#( he'll be a side muse among a few others )

[hellguarded-a]

hey!!  i’ve moved.  or started to.  like i said i would.  same url, same deal, the blog is just empty for now,  but i’m working on it!  :^)

#≥ file 666: REDACTED #( part of me also wondered like. should i make it a proper multimuse? ) #( but. nah. i know myself better than that by now. ) #( hyperfocusing peanut brain ) #( but i do have a cute bird boy that's been occupying my mind for a hot minute now ) #( he'll be a side muse among a few others ) #( i'll promo it 'officially' later but just tossing it out there for now. so i can relog and actually work on the new blog lmao ) #( god bless carrd at least i dont have to remake everything ) #( this post will be rb'd from my phone a few times i guess )

[zooophagous]

Artemis adjusted her sleeve and slid her tightly fitted glove over her hand. She made a few grasping motions, testing the movement. Movement was important. Movement was crucial. Movement was the difference between life and death, and if her equipment was too restrictive it could end up killing the hunter it was meant to protect.

Strauss stood across the way from her. He wasn't messing with protective equipment. He didn't need to. He was stretching. He pulled one arm across his chest, then mirrored with the other, and tilted his head to either side, resulting in an audible clicking as his stiff joints readied for action. He looked bored, waiting for her to catch up. He shook out his hands at his sides. Artemis smirked, he looked something like a cowboy at high noon, preparing to draw.

You didn't see very many vampire cowboys.

"I want all of you to pay close attention to Director Van Helsing's technique. She is among the finest among our ranks, and you won't find a better example to learn from. You are all in for a very rare treat. A live mock-slaying like this with a real vampire is the first in the Institute's history." Ursula addressed the audience that filled the bleachers of the gymnasium.

"Mock slaying is it?" Strauss sneered at her. "How presumptuous. I think you'll find it to be more of a simulated feeding than a slaying."

He winked across the way at Artemis, who narrowed her eyes and slid her face mask into position. It was stark white and emotionless, mannekin-like; bulletproof and quite creepy, though whether or not a vampire was intimidated by it was anyone's guess. It was the final piece of the slayer's uniform, which included a neck guard, knee pads, a kevlar vest and threads of real silver that ran through the athletic wear, giving it a shimmering glitter effect that danced in the spotlight. She hated the glitter effect, really. It was hard to look properly intimidating when wearing a sparkly spandex. Let him try and touch it, though, and he'll change his tune, she mused.

"Oh, you think you can take down an actual Van Helsing, do you?" Artemis teased in return.

"I do not think, Frau Van Helsing. I know."

"Then you're not afraid of a little wager? Name your prize."

"I'm not sure I should say what I want from you in mixed company, Frau Van Helsing." He winked at her.

She blushed bright red, but under her mask, luckily the crowd would never tell. Even more luckily for Strauss, Ursula didn't seem to be paying attention to their back and forth, too focused on her students.

"Director Van Helsing will be wearing the standard slayer's uniform. This is the same uniform our field agents and graduates use, and you will hopefully get to see the purpose behind each piece, if Mr. Strauss does not simply lose the round immediately." She glanced disdainfully at the vampire. She didn't have high hopes.

"Mr. Strauss will be wearing standard athletic safety equipment but no other armor. The purpose is to simulate a meeting in the field, in which an agent accosts a vampire en situ without preparation. Director Van Helsing will be using standard issue knives and a Cardi-axe heartstick device much like the ones in your own toolkit. However, given that we do not want to actually murder Mr. Strauss tonight, the silver blade and hydrolic components of the weapons have been replaced with paint dummies. If Director Van Helsing lands a hit, it will show up as a blue mark."

She turned to Strauss, who now had paint on his hands from a marker of his own.

"Mr. Strauss has chosen for a weapon his own natural defenses. Where he touches with his claws, it will show up as a red mark. At the end of the mock fight, the winner will be announced after tallying up the amount of fatal or incapacitating injuries on the combatants."

It was time to square up. Artemis drew her first weapon, a blade, similiar to the rapier one might use in fencing. It was hard to maintain an intimidating look when one glanced down the length of the thing to see a little blue ball at its tip. Beyond the point of the weapon, Strauss stood across the staging area and wiped his palm across his mouth, giving him a red smear along his fangs.

"Beware my bite, Frau Van Helsing. It will leave a mark."

"Trust me Strauss, you won't be getting that close."

He began to pace. Slowly the combatants circled each other. Artemis held her sword up and ready, the point aimed in warning at the creature whose eyes bored into her own. The mask covered much of her face, including the eyes. In theory he shouldn't be able to see her expressions, part of the psychological portion of warfare. She got the feeling that he did, though.

He was much like a tiger; slowly padding around the hunter in careful steps that made no sound.  When he spoke to her, it was a deep purr dripping in honey.

"There is no need for that kind of violence. Why don't you set that down, and we can talk this out reasonably?"

He almost sounded... melodic? Artemis shook her head and snorted.

"Are you seriously trying to use hypnosis to get me to drop my weapon? I wasn't born yesterday."

"Worth a shot." He shrugged.

And charged.

Artemis lept deftly to one side as Strauss barrelled past like a locomotive. He swung and missed, and left a red streak on the floor where he used his hand to stop himself and turn. He sprung back at her with a snarl.

She didn't have enough room to stab, but enough time to block. She crossed the rapier over her chest and caught the reddened claw before it hit her. Taking advantage of their closeness, she rammed her knee hard into the vampire's groin.

Strauss grunted and backed off. An athletic cup had mostly saved him, but the surprise at her ferocity had pushed him back, for the moment.

"Remind me not to make you angry outside of the ring."

"And here you thought this would be easy."

She sprung forward with a wide slash of her weapon. Strauss dodged easily, leaping backwards and breaking into a run around her as she desperately pivoted in place to face him. He went at her and she went low. He was strong and wiry, but a skinny thing. She lowered her center of gravity and bowled him over her own head.

He hit the floor. She stood over him with the tip of her blade at his neck.

"Do you yield?"

"You didn't say please."

He kicked her leg out from under her. She fell hard, inwardly cursing herself for the hesitation. She rolled away from him. He grabbed her by the arm but quickly let go with a sharp breath of pain. The silver thread had done its job.

Both of them were up and moving now. They retreated from each other and stood apart, sizing each other up.

"You've a bit of red on you, Frau Van Helsing. Am I getting too close for comfort?"

"If I had a paint marker on my knees you'd be sporting a set of blue balls, Strauss, don't get too cocky."

"What a crass pun. I am having fun today."

"You might feel differently after you lose."

He bared his teeth and ran at her with a roar. She braced with her blade in front of her. He faked left, then went right, then swiped at her sword arm. She struck back. He caught her by the hilt and made to take the weapon from her. She swung her free arm into his face. The glisten of the silver thread that close made him lose a second, which she used to free her weapon and slash it across his torso.

Not a killing blow, but the blue trace across his shirt was clearly a very painful simulated wound. He staggered back, and glanced down at the paint with a scowl. He looked back up at her and gave a hateful hiss.

The red paint on his face and hands gave him the appearance of a creature out for blood. The baleful expression completed the effect.

"Tiger, tiger." Artemis muttered to herself, trying and failing to remember the words of the famous poem.

Strauss sprang forward again. He grabbed her arm hard, despite the sting of the protective thread, and sacrificed a moment of pain for leverage. He grabbed her mask with his spare hand and wrenched it off center, blinding her.

She swung her fist at him hard in the dark. She dropped her rapier. This was going south. With one hand she fumbled her holster for the Cardi-Axe device and with the other she peeled off her mask to face her opponent.

She had just enough time to see him bear down on her hard once again before being taken to the floor.

Strauss had gotten her mask off, and it was all he needed. One hand on her throat, he pinned her to the floor and was at her now exposed neck. She winced under his cold breath and the faintest sensation of his fangs on her skin, threatening to bite.

The bite never came.

Strauss chuckled darkly in her ear and pulled away to see the red mark of paint along the vein in her neck. The mark of a fatal blow.

"Game, set, match, Van Helsing."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Strauss. You lost."

He looked down, and saw with some surprise, a mess of blue paint. She held the spent Cardi-Axe bolt gun in her hand, now covered in sky blue paint from where she had shot him in the chest as they had fallen. A fatal blow was there, directly over the heart.

He touched the paint and examined it with surpirse in his eyes, almost as if it were really his own blood.

Ursula stood stammering with her mouth open, getting increasingly more flustered until she grabbed the mic and addressed the crowd once more.

"Well! I didn't expect Mr. Strauss had enough practice killing people to be that good at this. Seems I was mistaken. We have a tie."

