#one of those perpetually concerned looking cats

[l1ve-l4ugh-lov3craft]

I Have More Rosekiller Fake Dating AU

a continuation of this drabble ( @dairekt-cat there's another)

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They ended up agreeing to all meet at the venue separately and go over the “plan of attack,”  as Barty had very cleverly called it, before going in. Regulus was the only one there when Barty arrived, which served him just fine. He flashed him a grin and a couple finger guns for good measure as he sauntered over, which Regulus promptly rejected with a scowl.

“You can’t be acting like that while we’re in there,” he said the moment Barty was in earshot. So much for friendly greetings.

“‘Hi, Barty. How are you, Barty?” Barty replied loudly, “You look so hot and sexy in that suit, Barty. Did you steal your father’s credit card to buy it?’ Why yes, Reg, I did. Thanks for asking. How are y-”

“Yes, yes, okay I hear you.” Regulus elbowed him hard enough to make Barty stumble back a bit.

Barty was still snickering under his breath as he straightened and scanned their near surroundings. Lots of expensive looking people in expensive looking outfits with expensive looking expressions of passive tolerance slowly filing into the gala venue. No sign of Pandora Rosier or the asshole who insulted his tattoo work last week, which was all well and good as far as Barty was concerned. Might be nice to slip in, swipe some of the fancy booze, and then be able to just dip and leave Regulus to deal with the upper-class as he did best.

“Think your mum will be terribly pissed if you get stood up tonight?” He asked, eyes still flitting over the clusters of people still arriving.

Regulus crossed his arms, “I am not going to be stood up.” He said.

Barty felt his face pinch rather against his own will. It was - he looked at his watch - three minutes until seven. And neither of the Rosier twins were anywhere in sight. Not exactly standup odds, but who was he to deny Regulus his delusions?

“You keep telling yourself that, buddy. But if they don’t show, just know that I’m absolutely gonna-”

Barty needed to study the uncanny accuracy of that ‘speak of the devil and he shall appear’ saying. Because not two fucking seconds after the words came out of his moth, who should show up in all their pasty, bleach-blonde glory?

Alright, fine. That was a bit harsh. Pandora Rosier was, admittedly, a rather beautiful young woman. She held herself with confidence and grace, and she had a sort of perpetual soft smile on her face that made you think she knew something you didn’t at all times. She had on a lacy, sage green ball gown type dress that Barty felt like one wouldn’t typically see at 21st century events like this and he nodded appreciatively at her ability to not give a single fuck. Subtly of course. Heaven forbid he appear like he was having positive feelings about anything related to this situation.

And Evan was…Well, sue Barty but he was hot, okay?? In, like, an asshole type of way where you looked at him and it just made you angry cos no one who was that much of a dick should look that good. He had fucking crystals braided into his hair. Who did that? And why did it look so good and bring out the flecks of blue in his eyes so well? Barty wanted to strangle him. Really.

Pandora smiled kindly when the two of them stopped in front of Regulus, and Barty was surprised to watch as she took even one step closer to pull his friend into a hug. He was practically balking when Regulus returned the hug in kind. Asshole. Regulus never hugged him. 

“It’s wonderful to see you, Regulus,” Pandora smiled, then she turned to Barty, “You must be Barty. It’s a pleasure!”

He nodded and took her hand when she offered it, but in less of a handshake way and more of a…she held his hand and squeezed it in a sort of friendly…sisterly way. It was weird, and he didn’t hate it. 

Then he looked past Pandora and his gaze met Evans and...yikes. Lots of personality and warmth in those eyes. Yeesh. The dude looked like he was a thousand miles away and had generic, pre-programmed responses for every possible conversation scenario ready to auto-play when needed. This was going to be fun. He wasn’t particularly inclined to try civility, but he figured if he was gonna be around this bloke all night he might as well at least attempt to be nice.

He put on a smile and stuck out his hand, “So, seems we’re stuck together tonight, eh? Name’s B-”

“I know who you are.” Evan cut in, neither letting him finish nor taking his hand.

‘Well fuck you, too. Asshole.’

“Evan,” Barty heard Pandora hiss.

It was fine. Barty could play this game too.

“You would, wouldn’t you?” He asked, “Had a lot of fun in my chair the other day, huh? Don’t think anyone ever really forgets their first bl-”

“Barty,” it was Regulus’ turn to snap. Barty scowled at him but dropped it. 

“We should go inside,” Pandora suggested, her voice a bit tight, “The gala should be starting soon.”

She tucked her hand into Regulus’ arm and let him lead her through the front doors, leaving Evan still outside with Barty. Eyes narrowed, he gave him a final once-over. Nice suit. Black with deep crimson roses embroidered on the lapels and cuffs. He was pretty sure the cufflinks were roses as well. A bit on the nose all things considered, but it was nicely tailored, clearly expensive, and it did look good on him. 

He made sure Evan noticed the way his eyes fell to the embroidery on his lapels before looking up at him with a smirk, “Hah. Rosie.”

Evan’s reply was immediate, “Do not call me that.”

“I’m gonna call you that.”

“Fuck you.”

Barty grinned, tucking himself dramatically into Evan’s side as they followed after Regulus and Pandora, “Oh you wish, sweetheart. You wish.”

[the-spam-specialist]

If you’re still doing Drabble requests: can you have Caine being egged on by Jax to do something chaotic/violent when surprisingly he agrees! The twist however- Caine turns it wholesome leaving Jax disappointed.

Example: Jax gets him to make a monster (cat?) NPC hopping for destruction but Caine makes it cuddly idk

There is only one direction for me to take this idea in

Unleash the Swarm

Characters: Everyone

Word Count: 1100-ish

Caine, with his perpetually grinning dentures and wide, curious eyeballs, drifted through the vibrant chaos of the digital circus tent. He hummed a cheerful little tune, his body floating just an inch or two above the ground as he surveyed his domain. Everything seemed normal. Pleasantly, digitally normal. But normal wasn't always exciting, was it? Especially in a place designed to obliterate the very concept of normalcy.

Suddenly, a long, purple limb shot out, snagging Caine by his collar. He yelped in surprise, spinning around to face the grinning face of Jax. The rabbit’s pink overalls seemed to glow in the neon light, and his eternally amused eyes sparkled with mischief.

“Hey there, Dentures. We need to talk,” Jax said with a sly grin.

Caine, ever the gracious host, didn’t take offense, “Jax! Hello! Is everything alright? Did you need something?”

“Need something? Nah. But I did notice something,” Jax drawled, tapping a finger against his chin in faux contemplation. “It’s a little…dull around here, wouldn’t you say? Bit…predictable. Like watching Kinger try and remember what day it is. Which, by the way, is always hilarious.”

Caine tilted his head, his eyeballs swiveling independently to look at Jax, then back towards the general circus area. He did take pride in providing a stimulating environment. Were things actually becoming…boring? The very idea was anathema to him! 

“Boring?” Caine echoed, a touch of genuine concern creeping into his usually bright voice. “Do you really think so?”

Jax waved a dismissive hand, “I know so. You need to spice things up, Caine. Get the blood pumping! Figuratively, of course. We don’t actually have blood. Unless…do we?” Jax peered closer at Caine, a theatrically suspicious glint in his eyes.

Caine waved his hands, slightly flustered. “No blood! Definitely no blood! But, you're right, Jax! Excitement is key! What did you have in mind?” He was genuinely curious. Jax might be rude and self-centered, but occasionally, amidst the chaos he caused, there was a spark of…creativity? Or at least, a knack for generating interesting (if occasionally painful) situations.

Jax leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice to a stage whisper, “Think…wild. Think chaotic. Think…things that make Pomni scream.” He added the last part with a relish that made Caine twitch slightly. He did like seeing Pomni happy, not terrified, despite the jester’s predisposition to the latter.

Caine’s dentures clicked together as he pondered. Wild and chaotic. Hmmm…he wanted to liven things up, but he also wanted to make sure everyone had fun. Or at least, mostly fun. He snapped his fingers suddenly, his eyes widening. “I’ve got it! I have just the thing!”

“Oh yeah?” Jax’s ears perked up, wondering what Caine’s chaotic mind was cooking up. “Lay it on me.”

“Bees!” Caine announced proudly. “A swarm of bees! Everyone loves bees!” He bounced with enthusiasm, already picturing the delighted faces of his friends as they interacted with the tiny creatures.

Jax stared at him, for a moment. Then, a slow grin spread across his face. “A swarm of bees, eh? Sounds good to me. Go on, summon ‘em up! Don’t want them to be bored for too long, right?” He gestured grandly towards the lounge area, where everyone else was. 

Caine, beaming, took Jax’s encouragement literally. “Excellent idea, Jax! Right away!” He zoomed off towards the lounge, Jax trailing behind him. The rabbit smirked. Unleashing a swarm of bees onto all those poor suckers? Oh, this was gonna be good. 

“Everyone!” Caine’s voice boomed through the lounge, startling Pomni so badly she nearly jumped out of her seat. Ragatha looked up from her sewing, a kind smile on her ragdoll face, while Kinger blinked owlishly. Gangle looked up from her sketch pad and Zooble looked suspiciously at Jax. 

“I have a surprise for you all!” Caine announced, hovering in the center of the room, practically vibrating with excitement. He beamed at everyone, his dentures positively gleaming. Pomni eyed Jax lurking behind Caine with visible unease, her anxiety levels spiking. Ragatha, however, seemed intrigued.

“Oh? What is it, Caine?” Ragatha asked, her button eye twinkling with curiosity.

Caine paused for dramatic effect, then snapped his fingers with a flourish.

Instantly, a buzzing sound filled the air. Not a menacing buzz, but a gentle, comforting hum. From thin air, dozens, then hundreds, of tiny, fuzzy creatures materialized, filling the lounge with a golden, shimmering cloud.

Bumblebees.

Adorable, fluffy, utterly harmless bumblebees.

They weren’t aggressive, they weren’t stinging, they were simply… bumblebees. They gently bumped into furniture, lazily circled the room, and landed softly on anyone who remained still.

Ragatha gasped, her button eye widening in genuine delight. “Oh! They’re beautiful!” One landed gently on her extended palm. She cooed softly, her usual gentle voice filled with warmth. “Look at you, little one! Aren’t you just precious?”

