching a bead of sweat roll down the back of his foot.  “I think they’re selling bags of ice next door at that gas station.”

[offrikter]

one of his most trusted had brought to his attention the radio broadcast--- lay blame to the raiders because it's the easier explanation that believing one of their own could've betrayed them. how do they think rikter has stayed in power for as long as he has, because his trust only stretches so far. it was only a matter of time until they pointed the finger in his direction, though it wasn't a smart play, destroy a community that has been aiding them albeit somewhat against their will. and if it was one of his own agents well he'd deal with it; it being the problem of disobedience. for now it was another of his crowd coming to him to suggest a raid into the danger zone. it wasn't going to be a sanctioned raid, he's not going to send his best to the slaughter, at least not the ones whose stealth wasn't their forte. “alright,” he waves them off, “but only what you need, and if you pick up any strays along the way I want to see them before we can accept them.” not that he would turn away anyone that could handle what happened, not that he'd turn away anyone that would be useful. it was his way of knowing the faces among his group, have to be a good leader that way. make it personal, make it his business as well to know them.

there were two in particular, siblings he could only determine because they looked alive, he hopes make it out alive. he'd said his goodbyes, told everyone to get back to work, but that only an hour ago, as the lighting struck in the distance over the crescent apartments. this was bad, the source of food from the ground, well the bigger one. the marina had fish, but the vegetables, the fruit. it's time for a plan of action for that, for the end of winter he thinks. he rubs at his temples, he does not want to brave this storm. the cold makes his bones ache. so instead he sets out on a different endeavor, space for himself. no way he could go back to sleep during this, but instead he heads out, weaving between the boats out by the docks, to perch himself at the end. his fingers twirl his wedding band he isn't even confident on the reason why he's still wearing it after all this time. a presence is heard behind him, “I didn't come out here for conversation.”

[scrletrot]

𝐖𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐖 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓 𝐀𝐓 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓, 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐅𝐔𝐋, 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐂𝐎𝐌. it was easy for her to drive through town undetected, everyone tucked into their houses like when she had control over them. ( if it had been day time, wanda assumes she would've been run out of a town like a witch hunt. this was better, safer, & she had no intent in disturbing their lives, hurting them, anymore. just one ... one she needed, the only one left in her spell. ) a cruel denial of bodily autonomy, of identity. to be trapped in her own mind where she'd reside until wanda needed her or felt like releasing her---not her proudest moment yet perhaps they could be considered even now ? as easy as it was to drive into town, it was easier to unlock the police departments front door with a single movement of red, magic twined fingers. hand grasps the door of agatha agnes's office, eyes settling on her after so long with a ball in her stomach. expecting the suspision, the startle, wanda raises a hand & speaks: ❛ everything's okay, agnes. ❜ she'd have no choice but to believe her, ❛ i'm not here to hurt you. sit. ❜

﹙ ✦ @tempusde liked for a starter ! ﹚

[impinged]

You're pouting. You are not a wizard!! This isn't a costume!!!!!! Who said 'wizards' owned the style choice of a nice pointy hat anyway?! Sure you can, technically, 'cast magic' but that's beside the point!!! If you're anything, you're your party's rogue!!!!!

[deaith]

the light of the campfire flickers and dims incessantly as the flames slowly but surely die of their own accord, unattended and unfed by the distracted party, the too-dark of the world around them seeming even darker by the shadows thrown by it. the night is quiet, foreboding, clouded with a static sense of dread. for a creature like rýsir, such things are typical, normal, welcomed. the same cannot be said for his unlikely companion.

@proditeur's skin is warm against rýsir's palm, all hot flesh and running blood and too-many veins (all vulnerable and on display), his heart-thrum a tempting familiarity that he ignores and forgoes for the time being, gyryth all too focused on the more important task that rests in his hands. his body is burning, his soul incandescent - a bleeding fissure in the known fabric of things, gushing and filling and overflowing with raw and scaling magic. regulus' very presence is music to rýsir's ears, the taste of his soul's blood still sticking to his tongue and teeth like some savory and irresistible thing. he can feel him cracking at the seams now, and rýsir knows he burns in this moment not because of the fire at their sides, but the magic that eats him alive from inside. eats him. what a curious thing.

hand cups one side of the sorcerer's neck, as if he is a friend instead of a near-stranger, one that rýsir has not taken pity on but rather has found a convenient use for. rare is it that he eats so regularly, yet regulus, with his bizarre predicament, offers a temporary and satisfying solution. his teeth are on the cusp of sinking into the soft of regulus' neck, lips nearly grazing the pulse-point, ready to bite, bite, bite. and then regulus speaks, and rýsir is not too distracted nor too hungry to not pull back, to listen.

" that's not proper etiquette. "

" and what is proper etiquette, alyima? " is the snap-quick response, rýsir's clawed thumb pressing oh, so lightly against that pliant and vulnerable spot just beneath regulus' jaw, where all it would take is a swift and precise jab to claw the underside of his tongue. there is a pause, short and noncommittal, before the gyryth eases his grip, shifts the pressure from talon to finger-pad, and moves his face just that much closer to regulus' own. he is going to bite, sooner rather than later. his hunger is a tangible, insatiable thing; this, regulus knows.

" would you like me to bring you wine first, and feed you with my hands? " tail swishes and shifts upon the earth, and despite the suddenly cooing tone of his words, there is a note of appalled condescension in the slight lilt of his voice. he inches closer, and though he does not tighten his hold on the hollow's neck, the way in which he slowly and gently runs his thumb against the other's adam's apple is threat enough. " should i find you a nice, expensive bed with nice, expensive sheets, so they may cushion you and hold you when you faint? " rýsir moves closer, sighing against regulus' cheek, speaking into his ear: " do you want me to tell you it will be okay? "

proper etiquette. what proper etiquette is there when you are dying? when the you that exists, has existed, is dying? what niceties and polite courtings can be offered when your very identity and self thrive on nothing but smoke, when even mayflies seem to have more fulfilling and promising lifespans than you? something like a growl rises in rýsir's throat, irritation ringing clear - not so much so as a result of regulus being difficult and denying him a quick and easy meal, but because he cannot begin to understand what the point in waiting is. rip the bandage off, tear the scab, let yourself bleed and get it all over with until it's time to do it again.

" you run on borrowed time, princeling, and right now, you are beginning to split. you may not have time for etiquette - much less all of this talking. "

[thethirdlotusprince]

It's happened twice now. I've been told that what I am currently and have experienced isn't... right.

I am currently 'grounded.' I'm not being made to work during this time, which is relaxing. I'm even being fed this time, three meals a day. I haven't been given a task to complete so I can be forgiven, though I do wish to write a letter to the person I lunged at.

Yet even though I've told them this, they are saying I've been... tortured. Which I can't understand.