She approached the two fallen warriors with an air of disappointment. "Alas, this is an all too common outcome. The monster is slain, but the hunter is also tragically felled. As you see here we have two fatal blows. I cannot tell you how many good hunters have died and taken their quarry with them. It just goes to show all of you, no matter how good you are or how poor you believe your opponent to be, this is always a life or death matter."

Strauss stood up and offered his hand to Artemis, who took it, and rose to her feet.

"That was a very enlightening sparring match, Frau Van Helsing. Thank you for playing with me today."

"Any time. Too bad about our wager."

"Well. Perhaps since we both won, we should both get something we want, hm?"

"What if we want the same thing?" She winked.

It was Strauss' turn to blush.

"Hold on a moment, Mr. Strauss." Ursula wandered into the ring. "I think for argument's sake, I'd like to go a round with you."

"You?"

"Trust me, it will be over fast."

Strauss smirked. "You know I won't hold back in the ring. Are you certain?"

"Very."

In one fluid moment, Ursula drew a pistol from her pocket. "Do you yield, vampire?"

Strauss chuckled and meekly raised his hands in mock surrender.

"To you, Frau Harker, I yield."

"Not good enough."

POP. POP. POP. POP. POP.

She fired the rounds in rapid succession. Each one struck and exploded across Strauss' shirt in a mess of bright yellow paint. He staggered back and looked down at his ruined shirt in disbelief.

"There. Five fatal blows in a row. That is my most important lesson to impart on all of the students- if you're close enough to use your bladed weapons, you're too close. Don't be stupid. Use ranged whenever possible. Director Van Helsing got lucky here, but the Cardi-Axe device is intended for unconscious or restrained subjects only."

She turned to Strauss with a prideful "Hmph!"

"Go get yourselves cleaned up, you two. And everyone else can head to commissary. Get moving, we have to clean the gym before the damn paint sets."

Strauss headed towards the showers, but not before leaning in conspiratorially to Artemis as he passed.

"Are you quite serious about this 'wager' of ours?"

"Get cleaned up and meet me at my office. We'll talk."

#wayward souls #writing

[cityandking]

barbarian, paladin, wizard for minah, dai and caes!

ty my dear!! // d&d character class asks

barbarian: What makes your muse angry? How do they manage their anger? Has their rage ever led them to destroy something important?

MINAH — minah is generally easygoing and doesn't get angry a lot, but when she does it's usually personal. her anger is kind of insular and specific; she feels it on behalf of herself and a few people who are important to her but it doesn't really extend beyond that. on the occasion that she does get properly angry, she tends to be direct and sharp—she's not good at holding back. while anger specifically hasn't driven her to destroy anything important, she's destroyed important things and felt rage among the other emotions that led to that destruction. DAI — dai mostly gets angry about big and external stuff—how people treat each other, injustices in the world, how people treat themselves. he's pretty slow to actually reach full-blown rage (he'll simmer in irritation and annoyance for ages) and when he feels on that cusp he does his best to step away for at least a little bit and do some meditation or training or prayer, whatever he needs to recenter himself. it's on those rare occasions where he can't get away, or where the thing he's angry about is really close to home, that he snaps. I think he might consider his fight with izzy and their fallout to be something destroyed by anger, but he's self-aware enough to know it's more complicated than just that. CAES — sooooo much, and boy can he hold a grudge. he's got an itemized list of slights, abuses and mistreatment living rent free in his mind and he does not forgive or forget. he kind of lives his life operating at a constant low grade fury, which he channels into plotting the slow and specific downfall of his enemies. enrichment for his enclosure etc etc. his rage has led him to destroy plenty, but never anything that important to him. (he felt a tiny bit bad for Anaea's death, but it was a necessary loss to get things moving along. and she was never going to survive his plans anyway)

paladin: What does your muse fight for? What tenets or oaths drive them? Have they ever had to break a vow, and if they have, why?

MINAH — mostly she fights to survive, but somewhere deep deep down at the core of her, the one thing that's truly keeping her from abandoning the wardens and the blight, she fights to make up for a promise she broke. at the time it seemed like the only option, and she stands by that decision, but sometimes she wonders what might have happened if she'd made a different choice. it's not repentance exactly, but it's the closest thing to an oath she's got. that said, she still views survival as the greatest driving force in her life DAI — his paladin tenets are valor, discernment, resolve and character—he fights to protect people who can't protect themselves and to fix what's been broken. he's incredibly driven by the desire to help and heal (and save) whatever he can. on the flip side he's absolutely willing to take up the sword or the shield and excise what can't be saved and must be stopped. I don't think he's broken a vow yet? he takes his word incredibly seriously CAES — he fights for himself. he hasn't exactly got oaths or tenets but his own power and protection and standing are the things that drive him. technically he's broken any vow he made to House Nivaeum, but since they bought and owned him he considers any promises made to be null and void.

wizard: What is your muse like as a student? Do they have the patience for studying? What do they like learning about? What do they most want to know?

MINAH — she's a decent student. she gets impatient when it's stuff she doesn't care about, but she's got the curiosity and study habits to pick up the stuff she is interested in pretty quickly. she likes learning new crafts, languages, gossip, and secrets. she most wants to know [redacted]. DAI — he's such a teacher's pet. he's also honestly curious and likes learning and has good study habits but he's just incapable of Not being a teacher's pet. he's honestly gotten really into learning about the places he's visiting—y'know, learning to let go of expectation and just enjoy the experience. he'd love to know how to heal/fix the void. CAES — he's a decent student—very driven to learn what interests (or empowers) him, less interested in the other faff. he has immense patience, and he applies it to his studies as much as anything else. he likes learning magic, and also history and politics—he likes the networks and the webs they produce. he'd like to know all his enemies secrets so he can use them against people.

#tyyyyyyy #love these kids. love to reveal minah's redacteds someday #memery #caesonius #minah #daichi

[dragonofthestone]

@lunaferrous asked:

scars, chronic

scars:  how many scars does my muse have? where are they located on my muse’s body? how did they get them? what do they look like? 

Alright so given his unique body and it's heightened ability to heal you might think that would mean a lack of scars. Quite the opposite in fact, as while his body may does heal faster then the average person and given enough time has a better chance of surviving from potentially fateful wounds it still heals in much the same ways any living creature (barring like magic / anything that can go beyond natural limits like the Philosopher's stone or something)

It does take a little more for his body to form a scar- so something that may leave someone with only a small / faint scar would probably heal up fine with no scarring.

He has a lot of scars,

the most prominent of course being the one over his eye- the how is something that tends to vary depending on verse, typically it's one of the many acquired during his time as a lab rat.

Although in time he had no trouble healing from the injury not even his healing was capable of repairing the damage done to his eye.

The nerves around that side of his face are kinda screwy- there's a few small spots where in he actually has no feeling, while others are a bit more sensitive to touch.

It's not a clean scar to say the least, the skin is patchy and scarring actually makes it hard to hold it all the way open so most of the time he keeps it closed- also because the tear ducts / eyes general ability to keep wet is kinda fucked so keeps it protected/avoids drying out.

(Modern verse- it was an injury recieved when he got caught in the blast of an old detonated mine that killed his little bro)

He's got a lot of scars all over his body, many being quite faint / not as noticeable as others, remains of the many different experiments. Some were from genuine accidents, an experiment gone wrong or results no one had expected. Others were more intentional as part of an experiment with wanting to be able to see the extent of not only what he could heal from but how long it would take. Or simply as a result from wanting to see how he'd react to certain stimuli,

and of course more then once pitting him against another Chimera (or worse Alchemist) to see how he could handle in a fight.

He does have one sizable scar on the back of one of his calves from when he fell out of a tree as a kid and got a rather nasty cut from a tree branch

Slightly less obvious are some faint areas of scarring caused by the Alchemical process. For most alchemy when a transmutation is done that changes the form of something it leaves behind a trace, so why wouldn't the same be true for Chimera? Typically they aren't to noticeable often hidden by fur or feathers, hidden among the textures and patterns of their skin or perhaps in a place most wouldn't notice.

For Tim most of those marks are generally hidden by clothes, the largest and likely most noticeable is on his back near the base of his tail. At a glance it really looks just like a slightly discoloured patch of skin that if touch has a slightly different feel then other parts of his body.

(Do Mental/psychological scars count? He's got a bucket load of those too lol)

chronic: does my muse have any chronic health conditions / illnesses? how do these affect them from day-to-day? 

Coming as a surprise to no one who's spent anytime on this blog (or around Tim) He suffers heavily from Chronic pain, his worst/most problematic areas being his hands, one may commonly see him rubbing his hands usually by the wrist, and back- mostly lower back especially the closer you get to where his tail connects- which in combination with general balance problems is why his posture isn't always great.