Pomni, initially startled, cautiously peered at a bee that had landed on the armrest of the sofa. Her initial apprehension melted away as she observed it. It just sat there, calmly grooming its antennae with a tiny leg. A small, hesitant smile formed on her face, “Huh. They’re…kind of cute.”

Kinger’s eyes sparkled, “Bees! Real bees!” he exclaimed, his voice filled with wonder. “Or… digital bees! But still! Bees! I haven’t seen bees in…well, I can’t remember! But they’re wonderful!” He held out a trembling finger, and a bee obligingly landed on it, seemingly unfazed by the chess piece head looming above.

Zooble, surprisingly, seemed less opposed than usual. They watched the bees with a detached curiosity, their mismatched eyes blinking slowly. One bee, bolder than the rest, landed on one of Zooble’s geometric arms. Zooble didn’t flinch or shoo it away. They simply observed it. Huh. This was kinda neat. 

Gangle, her ribbon body swaying gently, reached out a delicate appendage, and a bee landed right on her hand. She didn’t say anything, but a small smile appeared on her mask. 

Caine, meanwhile, was beaming, his denture-head practically glowing with pride. He had a bee perched on his hat, and one on each shoulder, tiny fuzzy crowns for the digital ringmaster. “Aren’t they magnificent?” he declared, his voice ringing with genuine delight. “A swarm of delightful bumblebees! Just as you suggested, Jax! A truly wild and chaotic surprise!” 

Jax, however, was just standing there, his ears drooping slightly. The predatory grin had vanished, replaced by an expression of utter, monumental disappointment. He stared at the scene before him – the gentle buzzing, the cooing, the quiet wonder – with a look that could curdle digital milk.

He shook his head slowly, a low groan escaping his throat. Without a word, without even a sarcastic remark, Jax turned and walked away, disappearing into the distance, leaving behind a room filled with the gentle hum of happy bumblebees and a completely oblivious, utterly delighted Caine.

[underground-archives]

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Bbymutha via Instagram

Special Artist Spotlight: In Conversation with Bbymutha (Part 2/2)

Where we last left off, the Chattanooga-born rapper discussed some of the difficulties of being in the industry, like being boxed in by fans and dealing with all the nonsense that comes with social media.

Continuing down this train of thought, I ask Bbymutha to tell us what it was like for her during “the come up,” and whether things have changed.

The rapper says she started rapping “for fake” (her words) during the blog era - a sweet spot in the early digital era before the big labels were able to swoop in and claim authority. For a moment in time, what was “in” was dictated by ordinary people on the internet. Some big names got their renown from this era - think A$AP Rocky, Gucci Mane, Joey Bada$$, even Drake. This era took place before the time period covered on Underground-Archives, but it definitely deserves mentioning as a precursor to the modern internet era of music.

Mutha details the struggles of coming up as a female rapper at that time, reminiscing how producers wouldn’t want to give you a beat because you were a girl. However, she looks back on this era fondly too, because at the time, it was cool to be different. It seemed like that was the “thing” - everybody was trying to be different. Now, she feels female rap has become oversaturated and more “cookie cutter” since those days.

She is concerned that too many people get famous too quickly, and artists are looked at like trend cycles. It is dehumanizing and unsustainable.

“This person might not wanna be a rapper in 10 years” she states, to which I respond “they might not even wanna be a rapper now,” thinking about all the examples of people catapulted into accidental stardom through memes and viral moments.

“Right,” the rapper agrees, “they just wanna get some bread or get famous, or like…I don’t know.” 

Mutha also notes how the standards for female rappers specifically have increased since the days of her early career. She says it's refreshing to see artists like Doechii and Doja Cat giving it their all, stating that “When I was coming up the rap bitches was not giving RnB, Beyonce 8 counts and shit. The playing field has leveled up but at the same time the shit has also been watered down.” She notes that she gives it 100%, “but I’m not about to get up there and do choreography though” she laughs.

Somehow we have circled back to the idea of that perpetual obsession with chasing a moment. The rapper criticizes how readily listeners, who she astutely describes as “consumers,” dispose of artists once they outgrow that moment.

“They don’t even outgrow you as a artist, they just outgrow that moment”

“You outgrew that one thirty second snippet now you don’t like the s- now I’m washed up,” she continues. She admits that this model of consuming music is daunting to her, and that she’s not always sure of where she’s supposed to be “because everything’s on 10 now.” 

She states that she is too “lazy” to compete, and tries to be satisfied with where she is now, but it’s hard not to internalize other people’s ideas of where she should be in her career or the idea that her time has passed.

“The internet and the ‘microwaveization’ of hip hop rn makes you feel like you're missing out on so much and like the world is moving so fast around you...” 

She states that when she was coming up, yeah, people were getting famous - but not every other week! It is intimidating and overstimulating enough, and then she’ll have family in her ear saying things like “oh, you should put your songs on TikTok!” It’s not hard to imagine the toll this can take on artists. If this anxiety reaches even a seasoned artist like Bbymutha, who has over a decade in the game and has certainly earned her stripes by now, it must be madness for the new up and coming artists of today.

But Mutha admits that the pressure she feels is mostly external. She may feel like she’s not doing enough, but then she will go on tour and remember she’s exactly where she needs to be.

“Its fucked up to watch people build people up so fast and then tear them down…y'all don't know these people!” 

“It’s an icky time to put yourself out there” Mutha says, “especially as a woman.” She describes the trade off artists are forced to face - gaining that unhealthy level of fame and visibility in order to survive off their art (would you choose to stay at that 9-5 if you had the chance?) - as selling your soul. A person becomes a moment, a trend, an idol even, until they are forgotten about or discarded. Where can we find the balance? Is fame the only option for musicians? Mutha admits that she doesn’t know what the answer is, but she does know that her dream is “not to be harassed by strangers!”

I pivot the conversation back to “Rules,” since we’ve circled back to that topic of fans placing artists into their own box. I ask Mutha if there is a song she would choose to take its place, and she audibly groans (LOL). Let’s be clear - Mutha doesn’t want any song to become what “Rules” has for her fanbase, and dreads the possibility of having to perform yet another song over and over again like that. So we decide to compromise on a song to replace “Rules” for a year. The rapper takes a second to think, and settles on “Ghostface” off her Sleep Paralysis album (2024).

The song is so simple - the rapper says she got the beat, and got it done in “like five minutes” - but so Mutha. The beat’s drums are minimal on this one, very Plugg; the haunting melody taking center stage to provide the type of hype required for Mutha’s rage-adelic lyrics. If you close your eyes, you can almost picture yourself in one of her iconic twerk-pits (the rapper’s take on a mosh pit) while she raps the hook: 

Bitches want my life

Come and get it

Bring a knife! 

But the rapper also wants to shout out some other underrated tracks, stating that her more straight-rap, non hook having songs don’t necessarily get as much love at her shows, so she tends to keep those on the shelf in favor of ones she knows will get the crowd hype. The honorable mentions in question are “Dragon” (listen here), in which the rapper spits two minutes of straight verse over a more experimental, dance inspired type of beat featuring elements from hard techno and ambient music; and “Urban Legend” (listen here ), a track specifically tagged “#storytelling” on Soundcloud with a more traditional trap beat that, combined with Mutha’s braggadocious lyrics, feels like something a boxer would listen to as they step into the ring. That’s one of the things Mutha seems to do best - hype. Confidence. Swagger! 

It’s almost time for the interview to come to a close (sadly), and I only have one last question for Bbymutha. 

What are the seasoned rapper’s thoughts on the future of alternative hip-hop? 

She clarifies that she doesn’t want to come off as shady, but she admits that she is skeptical. Having witnessed the ways in which the industry chews artists up and spits them out, as well as that “microwave-ization” she spoke of earlier, the rapper has her doubts.

“You take these people from TikTok and chew ‘em up and spit em out…”

The oversaturation - and also, let’s be real - the co-optation of the “underground” is daunting. She recalls a time she saw some post about “the underground iceberg” that featured about a million names she did not recognize, and lo and behold, she went to look some of these names up, and about half of them were “little white boys.”

The rapper doesn’t want to be totally pessimistic, but she is definitely unsure - “it’s all up in the air” to her.

Sure, “what’s meant to last is gone stay,” as she so aptly put it earlier, but it’s evident that those of us who care have to work to make that happen and find a way to take care of the artists putting genuine stuff out there in order to protect the integrity of the art, despite all the business-minded forces working against that. All we can say for sure is that Bbymutha is not going anywhere any time soon.

[bonesandpoemsandflowers]

so what's really fun about some of the Latino American folklore, especially around the US/Mexico border, is that the occult looks edgy to outsiders sometimes and very much isn't, but then also: it is.

by which I mean, like I often do, that the Holy Death prayed to is not primarily a sinister figure. prayers to La Santa Muerte are often for love and romance and healing and protection. or prosperity, even! perpetual concerns of your everyday type person. but then, also--and you're a liar if you don't admit this is true: La Santa Muerte is, at the same time, also a saint for criminals. no organization is entirely full of true believers and this is true there as it is elsewhere, but it's also totally true that there is a lot of very sincere narco occult iconography and it's also true that there are certain rituals undertaken with great faith. and not all of those rituals are nice. but then, also, the vast majority of prayers and altars are so on are nice. and this kind of duality happens all over the world, but it happens especially feverishly in parts of Latin America.

There's some mostly very recent attempts to distinguish some of La Flaca's specialties. La Santa Muerte clothed in red for love and passion. La Santa Muerte clothed in white for protection and purification. In gold for prosperity. In green for luck. In black for--heyooo--both sending curses and breaking them. In black for protection from violence or for violence, victorious.

In most of your more fusion type religious systems with more readily apparent African syncretism, where you have the Barons and the Ghede instead of La Santisima in all her colors, sometimes the divide is easier and more readily apparent. That is: Papa Ghede is a chill guy, good with healing kids, and Baron Samedi very cool and sexy and called on for healing as much as he is for fertility as much as he is protection from curses as much as he is for cursing the unrighteous unless he likes them better than he likes you, but then there's, like, Baron Kriminel, who is not called upon for, say, downloading ebooks or dealing in metaphors.

But to wrangle this back around, I was actually thinking about the kind of people who, in this day and age, do a lot with coyote. or Coyote, if you will, though not necessarily Old Man Coyote, who has his own culture specific thing going on.