But those are just the worst sources of pain and frequently deals with joint and/or muscle pains else where. Such as his eye which sometimes he'll just get bad phantom pains from it- due to the rather messed nerve signals around there.

He's not one to complain about his discomforts whether it be from the innate animal instinct to not show weakness / hide the pain or simply not wanting to cause any one unneeded worry and be a bother. Like a lot of medication, pain management treatments tend to be a gamble on whether or not they'll be of any affect to him, he does tend to respond better to more natural remedies, herbal stuff and the like you know. Heat / warmth go along way to help ease the pain, another reason you'll find him seeking out the warmest spots.

Most days it's manageable enough that even if not pleasant it's at a level he's become accustomed too and can deal with.

One can usually judge his pain levels by how active he's being, less active or less willing to be active assuming there's no other potential outside factors, the more pain he's in that day. If it's really bad he may also come across as a bit snippier then normal and just in general has a lower tolerance for certain things

Storms are no fun and tend to make it worse is frequently when the pain to his eye will flare up too- which does often make him a decent predictor on whether bad weather is coming.

headaches/migraines aren't uncommon for him either.

Pain isn't the only issue,

His other main health problem would be his Chronic insomnia -if not having full Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (I'm hesitant to officially drop the label on him but just various symptoms/signs of it a lot of the things very much apply to him at the very least he's borderline)

Some nights he just won't/can't sleep at all, and when he can/does will often frequently wake up.

Now in part it is once again another trouble created from his Chimeric design, with an internal clock that's more suited to Crepuscular bordering Nocturnal in combination with being an attempt at wanting someone/ a creature that could go without sleep for extended periods. Add on chronic pain plus nightmares and you've got a nest recipe for one sleepless guy, and is why you may frequently find him taking short naps through out the day.

Much like with pain the only truly affective remedy tends to be natural ones, such as drinking Valerian tea.

Has some mild lung problems do to scarring- which again can be attributed to alchemy and his creation process, because forcefully changing something into a form it was never meant to be is damaging (imperfect as it is the Pseudo, half-baked attempt at stone in his body is quite honestly probably the only thing that's saving him/his body from just rejecting itself- like a body rejecting an organ after a transplant)

It doesn't cause him too much problems for the most part- both stamina and endurance are in the above average range but it does take him a bit long to catch his breath and can get winded easier then one might expect. The cold, especially cold, dry air plays havoc with it.

Also affecting his breathing is the fact his heart isn't exactly in the right place, it's sort of pushed more to the right, closer to center of his chest kinda, which creates pressure against his lungs/makes everything else all wonky.

Quite honestly Tim's a medical marvel not for being a Chimera but simply for the fact that he's not dead.

You can probably also add his laundry list of Mental Health issues here too if you want.

#lab report || about tim #illness tw #injury tw #keep it secret: ask #abuse tw #experiment tw #scars tw #Look I've frequently wondered why having an exceptional / superhuman healing has to mean 0 scarring #scars are literally just a way the body heals itself having to pull back together damaged skin #long post #[also undecided but kind like the image of if/when he gets wings there'd be a pair of faint lines on his back from where the emerge] #[part of me thinks it'd be interesting if it was like completely flipped with his heart on the right] #[tim gets hit in the chest; everyone freaking out and he's just.. i'll be okay] #[I should do a sketch of his scars if only to give myself an actual visual to help figure em out]

[overx]

Which of your muses is more likely to talk in their sleep?

Which of your muses sleeps the most?

Which of your muses is the most sociable?

Which of your muses would win, if all of them had a drinking contest?

Which of your muses is the worst sore loser?

Which one of them is the most cynical?

Which of your muses is the most likely to murder someone just to prove a point?

Which of your muses would kill to prove a point / that they are right?

𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 ! Multi muse asks | Accepting

[[This post got long even though I tried to keep most of the answers short until the last few sooooo read more.]]

Which of your muses is more likely to talk in their sleep?

[[Probably Rho! He's a very restless sleeper when he does get sleep at all. He moves a lot, and even sleepwalks on occasion. Sleep talking is just another facet of that, but typically no one is around to notice these things.

Which of your muses sleeps the most?

That one is a bit of a toss up! The general gist though is Voluntas because some days just demand being lazy or "sloth-like", since demons embody all of the sins and not just their major one.

Rock is also high on the list here. Put simply, when he's dealing with a depressive episode, he sleeps (if he's not choosing to be self destructive instead). This isn't an always thing for him but it crops up semi frequently.

Honorable mention from the side muses for Link because I mean. Yeah.

Which of your muses is the most sociable?

I'd probably have to give this one to Xanti! He used to be pretty shy and awkward, but his role as a public figure has really made him grow out of that. He's polite, friendly and (secretly) a bit of a gremlin.

Besides them though, I'd say Alexander and Raziel are pretty high on the list. They both tend to do fine with new people and enjoy making friends.

Which of your muses would win, if all of them had a drinking contest?

Volt and Rho are the top contenders here! It takes a lot of alcohol to have an effect on either of them. Even drinks with magical properties would take time to kick in. If they were directly competing it would probably come down to the rules and what they're specifically drinking.

After them though, it's probably Vile and Rock. These two pretty regularly partake, on top of being machines. They're not really lightweights among their peers.

Which of your muses is the worst sore loser?

VOLT VOLT VOLT VOLT VOLT. Pride ranks pretty high in his hierarchy of sins and he cannot STAND losing to most people. Especially people he doesn't like or respect. How he acts when he loses depends on the situation of course, but in general he's bad at it.

Which one of them is the most cynical?

It's Rock? It's Rock. I cannot emphasize enough how much he does not trust most people or care about them. He doesn't really believe in good people, and tends to brush off the suffering of others unless he's personally invested in them.

To be frank, I've had several muses in the past try to open up to him about their histories before he knew or cared about them and he was.... less than stellar in those interactions. He keeps his own pain and trauma close to chest, and is distrustful of those who are open about the darker parts of their lives. He tends to view openness of that kind when shared without 'reason' as a manipulation tactic. Even muses he IS close to don't know the full extent of the things he's been through, and he will keep it that way unless it is strictly necessary.

This is to say if your muse is a stranger and they trauma dump on him or come to him in need, he's going to walk away at best. BUT ALSO if your muse is immediately friendly with him, he'll think they have an underlying motive. There is a reason I do not recommend him as a first interaction muse if we haven't threaded before.

Of course on the flip side of this, Cale is the same way. Just a different flavor of cynicism. He projects friendliness and optimism because it's disarming, and because he genuinely believes that absolutely selfless people do not exist. To him, the world is so broken and people are inherently damaged.

Even those with the best intentions can and have been bought. Anyone can cause harm if it will benefit them personally or they believe it will bring good in the long run. The difference is that Cale sees kindness as a struggle, and as a radical act to give in a dying world.

He gives it, because generosity and compassion do not actually exist. Because good men do bad things, and bad men do good things, and the cycle of hurt is endless in turn.

Which of your muses is the most likely to murder someone just to prove a point? & Which of your muses would kill to prove a point / that they are right?

I see these questions as kind of intertwined so I'm going to group them up a bit. Essentially this is who would kill because they can, and who would kill because they should.

Voluntas is absolutely the former. He will not hesitate to maim or murder purely because someone irritated him. Violence is at the core of his nature, and death is a weightless thing.

Close to him is Rock, because violence is so commonplace where he's from. It is a language, a way to defend yourself, and to prove who is or is not vulnerable. It sends a message, and he is beyond caring about the cost.

Both of them would absolutely kill to show that they aren't above it, and to make sure you know not to fuck with them.

To kill for your beliefs is a different thing though.

Crimson is the epitome of this. He is the weapon for the cause. The sword taken up against the enemy. Much of his self identity is tied into the idea of existing solely for battles with a greater purpose.

Then there's Rho. Right now he lives only to slay the new Gods of his world. To him, they are the root cause of much of the suffering in life, and hunting them is both selfless and selfish.

Vile also falls into this list in that his work makes killing a requirement. He absolutely has the capacity to do it for personal belief, even if it hasn't happened yet.

Alexander also can straddle this line in very specific circumstances. If the wrong kind of person crosses his path, there is no reason to show mercy.

There are others who would kill for a cause but haven't yet... by which I mean Cale. He pretends he's a pacifist but he isn't, and he would kill for the greater good if the opportunity ever presented itself. He hasn't been put in this kind of position though, so for now his hands are clean.]]

#long post #{rho} #{rock} #{cale} #{xanti} #{vi} #{alexander} #{volt} #{raziel} #{crimson} #[schematics]

[cellarfulofnose]

Heart of the Country

Well, life on the farm is kinda laid-back...

(submitted by my lovely muse @adreadfulcantata. happy birthday ^3^)

Paul's milking the goat when the melody comes to him. He mumbles a line, and it almost shapes itself (really, there's only so many places the chord changes can go), but then Tina tosses her head and he realizes he's stopped in his work. He resumes diligently, raising his head to call out over Tina's back.

"Lin?" His breath fogs out into a pale cloud in the cold of the baby-blue morning. Swish, swish, sings the pail, ringing with each jet of milk.

"What?" Linda stands where she'd been squatting next to the chicken coop. There's only a small handful of eggs in her basket, and they're covered in hay and feathers and chicken shit but they're all lovely, the shells varying from blue to green to brown.

Paul blinks, because she's perfect and he doesn't have his camera. He hums the line again. "What d'you think?"

"What's that?"

"For the--second song." He hums it again, and taps his foot too. It's bluesy like that; a gut bass wouldn't go amiss.

Linda hums it back, nodding thoughtfully to the beat, then raises her eyebrows in acknowledgement. "I like it. It swings."

Paul gives a little wiggle, shoulders and hips, as well as he can for kneeling on the ground. Tina's all done; she walks off in search of her kid. He and Linda throw the tune back and forth a few times until it's got legs. On the walk back to the house, he starts to ad-lib, scatting a few bars, just until he can get his hand around a pen and start writing words. But it's a pan-handle that ends up in his hand instead, once they cross the threshold into the kitchen--omelets really can't wait. Linda compromises, lets him drag out a tape recorder to catch their little breakfast demo. As longs as he keeps cooking.

"What's that, Delta blues?" she asks, pouring tea.

"Mm, not quite. Little more country-western." A Texas drawl bleeds through to tug at his vowels, harden his r's. He adds diced peppers, tomatoes, and a handful of spinach to the beaten eggs. As they sizzle on the skillet, he whistles. Linda dances, shoulders shimmying. He laughs.

"This is nice, isn't it?" He's not planning to say it, but. Jesus, the sun coming through the window, the wind chimes on the porch. Somebody's got to.

"It smells great," Linda agrees--means to.

Paul chuckles. "No, the--"

"Oh, the song? Yeah, it's a good one."

"I just meant..." He gestures as well as he can with a spatula in one hand and a pan at the other. Shrugs at the room. "Just this."

"Hmm." There's a clink as she sets down the teacups, then her hands slide into his pockets from behind, and she kisses his shoulder. He curls against her, still too busy fending off burnt eggs to give much of anything back. But she's there for a breath, a side-to-side sway, then she's gathering plates.

"The country tune, it's not bad, though," Paul says a bit later, omelets plated and toast buttered.

"No. I like it."

He hesitates a moment, then, "John would hate it."

"Well," Linda says with exaggerated shock, "then." Might as well scrap the whole thing, hadn't we?

"I mean, I don't really mind, though. It's such a high, isn't it? Writing together?"

"It's kind of an ego trip," she admits, "making something ex nihilo. I don't know how you two kept your heads on." She raises the teacup to her lips. "Don't know how you stayed so ridiculously humble." Her eyes widen, then crinkle with a smile as she drinks.

Paul flips his hair over his shoulder, preening for her. He'll play the prima donna, because it's funny and she's right. He fancied himself a god among men once and, well, forgive him, but they were creating life out of nothing.

All right, not out of nothing. Thesis-antithesis, synthesis. Not genesis. It was part of them put together that grew into something as alive as a song, as self-sufficient as an album. Like...like childbirth.

Paul thinks of all the young songs toddling about out there, hyphenated to bear his last name, some old enough now to be starting primary school. He finishes his toast.

A few mouthfuls of bread doesn't push it down all the way, though. As they clean up, he starts talking again; not necessarily saying anything, mind you. "I think, with me and John, it was sort of..."

Linda pauses, giving him ample time to spit out the word he's looking for. He doesn't. "Give me a hint."

Paul shakes his head and hands her a dish to dry. "Not like exercise, you know, not a chore, like we were forced to, but we sort of...had to. Had to get it out, you know?" He gestures too broadly, wrist-deep in suds, and splashes his shirt.

"Cathartic?"

It clicks nicely. "Yeah," he says, because he's not going to find a better match than that. Purifying release. Yet it feels too...clean, somehow. Too pretty.

"Do you miss him?"

Paul doesn't like the feeling that floods his chest. The specific brand of defense that used to keep his blood pumping whenever they'd sit for American journalists. It's self-preservation--keeps him from blurting, Why the hell would you ask me that? Besides, he's not angry at her. She's not going to print it in the papers. She just wants to know.

He takes a breath. "Course I do, yeah. I mean. Shouldn't I?"

"What do you miss most about him?"

All right, that's...he's still not angry with her. He allows himself a laugh that's really a sigh. "Lin."

"Or is it the songwriting that you miss?"

"No. I don't--I just--" Linda motions for Paul to give her the next dish, and he rinses it and hands it over. "I mean, he's my best friend, I just. Miss him." She's quiet, so he continues. "I miss havin' him around."

"To do what?"

"Not to do anything, to just be there. Just be around each other." Paul shrugs. "I miss that."

Linda leans against the counter and smiles. "Great. Say that."

Paul blinks at her. "What, I just miss--"

"Not to me. Goober." She swats him with the dish towel. "Pick up the telephone. And say it to John."

"Oh." Paul huffs, taking great care not to roll his eyes as he reaches across the counter for an aubergine. "Right, let me just--"

"Go--down--the road." She punctuates each beat with another gentle whack from the dish towel and sets the last plate up in the cupboard.

Paul opens his mouth to protest, but it sort of dissolves. "Okay." Even now, this path is giving him uneasy footing. It's too simple. If it were that easy, he would've already just...wouldn't he? He dries his hands and rolls his sleeves back down. They're cold; he couldn't stop them getting wet. What harm is there in humoring her, though?

He must look like he's taking his sweet time, because Linda asks if he needs tuppence for the phone. As a matter of fact, he can manage, thank you, so he starts to hike down the road. The sun's coming up now. Just after six; Heather won't be up for half an hour yet. The driveway's all but dry now. After the last month's heavy rains, Paul was sure they'd be wading knee-deep in mud the rest of their lives, and yet. Slender green shoots will be daffodils soon, and then it'll be summer.

Paul's halfway to the phone box when he remembers the tape recorder. What a coda for the only demo of their country song--I miss him, I miss him, boo-hoo-hoo. Bleeding Christ. He's going to have to cut that tape. He picks up his pace, partly just to keep up with the way his lungs have kicked into fourth gear, but it's a bad idea. All of this. Right, he'll pick up the phone and call John, who he last spoke to through a lawyer, and tell him...tell him what, exactly? No, he can forget about the whole thing. He's not doing it. At least the trip isn't a total waste--he's getting a nice hike out of it.

He picks up the phone. He doesn't know why, but there's no harm in it, really. He could call Ringo, while he's here. His dad. Either of those would be reasonable options.

He dials John.

After six rings and no answer, Paul's stomach churns with the possibility that John just won't pick up. It should be a relief, infinitely preferable to what's absolutely going to happen instead (John will answer, and at the first note of Paul's voice, he'll slam it back down on the hook), but it's about to make him sick.

"Hello?"

It's not John. It's a woman's voice, but not Yoko, either. Paul almost stops breathing, certain he's got the wrong number, but it must be their staff, he realizes.

"Um." He can already hear himself putting on a BBC accent, and he hates it, but he's not sure what he would say if he didn't. "Hello, is John there, please, I'd like to speak with him."

For some reason, the woman doesn't ask who he is or why he wants to talk to John, just tells him to please wait a moment. Frankly, Paul's not impressed. Why bother with staff if they won't even screen your calls? It could be anyone on the other end of that line. He could be some kind of madman, some crazy ex-lover or--

"Hullo?"

At the sound of John's voice, Paul's not quite sure where he is for a moment. Not here, at least, not now. It doesn't seem plausible. He closes his eyes and says, "Hiya, John."

There's a silence so long that Paul bites his lip and starts to take another breath to repeat himself, but finally, "...Paul?"

"Hey," he breathes, staccato. His heart is racing like this is a matter of survival. There's no reason for it to be. It is, after all, a telephone call. He clears his throat. "Listen, I'm...are-are you doing anything right now?"

There's a sound like scoffing, as if John's too bewildered to string together a whole word. Then, "...Yes."

"Oh." Paul's throat tries to close, hot and aching. He forces a careful breath and continues. "I can just--"

"What do you want, exactly?"

Million-pound fucking question, there, thinks Paul. It's one he can't answer, so he gives John the next-best. "I miss you, mate."