And Coyote is criminal but kind of lower stakes criminal, because, again, immigrants crossing the border desperately searching for a way to provide for their families are big on Coyote. That is: there's crimes and then there's crimes.

Which is to say: Coyote isn't one of the narco folk saints, exactly. There are patron folk saints of, say, murder, and he's kind of just not associated with that. And he's not usually the emblem of a criminal organization, not a guy getting a lot of group prayer or ritual even if he happens to be a namesake or a mascot. To me, Coyote is a patron saint of small time hustlers. Subsistence hustling, if you will.

(And this is a fun time to look at real life animal behaviors: coyotes aren't really pack hunters the way wolves are. They can hunt in packs, and then do. But whereas most wolf tactics require at least two wolves, and often more, a lot of coyote tactics are solo endeavors. Are most magicians coming at this with an ethologist perspective? Not officially. But centuries of human observation will skew stories a certain way.)

And is a coyote a good omen, or a bad omen? Is a coyote allied person a good person or a bad one?

The only real answer here is unsatisfying to most people: it depends.

Like the black cat in hoodoo, Coyote is a multifaceted figure and he's one thing to most people and another, perhaps, specifically, to the conjurer. Mages like black cats and coyotes and other liminal shading to controversial figures and symbols. Magic thrives on ambiguity.

So it is my personal observation that a lot of people who are into coyote in a certain way are just prone to being a pain in the fucking ass. Myself included. Nothing illegal inherently, but a certain inclination to be really, really unnecessarily fucking annoying. "Well, ACTUALLY--" type shit. General antiauthoritarian type shit. Maybe a little bit of built in lying. An often indulged urge to present themselves as other than they are.

Which brings us to what I'm actually thinking about here, which is that I was creeping the socials of one of the few occult practitioners I respect--though of course I don't agree with him on everything--and I found an old series of screenshots I remembered fondly. Local PD for this guy managed a small drug bust. Among the items seized and displayed on official PD twitter was an icon of La Santa Muerte. Just your typical nice little saint statue. Sure.

And our guy here, who actually does run an official small time church focused on La Santa Muerte, tax exempt and everything, but who is also a coyote guy, this guy starts arguing with the cops on twitter about the way they're displaying the statue. Calling them disrespectful, would you do this with a statue of any other saint or are you just being racist pigs, etc etc. In nicer language. I think he threatened to call a lawyer. He might actually called a lawyer, idk.

And local PD backs down! And apologizes! and deletes the post.

(Coyote is also associated with eloquence and persuasion)

Well and good and righteous and hurrah, right?

But the fun part, of course, is that if you know this guy, you know that he might be 10000% sincere but also maybe not because he hates cops not for all the normal reason but also because he was a big time weed dealer back in the day, and now that he's a respectable family man, being annoying to cops is, like, one of his most prized hobbies.

If you know this guy, you know he had FUN. this was ENRICHMENT wandering right into his enclosure.

one time a baby bunny tried to jump directly into Ernie Dog's mouth.

this was a little like that.

But what always struck me about being very coyote about this interaction is that is certainly a way to get ATTENTION from cops...

that I know of this had no particular consequences for this conjure man. this time. but that's very coyote, too--it works until it doesn't.

and all of that is to say that every so often it occurs to me that I don't have to open my mouth about something, you know? which is a valuable lesson. but also. sometimes you WANT to open your mouth. because a baby bunny is trying to jump into it.

apart from all this and for very different reasons, I've been thinking about how coyote folklore lends itself so well to the idea of the double agent. coyote becomes an organization type guy when he's in the business of infiltrating. much to think about, artistically. much to think about. maybe he's not a working dog after all, exactly. maybe he is a coyote...

[lackeyhenchman]

"Deep Dive" tag: TY-TY TIME

Belta found an excuse to talk about our durges! Oh nooo, anything but that! (I tag whoever wants to, but the catch is that you have to show me.)

Phobias and Other Fears

Honestly, not a lot. He gets animal fear reactions in the moment, but this man is very psychologically prepared for death. He even gets a complicated rush when people he likes are in danger.

The Urge feels correct to him, but illithid/vampire powers are an unnerving affront to his faculties. And the closer he gets to reclaiming his old life, the more he falls into old anxieties around responsibility and controlling his surroundings. (Forgetting who he is was really, really good for him, alas.) And of course there’s disappointing Father. Which will NOT happen.

Pet Peeves

Barricades, locked doors, secrets in general. His tail touching the ground. Little sisters. Loses patience for children easily, and sometimes cats-- basically anything he can talk to that can’t be made useful. And though he’s loathe to say it outright: closed relationships.

3 items you could find in their bedroom

Well, among the stuff he found discarded by Orin: Handwritten “medical” journals, a concerning number of crotchless pants, and a piece of someone special who he's forgotten entirely.

First thing they notice in a person

“I could take them.” “In a fight?” “Yes, that too.”

On a scale of 1-10, how high is their pain tolerance?

Weirdly good for his middling CON. I imagine he makes up for that by not liking to complain, so like an 8? Once the blood gets flowing he’ll take a few blows to the head and still laugh, but for the most part he just tries not to get hit.

Do they go into fight or flight mode when under pressure?

Fight or fawn, baby! "Are you absolutely sure we can’t be friends? All right, death it is then."

Do they come from a big family/are they a family person?

Family is everything.

What animal represents them best?

Very difficult question! A cuddly snake? One of those cats who plays fetch?? Tom Wambsgans???

What is a smell that they dislike?

Not a useful question for most characters! Plus Durges are canonically always around rot, sewage and bile, so like. What's left, daisies?

Have they broken any bones?

Oh, surely. But I subscribe to the “extra-good demigod healing” kind of Bhaalspawn headcanon, so it’s trivial.

How would a stranger likely describe them?

These days, it's as a contradiction! Scary, sweet, nosy. "I thought he was here to shake me down, but we ended up having a long conversation about my garden plot and my gout." Or just "the reddest guy in the room".

Are they a night owl or morning bird?

This man has never been on the sleep schedule binary in his life. I heard once that in medieval times, people would sleep for a few hours, wake up in the middle of the night and work/fuck/whatever, then sleep some more. Ty is like that. Perpetually murder-napping, woken up frequently by his slasher POV dreams that tell him it's time to work.

What is a flavor they hate and a flavor they love?

He's over the "drinking bile" thing, doesn't remember why that was fun. But one thing he is looking forward to post-game is eating a lot more people. That dwarf meat was quite restorative! Outside of that, his special treats are prawns (yay coastal hometown) and melon.

Do they have any hobbies?

He's the type to structure his life around his love interest, does that count? He's also a voracious nonfiction reader, magic and science and wars and stuff. And dead people's diaries.

Boom, surprise birthday party! How do they react to surprises?

Oh, his heart would explode. Might start crying. Would hug and/or shake everyone's hand. Might even forget to ask why they think today’s his birthday.

Do they like to wear jewelry?

Little bit? He appreciates a good regal look, but that kind of dress-up was mostly reserved for Temple events. When your bedroom exits to an altar, you may as well give the people a decorated, dangerous thing.

Do they have neat or messy handwriting?

Pretty neat! I imagine elegant, confident strokes and evenly-sized letters. But gods only know what “neat” means within the disaster that is written Common.

What are the two emotions they feel the most?

Excitement and confusion. Often at the same time!

Good thing you didn't say three, because then I'd be forced to say "boner".

Do they have a favourite fabric?

Don’t tell anyone this, but: fur. The snugglier the better.

What kind of accent do they have?

Uhhhhhh fantasy British, innit?

[turbulentscrawl]

Alva Lorenz General HCs

You'll have for forgive me for any typos--this man's been on my mind for two days and I have to get these out. I'm too impatient to check everything hahah

-Alva did not actually betray Luca by passing off any pf Herman’s work as his own. Though he did always maintain some interest in the concept of a perpetual motion machine, Alva didn’t dedicate much time to working on it after Herman’s death. He did, however, start the fire which killed Herman in an outburst-fueled accident similar to how Luca later killed him. Alva, however, escaped suspicion of the event and was not legally punished.

-Alva knew Herman had a son and, though he never personally met Herman’s family, knew who Luca was through grapevine rumors. He agreed to take Luca on as his student partially out of guilt for his unexposed crime, and partially because he had no children of his own and quickly felt a certain parental urge for Luca. They shared a lot in common and got on very well, very quickly, and their relationship was great right up until the accident. The documentation that seems to indicate their relationship deteriorating is coincidental. (ex, Luca’s experiments slowly transitioning from both he and Alva signing off on them to just Luca was Alva giving Luca more independence because he trusted him, rather than them growing apart or secretive.)

-I think Alva may be autistic. He doesn’t require much in the way of accommodations, and he doesn’t have the sensory issues that Aesop does. However, his speech is sometimes overly flat, his view of the world a bit rigid, his social energy levels are low, he’s prone to bouts of depression, he fixates on his work a lot, and he often fidgets with things like pens and clothes. He enjoys touching various textures, and often expresses appreciation for the material of people’s clothes. Additionally, he’s made a living out of his special interest: inventive engineering.

-Alva is a solemn and polite man. He’s rather chivalrous, but reserved, and as a result was admired by many for his mysterious-gentleman air. “Hermit” is an apt name for Alva, however, as he rarely enjoyed the company of others. He especially felt overwhelmed in large groups. He has always preferred one-on-one socializing, and even that he had a smaller tolerance for than was typical for men of his class. Luckily, he doesn’t have much in the way of a temperament, so when he’s tired of socializing, he’s just that: tired. Sexy Old man.

-To specify, when I say chivalrous, I mean he’s the kind of man who holds doors open for others, offers his hand to help them up from a seat or down from some height, share his umbrella in the rain, and would even lay his coat in a puddle for a lady to cross over. He offers chivalry moreso to women than men, but if a man presents as meek or shy enough in his presence he will extend the gestures to them as well, hoping to make them feel more comfortable.

-Alva’s only family at the time of his death was his wife. She was barren, and they had no children, and all the rest of his family had passed due to age or illness. Luca therefore became something of a surrogate son to Alva over the years. Though he sometimes struggled to show it, Alva cared for him like blood and always looked out for him.

-Alva didn’t care much about his overall predicament, after being resurrected. His religious proclivities were more for show than anything, so being a chosen of some…eldritch-cat-god is hardly the worst of his concerns. Until the manor, he hadn’t been expected to do anything he considered reprehensible or very immoral, so he’s always been fine with just completing his orders so he could go back to his work.

-After joining the manor, Alva’s only real comfort is his work. In life, inventive engineering was his method of self-expression, the way he interacted with the world, his reason for living. That changed a bit when his wife came along, and then again for Luca, but with those gone he’s back to his reclusive nature. It takes a long time for Alva to make friendships in the manor. He’s familiar with Ann out of necessity, but they’re merely cordial. With time, he becomes friendly with a small handful of others, but his melancholy is still pervasive.

-Inevitably, with enough time at the manor, Alva craves reconciliation with Luca. He doesn’t entirely blame Luca for what happened. At the end of everything, Alva knows the accident was an accident as well as a misunderstanding. (And also probably some kind of ironic, cosmic retribution for him killing Herman.) The trouble is, Luca does not remember him at all, or what happened. He knows from a few conversations that the boy’s cleverness is still in-tact, but his memories are almost entirely gone. As far as Alva is concerned, this means he’ll never get the closure of genuine, mutual apologies, and he’ll never have his “son” back. Not really.

-When Luca was his student, they were a powerful duo in public. Alva, despite being respectful and courteous to individuals, has never ‘jived’ with society as a whole. He doesn’t care about public opinion and is easily exhausted from public exposure. Luca, meanwhile, is a social butterfly. They were both charming, and worked out a system for any public appearances Alva needed to make: Luca would handle most of the talking—unless Alva’s interest was specifically sparked by some topic of conversation—so Alva could do his best to actually enjoy the atmosphere. And when Luca was ready to go, you best believe Alva was ready with their excuse to bail. The two were always favorites at any party or event, and always had interested suitors close at their heels.

-Despite being overwhelmed by conversation and crowds, Alva does enjoy the set-up for a lot of public events and parties. He likes the artfulness of decoration, and always takes time to appreciate the hard work put into setting up things like that (and once again, he loves to touch, feels the textures). He especially loves flowers. He occasionally finds loud music to be a bit overstimulating. Similarly, he likes fireworks, but requires earplugs to enjoy them fully.

-Alva’s age (at time of death) was somewhere between 40-45. His undead body is no longer aging, so physically he’s the same. Sometimes Alva misses his longer hair, but unfortunately that’s not growing anymore.

[granddaughterogg]

Captain John Price comforts you

SUMMARY: You're going through Something (TM) and your commander offers you a hug and some kind words. Wholesome fluff with a tinge of simmering attraction. (Is it mutual? Who knows?)

Captain Price is an extremely perceptive man. He may be quite literally carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, but that doesn't mean he can't spot when one of his men (or women) is in a bad way. You were hoping that both your face – unsightly red from all this crying - and your general wet cat aura would have escaped his attention. No such luck.

"A word with you, Private?"

"Yes Sir," you sighed obediently. You have survived a week from hell, and now it felt like you've been called to the principal's office. What could your impressive commander want from you? You didn't particularly feel up to the challenge.

The door of the Captain's office closed behind you with a quiet click, but to your ears, it sounded like the swish of a guillotine.

Price circled around his desk, perpetually cluttered with paperwork. He produced a cigar from his pocket, glanced at it - and then put it back. He seemed to struggle with something, which was strange for such a quick-witted and decisive man.

Finally, he sighed, ran a hand over his face and leaned his shapely bum against the edge of the desk. You waited patiently, keeping a proper distance and staring at your boots.

"Tell me, Private…" 

That honey-smooth voice of his always disarmed you. So rough, so well suited to shouting orders amidst battle, and yet so warm. Like a caress dipped in steel.

Sometimes you imagined him using this voice while talking to his children - two mythical beings whom you've never met. It was meant to stay that way.

"…Are you all right?"

The question blindsided you. You lifted your head abruptly and gave him a wide-eyed stare. You could feel the damn tears already welling up.

You hadn't expected this. You were ready for remarks about the quality of your work, which has diminished lately. For a succinct rebuke even - Price didn't like to prolong such things. 

You didn't expect concern.

He obviously noticed that something odd was going on with your face. It would be hard not to.

"Oh dear." Price stated, cutting you a worried look with those tired blue eyes. "That bad, huh?"

"Sir." You swallowed, desperately trying to cook up some excuse that would be halfway plausible (Something got stuck in my eye.) 

"I'm…"

"I prefer not to pry into things that are none of my business, y'know," the Captain admitted, sticking both hands inside the pockets of his regulation breeches. 

"But it just so happens that you're a part of my squad and therefore you're my business. Your well-being is my business, Private. For the past few days, I've seen you slouching around, bumping blindly into things. You've stopped reacting to Sergeant MacTavish's unsavoury attempts at humour. Yesterday at the shooting range you tried to stick the wrong end of the mag into your rifle. If you go out in the field like this, you'll get hurt."

So he did notice that, too? Damn that old man. Your face was burning.

"So understand well what I'm going to say now, Private…" Price took the damn cigar out of his pocket again and twirled it in his fingers. "I realise that a young woman such as yourself might not want to confide in someone like me. You don't have to confess all your sins, but for God's sake, if you're struggling...with anything, really…then say so."

"Sir." The lump that has been long stuck in your throat finally thawed. Compromising moisture trickled from your eyes.

It was impossible to lie under that inquiring, steely blue gaze. The man oozed with embarrassment. He didn't want to do it any more than you did, but he felt that he should.

Captain Price was such a decent man. It's a shame that decent men are always married.

You decided to repay him with honesty.

"Indeed I have not been at my best lately, Sir," you said in a trembling voice. "Last week's been…difficult, for personal reasons."

"A crisis, eh?" Price sighed and began rummaging through his pockets again.

Your head darted up. "A clusterfuck of crises, if I may say so, Sir."

His chuckle was a raspy little thing. Pleasant. Frankly speaking, every noise that Captain Price ever emitted was pleasant to your ears.

"Eh, haven't we all been there? Here. You could use this."

He extended one of his long arms, firm yet slender, placing an immaculately clean handkerchief in your hand. Like nothing else in Price's possession, it was snow-white and smelled of fresh laundry.

You accepted it and wiped your face in silence.

"I'll give it back as soon as I wash it," you assured him. "And thanks."

"Never mind." He gave you one of those smiles which lit up his whole face, turning those blue peepers velvety and narrow. John Price must have laughed often because he had charming, deep wrinkles around his eyes. 

"Say, Private, would you be interested in a hug?"

You gasped at the idea. On the other hand...

"Yes, please," you declared, smiling at him through the tears. "As long as you don't mind having a wet spot in the front of your uniform."

"My vanity won't stand for it." He spreaded his arms, still grinning. 

"Come 'ere, girl."

You did.

It was a strangely solemn moment. He hugged you slowly, clearly trying his damnedest to avoid any impropriety that might arise. Price smelled like gunpowder, like those cigars of his and some musky cologne – all of the above mixed with the faint undertone of sweat. It was an intoxicating mix. You knew better than to imbibe on it, but it was hard to avoid it while the strong arms of your superior enclosed you in a warm, prolonged embrace. You chased the anxious thoughts away and just enjoyed the here and the now.

"Better now, huh?" He muttered from somewhere way above your head. Price was so much taller than you.

"Yes, Sir..." You whispered into his crumpled green shirt, faded from the desert sun.

"You know, it always feels like the fuckin' end of the world when those things happen...breakups, I mean. But it never is."

He chuckled ruefully. 

"As my ex-wife said when she was fed up with me: It's easy to find a replacement!"

You returned to your quarters fully soothed, warmed up - and stunned by the discovery.

Ex-wife?!

EX-WIFE???

[fishhateme]

maxiel(ish) drabble pt 1

Daniel's sigh was so loud he wasn't even surprised when Sassy looked at him, perched atop one of Max's book shelves ("Why do you have so many, Maxy? It's not like you actually read" raised eyebrow, thick lips parting for a beat before quirking up shyly "Shut up" "These days you just meow on livestreams, right? Busy schedule" a full smile then, pink tongue darting out to wet his full, chapped lips, so wonderfully feminine "Shut up, Dan" "Is it like when you bought that Hermes bracelet and you just never let it go? Is it about being all fancy? Maybe we should ask George for some vocab tips" a full laugh, head thrown back against the pillows and crinkled corners of his eyes "I think it makes perfect sense, no? Why would I not have bookshelves. They're classy, and the cats like them. Who doesn't have bookshelves?" oh, okay, his voice is more nasally in the morning, it's more noticeable when he says more than two words. Yeah, it's been years and Daniel knows this already, but he could still drown in the raspiness of it, suddenly back to day one and awkward chuckles in hotel rooms "Who meows on a livestream?" "Shut up, Daniel"). The way Sassy looked at him wasn't even concerned, it was mostly annoyed. And, sure, Daniel hated dogs - er, hated, was terrified of, had been chased by back home, same difference -, but there was a certain autonomy about cats that unsettled him. Those lucky bastards didn't need attention like a wilting, desperate plant needed fresh water, like Daniel needed love to breathe. Enchanté, nice to meet you too, did I tell you I'm jealous of my boyfriend's cats? No, I don't go to therapy anymore, how did you know?

Ugh. Daniel scowled at himself for that shitty self-pitying monologue. He briefly considered calling his therapist again, but he didn't like feeling like he needed a crutch, and he wasn't as distressed and hurting as he was back in the McLaren days. He could manage, really, and he'd rather that than going through the shameful motion of crawling back to his therapist after assuring (read, lying) to her he could cope perfectly fine on his own, with his stupid little journal (abandoned shortly after Belgium, because everything was blindingly bright in his future and he'd get to write it down later, now he just wanted to focus on the feeling of being on top of the world) and his stupid little breathing techniques. He was fine, really. He was just... ugh.