He gnaws his thumb through another brick-load of a silence, before filling it with, "Just thought I'd...ring you and tell you."

"Oh you did, did you?" John says, with no pause this time, because it's a reflex, easier than speaking. It's a double-edged sword, not only lambasting this stupid bloody idea but insinuating that maybe it wasn't even Paul's to begin with; oh, YOU did, did you? "And that'd change, what?"

"No. I, I know. I just...look, it's the truth, I-- And I don't like that we've grown apart, you know."

There's a scratch of static, like John is moving the phone. "Do you hear yourself, man?"

More than either of us would like, Paul grouses to himself. But like he's always done, he keeps going. "No, listen, I know I-... I know what I did to push you, and I'm sorry. I am. I just can't stand it bein' like this, you know, we're not meant to be goin' at each other, or not speaking to each other, I--" He sighs. "Don't you miss it?"

"Miss what?"

Paul rubs his eyes. At some point, they'd closed again. "Be nice if you came out here, is all. Saw the farm."

"Nice. Yeah. What, so I can see how nice and bloody perfect your life is now? Without--without--is that it? You and Little Bo Peep?"

"I really, I really just thought you'd like to see it up here, and it's not, you know, John, it really isn't." Paul laughs a bit, only enough to make his breath shake, enough to wind him. "Without you. It's really not."

There's a huff, then another, heavier breath. "All right," John says, slowly. He doesn't sound happy.

Paul rakes his hand through his hair a few times, trying to weigh how lost a cause this is. "I'm writing a song. We are, Linda and me. You'd, oh, you'd hate it."

It's enough of a non sequitur that John actually laughs, a quick burst of disbelief before quieting again. "Yeah, I bet," he says after a while.

"No, it's Woody Guthrie doing musical chairs, it's really..." They're both laughing now, long enough that Paul can actually catch his breath. "I meant it, you know. You should come up here."

John doesn't laugh. "Paul."

"Not now, obviously--"

"But I can't just--"

Something kicks in Paul's chest. An unwise flicker of hope. John's arguing logistics with him now, not morals, not justification. "No, no, I know," he quickly says, "just sometime--"

"I..." John sighs. Struggles with something. "I'd have to...I'll, um. I'll call you back, all right?"

"...Yeah." Paul's heart doesn't just drop. He's pretty sure he can feel it split on impact, like a sack of flour. "Sure, yeah." Distantly, he remembers that this is a public phone box and he hasn't left John any number, and knows there won't be a call back. But it's all right. He got further than he expected. Hell, at least he got the bloody words out. Take that, Linda. That's what this was about. She hadn't said to invite him up here; probably would flip her wig if she knew he'd tried. Tell him what you told me. Those were her instructions. Check, done.

"Wait, hang on," John says. "Wait. Don't hang up, all right? I've--hang on."

"Okay," Paul breathes, automatic as if someone's just put a coin in him, and waits. And waits. There was a rough noise earlier like John put the phone down, but now there's nothing; no background chatter, no hold music.

Paul watches a lady beetle crawl up a stalk of grass. He follows the wispy trail of an airplane. He waits and thinks and stews and worries and just as he's about to ask if anyone's still there, John's voice comes through the line.

"Paul? You there?"

"Yeah, I'm here. I'm here."

"There's a flight, um..." John sounds a little out of breath. "Just got one of the last ones, actually, so I can, um. Tomorrow. Is--can I? Is that all right?"

Tomorrow.

Paul's vision swims. He feels like he's in a car, driven by someone who's pressing down the brake and the gas as hard as they can simultaneously. He could sing. He's going to die. "Yeah," he says. "Great."

"All right, then."

Paul swallows. "Good. Yeah."

They say good-bye, John hangs up. It is, after all, just a phone call.

Paul makes the seven-minute hike back up to the farmhouse in about ten seconds. He's never felt this full-to-bursting with conflicting energy. He wants John to come, but every time he thinks about it, his stomach lurches with a feeling remarkably like dread. Tomorrow? He's got a day, if that, to get the place ready. Never mind selling the idea to the girls. Surely it's not too late to call the whole thing off.

Heather's finishing breakfast when he returns. Linda doesn't ask how it went--she might have done, but he tells her everything before she's got the chance to. It's just Paul's luck that she needs only a few minutes of convincing to get on board with the idea. She could've vetoed it outright, saved them all a lot of trouble. But, funny enough, she says, she's been promising Heather a trip back to London, and they've an open invitation from Yoko if they should ever need a place to stay.

"You can manage the place all by yourself, right?" she asks with a smile. Before Paul can actually blow a fuse, she drops the act and kisses him, beckons him to join her in the chores that need to be done before tomorrow. Everyone's fed. Everyone who needs it and will stand still is washed. Everything that's started to dry up, or to rot, is cut and shoveled away, replaced with fresh and new.

It's not even noon.

Paul takes a quick dip in the washtub and cleans the house. All of the softening fruit from the kitchen goes into the trough with the table scraps. Flat surfaces are wiped down and swept. He's ready to organize the clothes in the wardrobe, but Linda and Heather are packing--striped pants everywhere--so he bins that idea. A spliff outside the bathroom window doesn't calm him, but it slows him down. He straightens the shoe rack. Finally, he sits down to write.

I look high / I look low / I'm lookin' everywhere I go / Looking for

Paul stares at the paper, twiddling his pen back and forth. Looking for what? There's the million-pound question again. The longer he glares at the mostly-blank page, the more he wants to feed it to the goats. So much for creation ex nihilo, he thinks. Three lines his eight-year-old daughter could've written, and no closer to knowing what it is he's looking for.

Eventually, he remembers to eat. He plays make-believe horses with Heather, bathes her, reads her a story. Sings to her. As soon as she's in bed, he can't keep his hands off Linda, for some reason. They kiss, share whispery breaths, and he kneels on the kitchen floor, lifting her patchwork skirt to bury his nose in corn-silk hair and eat her out against the sink. He's too wired, and too exhausted, for anything else.

---

The next day's not much easier.

"Give her my love, yeah?" Paul says as he kisses Linda a final time, and throws in a wink; you know I don't envy you. Heather waves and they're gone.

The problem is, John didn't say what time he'd come, and the pesky thing about tomorrow is that it consists of twenty-four circles of hell called hours, during any of which he might decide to turn up. Paul does all of the chores again, twice, just to be safe. When he starts feeling like he needs to run rings around the farmhouse, he picks up his guitar and writes. Looking for does not get a partner. But he gets the middle eight down, and it's not bad, either. The scatting can stand on its own; no need to conjure actual lyrics.

A distant, rolling crunch of gravel in the drive. John's here.

Paul darts to the window. A sleek black car, ridiculously out of place in the rugged landscape, is chugging along the dirt road, raising a terrible cloud of dust. It's John, all right--overdressed. On his way to the door, Paul ducks into the bedroom to fuss with his hair in the mirror--there, that's enough.

He hears a car door creak open and slam shut. Boot-heels crunch their way to the front step. Paul's heart leaps into his throat.

He opens the door.

John looks up, like he'd been studying the welcome mat. He's freshly shorn, a shorter haircut than Paul's seen on him in twenty years. His glasses are tinted yellow. He's wearing a smart jacket over an expensive-looking shirt, a fucking scarf, and even sharper slacks. His black boots gleam.

Paul laughs, and it doesn't even sound nervous. "Did you bring any other clothes?"

John raises his eyebrows and tightens his lips. "Left my gunnysack at home, actually." He can't keep his smile hidden.

In a fit of boldness that surprises even him, Paul throws his arms around John, knocking their chests together almost painfully. He holds on tight even as it makes it harder to breathe. John stalls for a second, winded and caught unawares, but he embraces Paul back. Wraps him in his long, long arms and pulls them together.

"Hey." Paul can barely get enough air out to shape the word. The hug is squeezing his lungs like a bagpipe. Any more pressure on his windpipe and he'd cough--his throat already itches like hell from his second time mucking out the stalls that morning.

John doesn't seem to notice. "Hi," he says, smoothly, with evident room enough to breathe.

They break apart before Paul suffocates. He blames the sudden dizzy feeling on a lack of oxygen. "Want to come in?"

John unwraps his scarf as he crosses the threshold, like there's any meaningful temperature difference between inside and outside. Like the flimsy thing was doing anything to keep him warm, anyhow. "Should I take me shoes off?"

"Doesn't matter. Our floors will probably deal more damage to your shoes than you can to do them."

John toes off his boots. Paul's eyes flit around the entrance, the main room, and the kitchen, looking for anything he might've missed. "How was the drive?" he asks.