He sighed again, still staring at his phone screen, prompting Sassy to send him another one of her patented annoyed looks. Her feline eyes, already perpetually displeased as if inconvenienced by the existence of her owners (oh, we only feed, shelter and pamper you, I'd be annoyed too, you expensive little brat), seemed even more judgy in the stuffy Mediterranean heat of the afternoon. The living room was so poorly designed (as was most of Monaco, because money couldn't buy enough space to build a decent apartment when every single millionaire on Earth decided to cram themselves in the same five or so blocks) that Daniel was beginning to run out of air in his lungs, but maybe that was because of his own... shit ("Yes, of course I'll remember my breathing techniques, I'll be fine, besides, you'll be late for your next client. I promise I'll be fine").

It came so easily to lie, sometimes.

part 2

[notgonnaedit]

Given to Fly

One Shall Fall

Summary: Martha "Marty" Thorne was a basic teenager, a little antisocial maybe. But her life changed the day she met the Autobots and joined them in their fight.

Pairing: Optimius x Teen!OFC (Platonic)

Chapter summary: An injury takes precedence.

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, injury, flat line things going off, medical emergency, (If I miss a tag LMK)

Updates are sporadic. If you want to be tagged LMK

@dreamsight73

Master list

"And it was written in the covenant of Primus that when the 47 spheres align, a perpetual conflict will culminate upon a world forged from chaos, and the weak shall perish in the shadow of a rising darkness." Optimus stared at the computer screen, reciting an old prophecy he had read a long time ago. "No skies raining fire?" Arcee asked. "Goes without saying," Ratchet added. "It is a doom prophecy, after all."

"I say it's a load of hooey," Bulkhead huffed.

Ratchet turned to look at him. "I'd always assumed the ancients were referring to our home planet, but being that Cybertron has been dark for eons..."

"And considering what has befallen this planet since Megatron's arrival here..." Optimus trailed off, letting his suspicions speak for themselves.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Bulkhead said. "We've known about these superstitions for ages and never gave them a second thought."

Arcee nodded. "Why all the ominous rumblings now?"

"Because the planetary alignment to which the prophecy refers is nearly upon us," Optimus answered.

"And it would seem its end point...Is Earth," Ratchet deduced.

Bulkhead chuckled nervously. "Uh...Crazy coincidence, heh, r-right?"

"How long are we talking?" Arcee asked.

Ratchet hummed. "A few days at most."

Optimus furrowed his brow. "However unsettling this revelation may be, I am more concerned about those who might believe that the prophecy speaks to them alone."

A chill passed through the base. The Autobots knew he was referring to Megatron, the Dark Lord of the Cons.

                        )()()()()(

"Pass," Jack said as Raf scrolled through a series of photos dedicated to finding aliens. "Kid in a costume. Balloon. Nope. Uh, hold," he stopped short when there was an image of a yellow and black muscle car without a driver.

Marty chuckled as she leaned on the back of the couch behind Raf. "The camera sure loves Bee."

"What can you do?" Miko asked. "When you're a superstar, you're paparazzi bait."

"Wait. Is that Bumblebee?" Ratchet asked worriedly.

Raf adjusted his glasses. "On a conspiracy website where users post evidence of close encounters. But we have it under control, Ratchet." 

The boy deleted the image and moved a new file to take its place. "We just scrub and replace Bee with..." He trailed off as a little cat in an astronaut's suit danced.

"Mars cat says, ‘take me to your feeder’."

"Ha ha!" A laugh came from the medic's direction.

Shocked stares covered the faces of the kids. 

"Ratchet actually laughed?" Miko asked.

The medic in question pressed his lips together as if surprised at them for letting joy escape.

Jack chuckled before turning to the tallest Bot. "Um, Optimus, do you want to see something funny?"

"No," the Prime answered bluntly without looking at them.

Martha chuckled. "Heheh."

"Don't take it personally," Arcee told her ward. "Primes are built that way."

"Never seen Optimus laugh, cry, or lose his cool," Bulkhead added.

"While Optimus certainly keeps his emotions in check," said Ratchet, "I've known him far longer than any of you have, and he was different before he was made a Prime."

This had Marty's attention. "Optimus wasn't always a Prime?"

"On Cybertron, one isn't born into greatness. Rather, one must earn it."

Miko raised a brow. "So, different how? We talkin’ party animal?" She wiggled for emphasis.

Marty groaned and rubbed her hands under glasses. "Thank you, Miko, for that image."

Ratchet hummed. "No, no. Optimus was more like... Martha."

The brunette snapped her head up. "There's no way I'm like Opti–"

"Prime!" Fowler's voice cut her off. "Those techites my department's been tracking – We figured it was MECH on account of the stealth tactics until moments ago when a security feed at the Pennington ebbs particle collider captured this–"

The screen flashed to an image of a faceless Cybertronian.

"Soundwave," Jack noted as they walked over.

"Raf can swap that out for you with a funny cat," Miko offered.

"The Con without a face made off with a cutting-edge phase conductor. Here's a punch list of everything else we've confirmed stolen to date."

"Plasma injector, neutron shield, tesseract?" Ratchet read off the list, surprise lacing his tone with each item. "There's only one thing missing if they are intending to build a space bridge."

                       )()()()()(

It was evening when Fowler called again, this time from a helicopter. "Prime, the 'Cons really stepped in it this time. They hit a U.S. military lab. Our boys in green will fend them off till your team shows."

"Agent Fowler, I fear that Megatron's desperation may be at its zenith, and you know that I cannot condone even a single human casualty," Optimus reminded the agent.

Fowler sighed and called off the troops as Ratchet readied the bridge. Bumblebee and Raf were not present, probably out racing for fun.

The medic commed the scout. "Bumblebee, the team may require backup. They are three clicks north from your current position, just off the highway. If you drop Raf at the exit ramp, I can bridge him back to base from there."

It wasn't ten minutes later that Optimus' voice came through the comm. He sounded panicked, almost. "Ratchet, bridge us back now!" "We must have an Autobot down," Ratchet figured.

Marty furrowed her brow, exchanging glances with Miko and Jack. As the portal activated, two figures walked through. Bumblebee, his door wings hanging dejectedly, and Arcee, cradling something in her arms like a baby. 

Marty looked at it closer. "Raf??"

"No!" Miko cried.

Ratchet rushed over to them. "What happened?"

"Megatron," Arcee snarled.

Ratchet's eyes widened. "Quickly, into my laboratory."

The kids rushed down the stairs as Arcee set the boy on a cot.

"Martha!" Ratchet barked. "I need your hands. Slid the IV into his veins."

The brunette nodded and took the needle, gently sliding it under Raf's skin. Her hands were steadier than she felt.

"Rafael isn't responding." Ratchet worried from the computer. "We must run diagnostics of his assemblage –eh, vital statistics. Oh, my tools –they're all wrong!" He threw them to the ground.

"We need to call my mom," Jack said, already dialing her number.

"Your mother may be a nurse, but does she know anything about the effects of Energon on the human body?" Ratchet asked.

Jack reeled on him. "Wh– do you know anything about the human body?" He turned away. "Mom, it's urgent!"

The medic looked down at the boy. He was pale, and his eyes had dark circles under them.

"‘The weak will perish‘," he muttered. "Be strong, Rafael."

It wasn't long before June came driving through the ground bridge. She parked in the middle of the base.

Jack ran over to her. "Mom, thank–"

"Grab my bag!" She ordered, already halfway over to Raf. She Immediately checked his pulse and breathing, her expression serious.

"Measuring the extent of the absorption should determine the proper course of treatment," Ratchet told her.

June glared up at him. "If I don't get this boy stabilized now, he will not leave this table alive. Do you understand me?!"

An angry buzz, followed by a loud bang! sounded. Bumblebee's fist was in the wall.

Arcee surged forward and pinned him against the wall. "Bee, listen. You think I don't know how it feels to watch a partner... Harmed? Revenge won't help Raf right now. You need to keep your emotions in check."

Marty looked away from the yellow Bot to glance at his sick ward.

Then she heard her own guardian over the comm talking to Ratchet. "Pull yourself together, old friend. Rafael needs you."

"And I have grown to need him," the medic admitted.

"Lock on to my coordinates and activate the ground bridge," the Prime ordered.

"Jack, help me get Raf to the car. He's going to the emergency room," June decided, putting away her stethoscope.

Ratchet turned to her. "Nurse Darby, your doctors won't be able to comprehend what's afflicting him – not without a decade of study."

June waved him off. "I don't have time to argue."

The medic looked back at his monitor. "The effects of an Energon blast on an Autobot can be devastating enough, but this is a human." His eyes widened. "I'm not getting any readings." He gasped. "How could I not have seen this? Rafael's been infected with Dark Energon."

Marty's throat went dry. 

"I need Energon," Ratchet cried.

"Wait," June said. "You said Energon was devastating to humans."

"Under normal circumstances, quite. But I am relying upon the dark matter currently invading Rafael's body to meet it head on."

Bumblebee walked over to Ratchet and held out his arm. The medic nodded and room a syringe, sucking the Energon out of the scout.

Raf's monitor started beeped furiously.

"I need him over here now!" Ratchet shouted.

Jack and June rolled the cot over to the decontamination chamber. Once they exited, Ratchet worked quickly. The chamber began to glow brightly. Marty shielded her hazel eyes from the blinding light.

Once it was over, they ran back in. June took the boys hand, her fingers resting on his wrist. "Pulse rate is stabilizing."

The boy's eyes opened, slowly but surely. His chocolate hues settled on his guardian. "Bee," he croaked.

Marty sighed. She hadn't realized she was holding her breath. She turned back to Ratchet and gave him a small smile, but then she saw another figure.

When did Bulkhead get there. And where was Optimus??

"Bulkhead, you let Optimus face Megatron alone?" Arcee scolded.

"I didn't have a choice," Bulkhead explained.

Marty looked up at Ratchet worriedly. "It could be a trap."

"We need to get a fix on his location," he agreed. "I'm locked onto Optimus' signal." His eyes went wide. "Wait. How is this possible?"

"What? What is it??" Marty asked.

Ratchet whipped around. "We need to get Optimus out of there now!"

Previous

Next

[imonthemoonitsmadeofcheese]

Destinytober24: Day 19 - Rebirth

Quiet. Close. Soft.

Link to Ao3 if you prefer to read it there

"Do ya ever miss bein' a god?"

The Derelict was always rattling and burbling to itself, to the point where the Drifter could usually tell where he was on his ship based on ambient sounds. In comparison, the silence of Sanctuary on Luna felt almost oppressive. He would have hated it if he didn't now associate it with Eris. But he did. And he had learned to appreciate how the silence would give advance warning of any incoming threats or, more commonly here, approaching guardians.