"Un-fucking-believable. Do you know people keep sheep out here? Look out the left-hand side, sheep. Right-hand side, sheep. Crossin' the road in front of you for half an hour, sheep on sheep on fuckin' sheep. About did me fucking head in. You don't have any of them, do you?"

"Oh, no," Paul says, mock-serious, with a curt shake of his head. The guttural baaa of a ram can be heard just outside the kitchen window.

"Good. Be too bloody soon, if I never saw another one." John turns as he speaks, taking in the sights of the farm cottage. The herbs hung to dry, the hand-hewn table, the quilt on the sofa. Paul considers them from an outsider's point of view, and he feels at once self-conscious and proud. It's kitsch, but it's, well, home. "This is cozy," John remarks, which doesn't clarify whether he appreciates it or hates it.

"Keeps us dry when it rains," Paul says, and does his best not to press.

John turns back to Paul. "What's there to do around here?"

"Have you eaten?"

John shakes his head. "Starving."

Paul spins around with a smile. As he makes his way to the fridge, John adds, "Why? Gonna kill the fatted calf?"

"We don't keep cows." Paul emerges from the fridge with the picnic hamper and a naked grin. It's so well-packed that the bottles of milk don't even clink as he lifts the basket, his eyebrows high with hope.

"Oh, do let's," John twitters, airy and delicate like a fine lady, tossing his head and batting his lashes with a dead expression. The mockery arrives a bit flat when his head-toss nearly launches his glasses off his nose, and he has to quickly push them back up.

Paul doesn't back down from the dig, either. If John wants to be an Edwardian gentle lady, he'll hear no complaints from Paul. He crooks his elbow, offering it out to John. John takes it--in those boots, he's almost-almost a little bit taller--and they stroll out the Dutch door.

They don't get to play Mary Poppins for long. A few steps out, Paul concedes that he needs both hands to support the basket. John storms off ahead, pretending great offense that Paul doesn't want to hold his hand anymore. It's minutes later before John realizes he might not be the best candidate to walk in front, as he doesn't know where they're going.

"It's not far," Paul says. "You can see the meadow, just ahead."

John manages not to get lost, but their journey is delayed several times when he needs to stop and pick something out of his sock. The spear-head seeds of the wild grasses lodge themselves in his expensive clothes, adorn his pant legs, fill his shoes.

"Ow!--God damn it," John snaps. For the ninth time, he stands on one foot and wobbles dangerously as he attempts to rid the other one of stickers.

"Just wait until we get there and get them all out then," says Paul. "You're only going to get more anyway. It's just over this hill."

He's underselling it a bit. The hill in question is deceptively steep; it might be the highest point on the otherwise uniform moors. John gripes about the trek and the burrs, Paul smugly advises him to dress for the environment next time, but soon, they're both panting too hard to jeer at each other.

It's starting to worry Paul, actually, how hard he's breathing. Not just the reminder that he's no spring chicken and should probably smoke less than he does, but now every lungful is starting to burn. Every inhale makes his head feel thick and fuzzy with a deep, flowery itch. This isn't good. He thought--he wanted to be certain that it was too early in the year for everything to be germinating, but alas, it is. The air is earthy and sweet with pollen, and fuck if John isn't kicking up more and more with every stomp, just in time for Paul to walk through its wake.

This isn't fair, Paul thinks. He's usually got more warning than this. Enough to plan around it. The hay didn't bother him at all this morning, not even on the second pass through the stalls, when the dust made his throat sting. Apparently, that doesn't mean he's in the clear. Though alfalfa hay isn't always the best litmus test--sometimes it gets to him, sometimes it doesn't. The wild grasses, on the other hand? Always. Just not this bloody early in the season, he thinks as his eyes start to water.

He could walk ahead of John, he supposes, get less of it kicked up his nose. But back here, he's got the distinct advantage of discretion. He can paw and scrub at his twitching nose all he wants (and then some more, when the itch immediately returns) without attracting attention. It's a pain, a real Sisyphean drag, but it's not more than he can manage.

Paul feels the first sneeze coming a mile away. A tingling that starts in the back of his nose and creeps up, spreads out, little by little. It feels too small, at first, for anything to come of it (Paul wonders if it'll be one of those that just teases him for a few hours), but it builds until it's bigger than his head. Before he can gasp in too much air, he seals his lips, holds his breath...but it doesn't matter, he can't stop it--

"hdt--!"

He has to clamp a thumb and finger around his nose to hold it in, squelch it down to nothing. The awful pounding feeling in his sinuses that results is almost enough to make him regret it, but what's the alternative? John's attention should be on the landscape, not on...shit, there's another one... "hdt--mph!" It feels like he's imploding, but he shakes his head free and tries to catch his breath. One sniffle against his sleeve, then he should be all right for a while.

Paul's so preoccupied and bleary-eyed, he nearly bowls into John, who's stopped at the top of the hill.

"Woodie Guthrie, eh?" John asks, hands on his hips, gazing out at the land, and Paul has to admit, it does look like the American prairie.

"Mm," Paul nods, blinking, pursing his lips together, just in case.

It's only a few steps down to the meadow, where it's flat enough to lay out the-- "Shit!" Paul suddenly spits, so quick and percussive it almost scratches the itch for a moment. Just fucking typical.

"What?"

"I've forgotten the picnic blanket." Paul hears, as soon as he says it, that he sounds like an A. A. Milne character; Oh, bother. But what are they meant to do--sit in the grass?

Without a second thought, John does just that, stretching out on his back like it's carpet (and not, for example, a blanket of weeds that practically trembles to cover them both in seeds and pollen). "The water's warm," he offers, swirling his arms and making the grasses ripple.

Paul tries not to shiver as he sits cross-legged on the ground. At least he remembered the picnic lunch; he spent half the morning cobbling it together. Cheese, berries, honey, cucumber sandwiches, tomato sandwiches, scones with jam. Milk and a small flagon of wine. (A lovely set of checkered napkins, too--Paul sequesters one away in his pocket, just in case worst should come to worst.)

"Is that your place?" John points at the valley below them.

Paul squints, then nods. "Yeah." His farmhouse is storybook-sized from where they're sitting. They've come a long way.

"How many acres is it?"

"We've--" Paul's about to answer, but his eyes flood and his breath skips. It comes up on him so fast down here, at nose level with the grass, that he scarcely has time to duck sideways against his wrist and catch two more sneezes he can't quite suppress. "Two hundred," he quickly breathes, before he's quite out of the grip of the second one. His face burns--some of it's allergic flush, some of it's the hike, but either way, he doesn't look at John.

"Bless you."

Paul doesn't know why it's so unexpected. But the shock of hearing John say it is enough to scare off a third sneeze that's fighting its way out. So casual, unconcerned. Paul rubs his nose, trying to soothe the burning, pulsing ache left behind when the sneeze retreated. John, mercifully, leaves it at that, and they eat.

"I just don't get it."

It's John who breaks the silence, which Paul is grateful for, but it strikes him dumb. He casts a puzzled look at John, who clarifies, "Why would you want to live out here?"

"What?" Paul knows he's talking on borrowed time, so he gets to the point. "It's beautiful. What d'you mean, why?"

"To look at, sure, but..." John takes off his glasses and folds them in the basket. "What do you do, day by day, month after month?"

"I..." Paul has to press a fist under his nose just to keep the breath in his lungs. It's a temporary fix, a finger in the dam, but as soon as he's able, he huffs, "There's a lot that goes into running a farm, you know."

"But why do it? What for? What was the point of getting rich and famous if you're just gonna live like it's the bloody nineteenth century--"

"Is that why you did it?" Paul coughs. Sniffs. "To get rich and famous?"

"That's why we did it. Or at least, that's what you told me, every day for ten years. If I'd known this was what you meant by 'the toppermost of the--'"

"I did-...Sorry..." Paul can't get two words of his interruption out before the need to sneeze nearly blinds him, and he has to twist away and grab his nose. He pitches forward three times, small and sharp, too quick in succession to breathe in between. As he straightens, catching his breath at last, he considers that he could probably keep it down to one at a time if he didn't try to hold them in. But really, there's only so much humiliation he can take. "God," he rasps, shaking his head. "That's...sorry."

"Bless you," says John, plowing right through the threshold. "You all right?"

"Fine. I just..." Paul closes his eyes briefly. He runs the edge of a finger under his nose, a quick swipe to keep it dry. "Well, I did it because I loved writing songs. I couldn't do anything else."

John doesn't push back on that--how could he? It's as true for him as it is for Paul, so it's back to knocking the farm. "There's nothing out here," he says.

"My family's out here."

"Your family's all over." John's voice drops slightly, like he's started to check out of the conversation. Only occasionally does he look at Paul. "There's real life happening out there, you know, in cities. Art and culture. There's a war on, as well, right now."