"No." Eris answered as her fingers combed idly through his hair.

Other than her Ahamkara bone on the table on the other side of the room, the only illumination in the space came from her unbound eyes.

The dark shadows of the dishes from dinner, and the Drifter's preparation of it, were piled by the sink. If he did not do them before he left, they would still be there when he visited next.

Their armour was in two heaps near the door, peeled off in exhaustion as soon as they entered. It had been a long day for both of them.

Eris lived very sparsely on the Moon. Her living quarters had no distinct individual rooms. Her bed was small. The Drifter had brought extra pillows and blankets on previous visits, more for his own comfort than anything. Eris did not find them necessary, but she kept them and they now formed a comfortable heap behind her, enabling her to lie back and recline against them while the Drifter reclined against her.

"Really?" he mumbled sleepily into her shirt. "Not even a little? All that power? All those tithes? Surely that felt… good."

Eris ran one sock-covered foot along the worn denim covering the Drifters leg and was rewarded with a contented sigh.

"Using their own Sword Logic against them did bring me… satisfaction… I took joy in it. Being their god was… exhausting."

"Huh."

He shifted on top of her as she continued, minimizing his weight on her while maximizing the contact between them, like a cat draping itself overtop of every available surface, molding his shape to fit as snugly as possible.

"The numinous cost of the power I wielded was… immense. And it was not all mine to bear. The danger was omnipresent. One false step and I would become… a repeat of one of Elsie's timelines."

The slow rhythm of her hand through his hair slowed as she spoke and her fingertips came to rest against the curve of his earlobe, tracing it gently.

"You wouldn't have." Complete confidence. Zero concern in his voice whatsoever Absolute assurance.

Eris smiled into the darkness of the room. "Your support, then and now, strengthens me. It is… healing… but it is possible that I could have failed."

"Nah." He leaned on one arm and lifted his head up to look into her eyes. "You knew what you were doing."

"I did. But it was not without risk." Eris cradled his face in both of her hands, her fingertips sliding over his features, memorizing and rememorizing his features, lingering on his eyebrows, his lips, his scars. "I risked everything. Everyone. Including you. And you are correct. I was confident in my choices. I moved with certainty and was resolute. But the pressure was immense and constant. I do not miss it, no. I am glad that is behind me. And grateful that we both lived through it. Risking the lives of those I love is not a thing I can look back upon with anything other than trepidation. When I think upon it now, the overwhelming feeling is that of relief that it is done."

He kissed the side of her thumb as it brushed once more against his lips and gazed lovingly up into her three eyes, surrounded by scar tissue, dripping perpetual paracausal tears. "What was it like," he asked, like a small child asking for a comforting bedtime story, "takin' all Savathun's power when you slit her throat."

"Anticlimactic," she intoned.

"Really?"

"Yes. By design. I did not want the moment painted in glory. The Hive are creatures of extreme emotion. They love and hate so strongly their emotions can alter reality. The death of Savathun at my hand, the consumption of her power, should have been a potent climactic moment for them. I took that away. I made it… quiet. I muted their ability to experience catharsis through me. I let the moment pass without song. I made Xivu Arath's banishment unremarkable. I made Savathun's death… boring."

"Damn."

"I proved they did not have a right to exist and by doing so rendered them… not even worth remembering. I took that from them too. It is a deeper and more grievous insult than simply being defeated. I rendered them not even worthy of mourning. Nothing momentous to mark their passing. Forgettable."

"You are such a badass." He grinned up at her, letting her trace the adoring expression on his face, seeing him with her human fingertips, enhancing the spectral perception of her alien eyes.

"Hmmm… I suppose I am."

"I remember you told me what it was like, becoming a Hive. But what was it like comin' back when you were doin' it? Same thing? Relief?"

"Not at the time, no. For I knew I would need to return to my Hive morph again. I knew it was not yet over. I wore my Hive form like armour. Shedding it, especially when in so much constant conflict with Xivu Arath, felt… almost foolish. Vulnerable. Unnecessarily weakening. Dangerous. But there was greater danger in maintaining it for longer than necessary. To become too accustomed to the morph. To lean into the sensation of it being… correct… for me to persist in that form."

She shifted beneath him and he lifted himself up off of her so she could adjust how she was lying. She turned slightly on one hip, and he shifted back to accommodate her new position, letting her slide one leg between his knees and use his arm as a pillow, reaching her own arm around his waist.

"Did it hurt, comin' back?" Hands which had killed so many brushed tenderly against scars from healed teeth marks along Eris Morn's neck, tracing where a gaping maw had tried, and failed, to rip out her throat at some point in the distant past.

"Yes. Both from the transformation and from the return to the regular pain that rests in the background of existence. The aches from all the places bones have broken before, the muscles reverting to old injuries, the weakness, the renewing of scars upon my skin."

"Renewing?" His fingertips followed one of the scraggly lines surrounding her eyes up into her hairline. "You mean… you could'a come back without scars an' knit-back broken bones, an' you chose to put 'em all back?"

"Yes," she said, dispassionately.

The Drifter's face clouded at the thought of her experiencing the pain of all that had damaged her in the past over and over again, all at once.

"Why?"

"The same reason you do. It is part of who I am. To erase them is to erase part of my past, my own identity, no matter how gruesome and horrific it was."

"Huh." He traced another puffy furrow from the corner of one eye out to her ear.

"My scars are mine." Eris asserted. "I will not have them taken from me."

"It's a bit different, though," he argued, softly. "Mine don't hurt and… I don't got an expiry date… well," he shrugged, "that we know of."

"It is different." She pressed herself against him, resting her cheek against his thin undershirt, her tears soaking into the cloth and beyond it to his skin beneath. "But we also do not know my… expiry date, either. And my situation may be different from others. The Hive have persisted for eons. Being constantly steeped in their preternatural magic has many side-effects. It is not unlikely that preservation may be one of them."

"Still, you could'a been like… reborn… and chose not to."

"Even when Brya was alive, I preferred to keep my scars. Do your resurrections feel like being reborn?"

"Nope." He shook his head, looking out at the glow of her Ahamkara bone in the darkness. "I hate that shit. I hate it. Sometimes it's necessary, but… only thing that feels good about it is having survived." He leaned forward and pressed his lips to the top of her head.

"I did not hate it, when it was accessible to me, and there were times when it was used for…" He felt her mouth smirk against his shirt. "…reasons that were less than necessary."

"You mean like thanatonautics?" He mumbled into her hair.

"No. That is more Ikora's domain than mine."

He tilted his head back and raised an eyebrow. "How kinky we talkin' about here, Moondust, because my brain can take that idea to some pretty interestin' places and go pretty damn far."

"Hmmm…" She looked up at him with a half-smile. "I think I prefer to leave you wondering on that point. It is more amusing to have you leap to wild conclusions."

He licked his lips. "Damn!"

Eris reached up and brushed her fingers against his cheek, smiling at the increased warmth she found there. "It is always so amusing to me when you become flustered. It is a behaviour only rarely displayed… when you are at ease and feel safe."

He laughed, his eyes sparkling, his expression soft. "Know what does feel like bein' reborn, though?" His voice was gentle, vulnerable.

She tilted her head to meet his gaze. "What?"

"Bein' with you." He spoke in a raspy whisper. "Like… I can tell I'm turnin' into someone else. Feel myself changing again." He dragged two fingers through her black tears, swirling the ichor on her cheek in a spiral pattern. "Normally that's… awful. Wake up and don't recognize who you were. Like your identity has been ripped from you. Fractured. Broken. Blasted away." He cupped her cheek and she leaned into his touch. "But… not with you. With you it feels like I'm a plant slowly reaching for the sunlight after bein' in a dark cave for so long it don't even know what sunlight feels like." His thumb caressed another scar on her face reverently. "Like I'm becoming something… better."

"You are." She spoke with the same confidence and conviction she used when speaking one of her Hive spells into being. "So many of your maladaptive instincts are responses to situations which no longer apply. You need to not just be safe, but feel safe for a prolonged period of time in order to unlearn them. Physically and emotionally."

He gave her a wry smile. "This is more than learnin' and unlearnin', though. This is… I don't even know what to call it."

The Drifter's eyes closed as Eris reached her hand up behind his neck, pulling him into a brief gentle kiss.

"You could just simply call it what it is," she whispered.

"And what's that?" he whispered back, his eyes still closed.

"Love."

Link to the entire month's worth of prompts on Ao3, posted daily.

[patchwork-crow-writes]

Rumination; Or, The Virtues of Moss

In which Kris finds moss, eats moss, and considers the nature of things.

Its glistening wetness catches your eye in the gloom of the cramped cell the two of you are sharing. Compelled by a higher power, you walk over to investigate the unassuming growth. You doubt it will be of use to you in your escape, but there is something here, nonetheless; a strange sense of recognition, perhaps, of something that isn’t entirely in harmony with its surroundings.

You kneel to get a better look, knees squelching in cold water the colour of ash. Here you can see the panoply of hues across the moss’s surface, from bright and shimmering apple to almost-muddy fern, and the way they almost undulate like the ocean waves with the subtle shifting of the darklight. Distinctions that no-one would really concern themselves with, but to you they are every bit as beautiful as the iridescence of a flawless pearl, and every bit as deserving of attention. Absently, your fingertips caress its surface, marvelling at how something so seemingly lumpen and graceless could feel so velvety smooth. Nails dig slightly into the spongy mass, kneads it like a cat might, then lets it spring back into shape. That such a humble organism could be so defiant, so unwilling to change its shape even under duress... you feel its will to live surge up your arm, a primal inspiration that resonates throughout the very core of your being.

You, too, yearn to be as pliant and stubborn as this moss, thriving even in this loveless place. You, too, wish to live, no matter what it takes.

Thus seized by impulse, your hand becomes a talon which tears into plant matter, the fibres peeling apart like live Velcro as they fight to remain whole, and to keep their unenviable place in the order of things. But your will is the stronger; with several furious wrenches a strip comes free and you hold it aloft like the pelt of a vicious beast, wringing wet with rivulets of rank water. A damp, loamy odour fills your nostrils, reminiscent of those summer days when the whole town smelt like cut grass, so vivid you could almost taste it.

You feel your companion’s eyes upon you, the concern and bafflement in his expression as clear as if he had uttered it aloud. Well, let him gawp if he wants to. This is between you and the cycle of existence, and though it might currently have the upper hand, it’d be you who had the last laugh.

You eat the moss.

Incisors gnash down like a blunt guillotine, molars grind sinewy fibres to gritty paste. Your jaw aches with the exertion, and errant strands thread themselves between your teeth. It is bitterer than you were expecting, though not to an unpleasant degree, with an earthen aftertaste. Despite it being soaking wet when you put it in your mouth, it is tough to swallow, rough and dry against your throat.

It is… not the worst thing you have ever eaten. Challenging, for sure, but not bad. More flavour and texture than whatever facsimile of food that darkners ate, in any case.

You almost consider reaching down for another try… but it seems your time here is done. The thing driving your body has tired of this particular diversion, and has now spotted the rusted shackle dangling limply from the crumbling wall nearby. You are not even given the courtesy of being able to wipe your own mouth, which somehow is the most galling thing about all of this. You’d laugh ruefully, if you were capable of it - but the most you can manage is a pained, dry cough, carrying a mossy aroma across your nostrils.

Perhaps this is just the way things have to be, you muse to yourself as you idly thumb the chains holding the shackle to the wall. The willful must prey upon those who cannot fight back. Even something as seemingly inert as moss must subsist upon water to survive.

Thus is the cycle of existence perpetuated.

[growling]

All the guys in my head post, cause it turns out actually talking about myself makes me feel better and more like a person than just keeping everything to myself only lmaoooo so to anyone whom it may concern, the gang (debatable) as it stands:

Cecil/Asphodel/Lucius Spencer:

last name spencer first name rotating between lucius, cecil and asphodel. was lucius from the beginning, way later asphodel and from a while ago cecil too.

character flaw: blonde man

also like...... prettyboy lmao??? likes those flower pattern dresses. mid or long hair, i dunno. sometimes looks blonde, sometimes he dyes it this magenta/purple shade, it changes? + has only one eye

most polite/nice out of all us, deliberately makes his voice softer whenever he talks to others to not intimidate them (got a really loud way of talking otherwise, always either yelling, or whispering), but also like, pretty shy. paranoid wild animal core

isolation expert. abandon civilization

gets in the bunker whenever literally anything mildly scary happens. do not count on him in the face of crisis

isn't having ONE oddly brutal traumatic event enough???? why do you have THREE

taller than the body

has guys inside HIS brain too. there's layers to this shit. why did this happen. for a moment i debated including them too but ultimately i didnt. most notable ones include breezepelt (yes from warrior cats) and basil (some guy. serious braincell holder. dad vibes)

despite everything, this is the most Normal guy

Brutus(?):

manifests as this very very speficic image of a drawn maine coon cat (kinda like video from strong heart are mandatory but cuter), but actually a human, but actually a tiger therian

furry

hyper and silly-angry yelling, low kinda growl-like female-sounding voice (but also often makes it higher/softer just like spencer guy), perpetually wants to get mad about things and UPPERCASE YELL but not in a serious way, and doesn't actually care THAT much most of the time. just wants to have fun

REALLY passionate about warrior cats. beats all of us in this regard because it actually cares. this is the warrior cats cat. has THE strongest opinions on it and yes, most of its yelling is actually about them lmaoo

rawr x3c lulz owo hawawawa ROFL le epic XDD lollll <--- this is what i fucking hear. i respect it though tbh

has achieved inner happiness. doing the best out of all of us

in its 30s

like. really fucking jacked. lots of muscles on that thing. strong kitty

switching between aroace and lesbian, has no gender cause that is a tiger

i feel like it and spencer guy know each other?? they gotta actually know each other but how???? HOW do they talk?????

(human form, not really human) taller than the body

transmasc icy from winx club:

transmasc icy from winx club

tied with spencer guy with the title of the oldest/being here the longest. they were there from earlyyyyyy on

chilled out, i think? kinda aloof very mean. would not want to talk to them itll get awkward fast but only for me. siiigh

switches between "surprisingly progressive" and "most far-right 4channer thing you ever heard shut the fuck up please go talk to somebody other than your coven sisters"

fairyphobic :(

only likes/nice to the coven, even then its complicated cause of the Horrors and also the lovelessness

after the transition (congrats on the transition transmasc icy from winx club) changed their name to........... cecil. there is two cecils.

taller than the body

my evil shadow self:

not actually evil just freaks me out

same appearance, voice and opinions as me but guys that is NOT me

wears like multiple clothing (blackout sunglasses, face mask, hoodie, gloves even) to conceal their identity on day to day but like. i know what u are

why....... are you so cool. is this where all my confidence went. did you steal that

please pray for me that rain code chapter 5 won't happen to me today😭😭😭

i know they look the same as me............ but why do i feel like they're taller than the body too somehow.

Yomi Hellsmile:

guy writing this, probably, i believe??

the line between "if we assume that something such as 'me' exists, then that is me" and "that is a whole another person" is VERY blurry

nearly the same as canon yomi except significantly calmed the fuck down, and very blurry recollection of anything revealed in chapter 4 + onwards

horny central. would you stop fucking thinking for 5 minutes

taller than the body whY AM I SO SMALL?????????

Like and subscribe for more glimpses of my dark fucked up reality *loud as fuck minecraft outro bass boosted music starts playing*

[paragonrobits]

"Why is EVERYONE here blonde? I'm somewhat concerned about your land's genetic diversity."

"Oh, that's not the problem. We're not all naturally blonde. That's just the Blonde Goblin at work."

"...Explain."

"Strange chemicals in a roaming perpetual storm perioidcally wash through here. When it comes, so does the Blonde Goblin, a strange spirit of the land who arises with professional hair work kits to ambush people and smash the chemicals into their hair and then it runs off, hooting and a-hollaring."

"Huh. What's it look like?"

"Sort of like one of those wrinkly hairless cats did a fusion dance with those chumbly underwater swimmy things."

"Manatees?"

"THEM'S THE BINCH."

[accurseddove]

𝙁𝙖𝙨𝙘𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣

That obscure desire, not just to have something, to make it your own – but to know it. That inexplicable need to peel back the protective layers of any one object, to see inside, to learn more. To dig your desperate fingers in and excavate, feeling every inch and crevice and hidden corner. Fascination is a desire for exposure and ultimately, ruination.

I 𝙖𝙢 that object. The glittering, faceted prize, slipping through the filthied hands of the men that lounge here. Standing at the bar, leaning against the wall of a shadow-filled corner, lazing at a table, sputtering with drunken laughter and howling indignantly with each Blackjack loss. I am the object of their desire. Lingering in their arms, perched on their laps, sidling up against them in the middle of the hazy, smoke-filled room. Idling just long enough to oblige them the illusion of knowing, the fantasy of ruining. Allowing them to imagine just what it would be like, to delve their weathered and calloused fingers into my flesh, to explore every inch and crevice and hidden curve. To own me. Arousing their fascination, enticing them to stay for just one more round… another drink.. another… Slipping just out of reach before they’re satisfied. Leaving the wanting and whining men to return tomorrow, and pay enough of my drink commission to ensure I can make rent.]

“𝘈𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘺 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨.”

[The brute beneath me slurs wetly into my neck. Perspiration beads against his forehead and his fingers are sticky with sweat as he presses his glass into my hand.

I flash him a charming, lovely, little smile, assessing the heaviness of his lids, the flush in his cheeks, and the slightly concerning way that he swayed an inch to either side while sitting down. With a wink and a nod I slide from his lap to my feet, bouncing away towards the bar. Slipping between throngs of raucous gamblers and arguing cowhands, while offering up seemingly furtive glances and coy smiles on a sliver platter to each set of tired, west-worn eyes that meet my pretty blues.

Leaning against the oaken bartop, I slide the empty glass across and watch as Samuel catches it deftly shooting me a dirty look for nearly breaking another one.

Before he can even ask, I reply to his unspoken question.]

“𝘏𝘦’𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯. 𝘎𝘰 𝘢𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘵.”

[Samuel nods without another word and turns his back to me and the rest of the saloon. He pulls a bottle of rotgut from a shelf tucked beneath, filling the patron’s glass with the watered down swish instead of the real deal he had been drinking. He was too drunk to notice and we would continue charging him for Old Overholt. He still gets drunk as a fiddler’s bitch and we pocket a tidy bait and switch profit.

Every man here has a reason to get shit-faced. Dead wives, pox-ridden children, cattle seized by bandits, wagons and horses lost to brutal camp raids, too much dust, too much sun, a scorpion in their boot, a cactus needle in their ass, or just plain old boredom. Out of all of these plights to plague a man, the most dangerous is the last. A restless man full of drink was more dangerous than rattlesnake in your bed.

For us, ladies of the line, spotting a bored man was crucial. Our best customers and biggest threat. We encouraged the tilting back of their glasses, delicately nudging them along the line between intoxication and lustful belligerence. The moment, however, we saw that agitated spark in their clouding vision, we leapt from that tightwalk, leaving them to plummet into their blue-balled fate.

We were the doves that sidled close for giggles and admiring glances, but we were not the whores they took upstairs. Those could be found a few doors down at the bottom of the barrel saloons with stale, suffocating air and perpetual swill served in chipped, cracked glasses. Not here, not at the Red Cat.

The moment of my return is christened by fat hands curling at the blue cotton that cascades down my hips, tugging me into his lap with a surprising force. Liquor spills onto my skirts and in lieu of irritation I force a breathy giggle, kicking my ankles playfully to find solid footing once more against the weathered mahogany floor. I hold up his newly filled glass with a sweet purr]

𝘔𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘺, 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘶𝘱…

[But instead of leaning forward to sip from the tumbler I hold, he ducks his head to bite rotting teeth at the slip of cotton that covers my shoulder. His forehead smears sweat against my cheek, his meaty fingers slide up a slender corselet, and the sudden vulgar groping of his touch sends a sickened shudder down my spine, twists my stomach with nausea. His grimy dirt-darkened fingers are curled into the top of my bodice, uncut fingernails slicing into the tops of pale breasts.

Fabric begins to tear beneath his grip, his newly revealed goal of touching me, exposing me is suddenly haltingly clear.