Paul's skin crawls. It's sweat from the heat of the day, it's everything John's saying, but this godforsaken grass... He rubs at his wrists, his neck, trying not to dig his nails in. He itches.

John doesn't notice, or he doesn't care. "But it's happening out there, not here. Sure, raise your family, raise a couple of goats. Raise a giraffe for all I care. But at what point do you pull your head out of the sand--"

"This was supposed to be perfect." Paul spits it out, half-laughing. This is just too absurd. It's too stupid. "I had it all planned out. Can you believe that?" John's gone quiet, but Paul can't seem to shut up. "I was going to bring you out here, and I wouldn't have to explain anything, you'd just...you'd just--" Paul gasps like he's drowning and lets out a shuddering sneeze into his fist. It's so unsatisfying he could cry. The first of many to come, and doesn't that just fucking figure? Bloody perfect. He might as well keep babbling and make a proper ass of himself. "You'd just see it, and you'd get it, I don't know, the--hh'chhew!" Across the back of his hand.

"Paul."

"The house, the animals..." Paul's trying to talk through the wrist he's jammed over his top lip, which is starting to feel like it's for nothing. "The land, th--hh-!...'Ttchhoo! God, the fresh fucking air..." He rises clumsily to his feet, trying to put a little distance between his head and the fresh air in question, just in time to whip around and muffle a violent sneeze with the cuff of his sleeve. With an exasperated huff, Paul goes digging for the checked napkin. He has to laugh once more as he folds it over his nose. It's just...sad. "Sorry. Bloody hell. This was going to be nice."

"I don't mind," John says earnestly. Paul makes a noise of dismissal, so John appends, "Paul, look at me."

Over the tent of red-and-white cloth, Paul looks.

John's face is soft and open. At the edges, maybe a bit pink from the hike and the sun. There's not a hint of derision. "I don't mind. I don't."

Paul casts his eyes down and turns away. "Thanks," he mutters, before drawing a tentative breath and blowing his nose. Straight away, a cool rush of relief--but only temporary, he knows. As soon as he starts to breathe again, the time bomb begins to tick.

John waits patiently for Paul to turn back around before he asks, "Hayfever?"

"...Yeah." Paul's cheeks lift as he tries to squash a mortified smile. "Well, but it's. Not hay that does it." Usually.

"Bloody well hope not. You might be in the wrong line for that, mate." John plucks a wildflower from the grass, tall and straight with a stiff violet plume. "What about them?"

"Um. Not too bad." Bit by bit, Paul's smile twists into something resembling laughter. "It's mostly the grass, I think. The weeds."

"Hmm." John brings it close and sniffs, blinks curiously, then leans in for another sniff. His face is solemn as stone.

For a moment, Paul feels bold. "Not givin' you any trouble, is it?"

John shakes his head. "I don't get hayfever anymore. 'M cured."

"What?"

"I get a jab once a month." John taps his left shoulder. "Yoko knows a fella, a doctor. Used to be every week, at first, could hardly stand it. But it's done wonders for me voice." John gives the wildflower one more sniff and shrugs, raises his eyebrows. Nada.

Paul gives a snorting scoff, and pays for it with a short spell of coughing. "Sounds nice. I'll take your word for it."

"Nah. I miss it." To Paul's heart-stopping surprise, John inverts the flower, pokes the end of the stem into his nostril, and swirls it around.

Paul's eyes widen. "What're you--"

"ahhh..." John's mouth lolls open, drinking air. His head tips back, his nose wrinkles, and he sneezes, hard enough to shake his whole body. "hh'ESCHhiew!"

Even with ample warning, Paul jumps very slightly. How pathetic is it that his heart's thumping double-time now? Only, he supposes, it's been a while. He wants to say something--call him an idiot, give him the full rites of the Catholic Church. All he can do is laugh.

John groans lightly. Once he's recovered enough to acknowledge his audience, he throws Paul a wink. "For auld lang syne." He tosses the flower, and it disappears into the grass.

Paul's not sure if that's quite what Rabbie Burns had in mind. He opens his mouth to tell John as much (in a Scots accent, to boot), but what comes out is: "I've missed you." His eyes itch and fill with tears--it's the pollen.

"Yeah, I heard." John's face stiffens as he hears himself say it, like he didn't mean to be so flippant. By way of an apology, he offers Paul a sandwich, saving him from sitting down again, and Paul accepts it. "I wish...It's silly, but I wish we could...All right, there?"

The itch that's been toying with Paul finally blossoms, and he jolts into the hand that's not holding a sandwich. "hh'nkxtch!"

John chuckles softly, in the most non-derisive way possible, blesses him, and announces that they're heading back now. Paul can only snuffle and gather up the basket.

---

"That head-in-the-sand bit, I didn't mean that."

John starts rehashing the argument when they've made it back to the farmhouse in once piece--which was no guarantee. Paul doesn't slow down, never mind stop sneezing until he's had a wash, changed his clothes, and flushed out his head with warm water. John did, in fact, bring different clothes, each outfit more extravagant and ill-suited to farm life than the last. But he changes too, resolves to burn his sticker-laden socks. It's only once tea is served that he revisits the matter of Paul's farm.

"I don't think you're hiding," he says, "whatever this is. But I don't know why you're so married to this place, if that's not true."

"Why do you care?" Paul sets his cup down. "It's not your life, is it?"

"Evidently not." There's a little venom to it.

"John." Paul does the opposite, drops his voice to his head register, retracts his claws. "Why are we doing this? I can't come back to London."

John looks down with a tight, joyless smile. "I can kid myself, can't I?"

"Look, it's--" Paul lifts up his hands. "Think what you want of me, but my home's here."

John's quiet. It tears Paul up, but there's a sense of relief that comes with it, too; if he were going to say something biting, something really unforgivable, it would've slipped out without a pause. He's quick like that. Paul doesn't know how he ever endured it. He can't see how he'll live without it.

"I miss it, too," John says.

Paul feels caught. Struck. They're having two different conversations and still managed to run into one another, in a clatter of heads and a tangle of limbs. It's a dead end. A corner.

This isn't what Paul invited him for.

Paul swigs his tea and marches into the bedroom. He returns with a cotton shirt, a pair of dungarees, and a battered pair of socks. "Put these on," Paul orders before John can ask, and dumps the bundle of clothes on his lap.

"Are you kicking me out?" John calls over his shoulder, but Paul's already in the bathroom. He returns with an antihistamine pill--pink, horse-sized, the kind that may as well be a sedative--and swallows it with the rest of his tea.

"In half an hour, this'll kick in," Paul explains. "And then I'm going to teach you how to ride a horse." He turns around as John's face is morphing from puzzlement to glee, hoping he'll change his clothes if given the privacy of the living room.

"Can you show me that song?" John pipes. The one you said I'd hate.

Paul bites his lip and goes off in search of his guitar.

#yoko and linda are sucking each other silly as this retreat is happening. btw

[cosmiicmultimuse]

👫 {From Silver's side of things.}

Send Me 👫, and I'll Write Four Headcanons About Our Muses.

Silver absolutely loved kicking Archer's shins ( both metaphorically and actually ) as a shitty little kid. I imagine he was among the easier executives to annoy among the four of them ( along with one of the most accessible, given his proximity to Dad(tm) ), and he certainly wasn't going to go around annoying his parents, of course. If he wasn't annoying his older sister or the other executives, he was almost certainly trying to get under Archer's skin. This almost certainly got worse after Giovanni decided to trust his horrible little baby boy with a Sneasel.

Silver had debating trying to find Archer for some time, actually. But there was part of him, and there still is, that despises authority. More specifically Rocket, but just all authority in general. Thus, he kept delaying it and delaying it, if only to avoid the Archer he'd created in his head trying to stuff him into a box and force him into three piece suits for the rest of his life.

Archer's Magnezone, AM, was at least half of the inspiration for Silver to catch a Magnemite and train it on his own. Even young eleven year old brat Silver knew a solid Pokémon when he saw it, and AM was just that. And now Coulomb is one of his best teammates. I'm certain there's a certain phrase about broken clocks he'd put here...

Maybe some day, a few decades from now, he'll finally admit it, but Archer has actually done him a world of good. Giving him an actual goal, something to work for. And he's not going easy on him ( not that he thought he would ). It's a rather strange mentor / mentee relationship they have going, but it's one all the same. And Silver is grateful for. Even if he only expresses it through backhanded comments and snark.