The glass of swish I’m holding clatters to the gritty floor and it takes a moment, mere seconds for my dainty hand to slip beneath my skirts and find the pistol, snug against my thigh. The instant the short barrel of the Deringer is pressed beneath the hot, wet, double chin of my admirer, he stills.

With a harsh thud I hit the floor as I’m shoved from his lap. Even so, my arm swings up, but my tiny pocket pistol is met face-to-face with a much larger opponent. A well-oiled Colt kisses my little Deringer and I claw at the desperate hope that the slight trembling of my hand isn’t visible. The patron who was moments ago, imbibed and grinning, is now sneering down at me]

“𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘦? 𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺, 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘱𝘢𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘶𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘐’𝘮 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦.”

[My heart thuds wildly behind my ribcage as his grubby thumb tugs back on the hammer the click of a ready gun loud in the sudden humid hush. The piano has stopped, all the other patrons have turned to watch, wondering if they’ll be leaving with my blood on their shoes.]

“𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘳, 𝘐’𝘮 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦. 𝘌𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘨𝘶𝘯 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯. 𝘚𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘢 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵.”

[Samuel’s voice rumbles in a low warning, his own firearm produced in a sudden Ménage à Trois of leaden threat. My cold blue eyes flick to my his features. The lie of my skilled marksmanship doesn’t show on his face, creased into the scowl of a hound dog.

All it takes is the slight shift of the inebriated patron’s wrist and instantly, with a spray of blood, half his skull is gone, the patterned papered wall behind him decorated with a dark dripping splatter. Vermillion trickles down in rivulets between his eyes, staining his eternal glare before his heavy mass collapses, hitting the floor, weighty and wet.

After a momentary pause, those mingling turn back towards their previous occupancies. The music starts up once more, and Samuel extends his hand toward me, still on the floor.

I take his proffered palm, legs shaking, trying not to choke on the iron tang in the air, and let him lift me to my feet.]

“𝘎𝘰 𝘶𝘱𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘩 𝘶𝘱 𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘺.”

[My boss’s gruff, near paternal affection warms a part of me rarely acknowledged and I nod.

I could feel blood drying on my cheek, heavy in my eyelashes as I blink slowly down at the pool of it, thick and sticky, spreading in a slow crawl toward the soles of my shoes. Lifting my skirts, refusing to look at the dead man with half his head torn away, I step delicately over the crimson that would be gone by tomorrow morning. The body would be hauled off, the floors would be scrubbed clean.

Death is as common in these parts as sand in your eye. A mild inconvenience to most before the inevitability of life moves you along. Everyone here stinks of it. Death clings to your clothes with each day you survive, the grim reaper darkening the doors of anyone stupid enough to travel this far West. And yet here we all wait, with bated breath, hoping that we’re not the next object of his gruesome fascination.]

[erabundus]

@momijiba &&. said... kazuha carefully tugs ren into his lap and wraps his arms around his waist. it's international cat day so kazuha had to show appreciation to his favourite cat out there... his boyfriend. he tugs ren as close as possible until their chests are mushed together and kazuha let his lips give little nips and licks on ren's pretty neck.

he's  not  the  faintest  idea  that  there  may  be  any  outside  reasoning  for  kazuha's  actions;  he  understands  humans  have  an  arbitrary  need  to  come  up  with  the  most  absurd  reasons  to  CELEBRATE  —  a  day  dedicated  to  a  particular  kind  of  food,  or  those  who  favor  one  hand  over  the  other.  that  doesn't  necessarily  mean  he's  in  any  way  compelled  to  LEARN  them,  even  if  his  near-perfect  memory  would  trivialize  the  effort.  (  he's  partaken  in  enough  festivities  to  fill  several  lifetimes;  they've  all  grown  too  STALE  to  enjoy.  )  as  far  as  ren  is  concerned,  this  is  an  ordinary  day  —  and  kazuha  just  so  happens  to  be  in  an  affectionate  mood.  he  certainly  isn't  going  to  complain  about  that.  on  the  contrary,  given  there's  a  part  of  him  perpetually  entrenched  in  an  eternal hunger  for  his  other  half's  attention. he's long past the point of feeling SHAME — at least, in this sort of private setting.

perhaps  he's  biased  in  thinking  so,  but  their  bodies  seem  to  slot  together  perfectly.  arms  curled  around  his  waist,  perched  atop  the  ronin's  lap  as  though  it  were  his  throne.  thrum of a shared heartbeat felt through the press of their chests. his  own  hands  are  thrown  lazily  over  kazuha's  shoulders  —  fingers  curling  and  uncurling  intermittently  with  every  particularly  sharp  dig  of  his  teeth.  it  doesn't  hurt.  not  really;  they're  too  DULL  to  accomplish  any  real  damage  on  a  body  such  as  his  —  and  even  if  that  weren't  the  case,  what  marks  they  leave  fade  (  tragically  )  quickly.  still,  the  faint  sting  of  a  fleeting  bite  does  enough  for  him  that  he  tilts  his  head  in  an  effort  to  afford  him  easier  access.

it's  nice,  but  it's  nowhere  near  ENOUGH.  and  maybe  he's  selfish  for  that  —  he  is  always  willing  to  take  what  kazuha  is  willing  to  give,  but  that  doesn't  stop  him  from  wanting  more.

❝  ...  ❞   he  shifts  suddenly,  pulling  away  (  albeit  reluctantly  )  to  stare.  jaw  works  uselessly;  he's  aware  of  how  ridiculous  he  must  look  right  now  —  disheveled,  dazed,  face  dusted  a  very  telling,  pinkish  hue.  ❝  ...  kazuha.  ❞  ren  manages  after  a  noticeably  long  pause.  he  knows  what  he  wants  —  or  at  least,  he  thinks  he  does.  his  neck  is  a  sensitive  area.  literally  in  this  context,  but  also  metaphorically  in  a  way  that's  led  to  some  terribly  AWKWARD  situations  in  the  past.  it's  one  of  the  only  times  he's  ever  turned  him  away,  too  entrenched  in  self-disgust  to  focus  on  the  feeling.  their  relationship  was  too  new,  then.  perhaps  now,  things  are  different.  (  perhaps  now,  they are  different, too.  )  ❝  could  you ...  ❞ the wanderer begins to ask, only to trail off just as quickly.

...  no.  it's  too  insufferable  to  request  with  mere  words.  instead,  slim  fingers  wrap  around  the  human's  wrist.  he  leans  forward,  burying  his  face  in  kazuha's  shoulder  —  while  directing  his  hand  to  that  damnable  mark  on  the  back  of  his  neck  he's  oft  equated  to  a  brand.  ❝  you  can ...  if  you want.  ❞   touch it. do  whatever  he  wants  to  it,  that  is.  even  this  tiny  scrap  of  contact  has  revulsion  crawling  up  his  spine  —  but  he's a bit surprised to find it  isn't  entirely  bad ...  and  maybe  he  trusts  kazuha  enough  to  make  it  better.

[angstfactory]

His response was no better than an ambiguous grunt, as he neither confirmed nor denied if he was 'down in the dumps'. Certainly didn't appear like he was having a hell of a time, he was sure. But Jesse's mood normally rested somewhere in this state of perpetual displeasure at... well, life, perhaps. Maybe if his sister hadn't ditched some years back, he could have mustered a smile and kinder words more often, but shit just didn't turn out that way.

"Kitty?" The judgment was clear in the way the male's brows lifted high on his forehead, and gaze dropped back down to the baby goat milling about her feet. What kind of name was Kitty? He wondered if it had a personality similar to a cat and thus inspired its name. Or was she simply being one of those people that wanted to be cheeky with their labels? Well, didn't really matter -- it was her animal, her choice, and he'd heard plenty worse and definitely ones more obnoxious, too. Hell, they had a pig around here called Petunia. Kitty was easy enough to remember, at least.

Jesse's face scrunched up in some distaste to learn one of the farmers nearby had apparently listed this animal with a death sentence. Boy, did he hate that kind of thing. It was along the same sense of people who used to put a horse down over a broken leg or something. They didn't do that to humans, made no sense they should to animals, in his opinion. People had no damn patience and care to invest in rehabilitation. Far as he was concerned, anyone with that kind of mindset shouldn't be allowed to have animals then, if they weren't planning to take on all the potential pit-falls that came with taking care of them, too. This kid here, he could see right away it was tiny -- hell, maybe even smaller than their newest runt. But that didn't mean it wasn't viable for a healthy life.

He decided to indulge her a moment, simply for being of the same mindset towards creatures that relied on their humanity. "Well," Jesse folded up that greasy rag and pocketed it, seemingly unbothered by the fact it did nothing to clean away the gunk on his fingers, "if you got some questions, I'll see what I can answer." He once again looked down at the tiny goat. "Looks to be thrivin' enough already." That was probably as close to a compliment as someone like Jesse would get. "You got any other animals?" he asked then. "If you work a lot, these guys can get pretty lonely."

"Well surely no one visiting would look so down in the dumps," Ingrid responded to his sarcasm, giving it a response - and a semi-serious one at that - even while knowing that it was indeed sarcasm. Ingrid wasn't afraid of a little attitude, even while she wasn't one to give anything of the sorts in return, not unless it was truly earned, at least. She watched him saunter over with the sorry excuse of a clean rag in hand, and she smiled down at Kitty during the short wait.

She hoped that she wasn't being a bother, simply dropping by without calling first or giving any form of warning; the last thing that Ingrid wanted to do was cause the other any form of unwanted, negative feelings, but she had come from a place where her local community were the sort to not have to call ahead and give notice. There were many obstacles that came with moving to a new place, and while a lot of Ingrid's worries were indeed unfounded, she did still worry anyway, hating to do anything wrong.

"Oh no, no no," Ingrid quickly shook her head at Jesse's words, laughing softly at the misunderstanding. "No one could take Kitty away from me no matter how hard they tried," she was only half-joking; if Kitty needed better care, or anything of the sorts, Ingrid could have been persuaded, but she truly did just have Kitty's best interest at heart. "This is Kitty, obviously, and I'm Ingrid," she introduced herself. "I was actually hoping to get a little advice, if that's something that's possible. We're a new pair, Kitty and I, and I just want to make sure that she'll thrive. Farmer told me there was almost no hope; all I heard was the almost."