#( vivalavillain ) #( hc: silver sakaki ) #( is this thing on? ): answers #(( my friend do you know that you're very easy to make fun of ( affectionate ) )

[mystiika]

an npc from isaac's life

it took a very long to find an fc i like but i have officially determined miss bernadette peters to be the fc for isaac's mother, aka amelia lahey. she died from complications after isaac's birth so he only "knew" her for about a day. i always put off writing out anything about her personality from bad experiences with camden blogs of brothers past, but i figured writing him for a decade is long enough to go without properly talking about her anyway. its not like growing up without her doesn't still affect him in adulthood. her death was the cause for his earliest feelings of survivor's guilt & isaac still has to actively remind himself while thinking about her that her death was not his fault however i'll get into that more in a bit.

before i really get into anything i want to put a quick trigger warning. death is obviously mentioned but her past involves fertility issues & miscarriages along with pregnancy complications eventually resulting in complications during isaac's birth to which she succumbed to a day later. some things are mentioned more than once though & i'd rather just put it all below a cut than risk anyone catching anything by accident if i miss a tag somewhere but i'll try to put all the major key words. also nothing about her personality or medical history is all that important to interacting with isaac. if its relevant, he'll tell your muse himself or i'll bring up things if context feels needed.

anyway, onto her <3

amelia was always a really kind soul but was loud & proud of the things she cared about, standing up to bullies 3 times her size for being mean to people in her presence & was sort of seen as a bit of a loose canon if you pushed her to it. but she grew up so loved in a big family that she'd hoped she'd be able to create in her own marriage. for her, motherhood was something she’d like to think it was something she had been good at, something she would have been good at. she always avoided the "grown up" table at family events, more interested in playing with the younger kids & as sort of seen as a baby whisperer of sorts. growing up, she had always been told she’d be a great mother & she prided herself on that fact among so many other things, mind you. as a side note mother hood is heavily mentioned but that's because of how she relates to camden & later isaac, & i don't mean nor want to imply that motherhood was her one & only dream, nor was it her entire personality & i feel like that doesn't really read much in this post. she loved flowers & music & taking camden out on mother son dates. she loved picnics in the park on a sunny day. she loved the beach & the sound of waves. she loved science & medicine which eventually led to her job as a nurse. & as difficult a job as a nurse could be, she knew that her tired feet were the result of making a difference even if its just one patient or family at a time.

this next bit is from an old post from her perspective after her death & it feels like a good way to show what her feelings would be looking back on isaac now. "she’d like to think motherhood was something she had been good at, something she would have been good at. growing up, she had always been told she’d be a great mother & even though in hindsight she shouldn’t have tried so hard to convince simon to have kids, but she had been so desperate for a family & for a family with him. she wanted to be a mother, to be able to love & raise a child of her own, watch them grow both physically & as a person under her gentle guidance, & to be able to help them whenever they needed her. she had a few good years with camden & she was sure he had known exactly how much she loved him but with isaac, she had never been a mother at all. she was the one that abandoned him from birth, condemning him & his brother to a life with a father who never truly wanted children despite any real love he felt for them. she’d like to think she was a good mother, but no adequate mother would have done something as terrible as that." the ending is perhaps a little more intense than the reality but its her feelings on the matter so who am i to say. 

i will say, the desperation mentioned above had been a rather slow growing feeling than something she'd started out with. while she always knew she wanted kids & to build a home life like the one she'd had growing up, she hadn't really been rushing for it. for a time she was happy just living her life with her then boyfriend, soon fiance turned husband. he'd never really been the type to dislike children & was quite good with them. but it wasn't something he really saw in the cards for himself. it was only after they started trying for kids that it became a stronger want for her life & he started to wonder if the journey to get there was really worth it all. the women in her life had grown & married & started their families. motherhood started to grow to be more of a priority & after a good bit of talking about what that looks like for both of them, simon agreed to their having kids ( thankfully the conversation was before their marriage so that's a good practice at least but that's neither here not there ) he had a lot of apprehension about it, fears about the type of father he would be & how he was worried that he'd end up just like his dad ( which, spoiler, the abusive alcoholic truly doesn't fall far from the tree )

but all his worries she was able to dispel & so started their journey for a family of their own. by this time simon was forced to move back to his hometown of beacon hills from where he'd met & married amelia in the mid-west — all in order to take care of his father. his mother was long gone by then & the bitter old man had driven everyone away from him leaving only simon acting purely out of filial obligation. he hated it. he hated being around the father who'd been so terrible to him, he hated the town he'd tried so hard to get out of, & he hated that he'd dragged amelia away from everything & everyone she had ever known, but she'd refused to let him move alone. she was his only oasis & as guilty as he felt, he was so incredibly grateful to have her support.

within a few months of their move, they discovered she was pregnant & the both of them were overjoyed. she missed her family terribly & being able to start her own made her feel a little bit closer to them all. & simon needed something else, someone else in his life to make his life a little happier. unfortunately she had a miscarriage not 2 weeks after receiving their first ultrasound & she was beyond devastated. she was left grieving this loss as if she'd carried to term & had held the baby in her arms. & she had every right to feel that way. simon didn't react quite the same. to him that baby was just a jumble of cells with a heartbeat, not yet a person he'd grown to love. he grieved it, but more so as the concept of a family it represented. to him, a baby he could hold & care for would mean he'd no longer be grieving the loss of this baby. of course he kept this to himself for fear of making amelia feel invalid of her own very real version of grief ( so credit to him for this stuff at least ). frankly, he really was a good husband to her & actively tried his best to make sure he never slacked in that department.

this was also only the first miscarriage. as it would turn out, she had little difficulty getting pregnant, but rather seemed unable to carry to term & every time it would happen she'd be depressed for months, eventually allowing herself to try again only to recieve the same result. after their first, they assumed it was a fluke when their next time they were able to last into the second trimester. but she then miscarried again. after the 3rd miscarriage over in 4 years, simon insisted they see a specialist to find out why it was all happening &, more importantly, fix it so that they could have the baby she so badly wanted. by this time she'd slowly cut back on hours at work, having to take so much time off work in order to grieve ( & thankfully her employer & coworkers were all understanding ). meanwhile, simon wasn't sure how much longer he could take it all. he loved her beyond all words but it gutted him to watch the love of his life suffer so terribly while he could do nothing except watch her face grow tired as she started to become a shell of the woman she once was. she blamed herself as if it was a choice she'd made to lose every child they'd made together & he couldn't stand that.

& to simon's credit, they found their answer quite quickly. while it was unclear what, if anything, had caused their first, the subsequent miscarriages appeared to be as the result of a weakened cervix. a position that wasn't uncommon by any stretch. simply, the next time she gets pregnant they'd put in a small stitch to make sure the baby was able to remain in place. & as promised, the next time she became pregnant they did just that. & so camden came to be. the birth wasn't easy, it was long & painful but when she held her baby boy for the first time she knew undoubtedly all the pain & loss was worth it just to have him.

for a good few years they were a happy little family. simon was better at fatherhood than he'd expected but seeing how happy amelia was & how absolutely fantastic she was with cam, it was such a relief knowing he had her to rely on. then when cam was 5, their lives started to change again. to start, simon's father passed away, & while he didn't enjoy the feeling, he was glad he was gone. he was a miserable & mean spirited man who simon had never let cam be in a room with let alone meet. but knowing that the reason for their move was gone, they had to reassess if they were going to move again. in the end, the answer was no. she'd built a life there & so had camden. so with his father gone, simon agreed since it would make them happy.

it was also at this time that amelia brought up the idea of having another child. they no longer had to worry about taking care of simon's father & they had more than enough money to feed another mouth. simon on the other hand was far less willing. sure they knew the cause of the miscarriages, but pregnancy takes a toll on the body & from all the complications she'd had during cam's birth he had every right to be apprehensive. but in the end, cam was old enough not to need constant attention & amelia was right, they had both the time & money. 

so once again she became pregnant quite quickly. both she & cam were beyond excited & simon felt a great deal of joy getting to watch the two of them. besides he loved cam, more than he'd expected, so what was another baby in the mix anyway?

as a side note, during amelia's pregnancy with camden she started making notes in a book addressed to him on things like silly cravings he'd given her or the first day she felt him kick, a book she continued up until the day she died, her last entry being the day before isaac's birth about how she knew he'd be a good brother & write about how excited he seemed to be. isaac had one too, though there were so many more blank pages than filled when all she had were the months leading up to his birth. the largest entry in isaac's book was about how camden had been the one to pick a final name for isaac, naming him after the imaginary friend he'd had. this book ended up in the box with all the other things she & cam had crafted for him.

during her pregnancy with isaac there were a few more problems than with camden, eventually landing her on complete bed rest until the birth. but during this time camden was learning all there was to know about being a big brother, even writing down important things he wished he knew earlier ( keep in mind he's still only 7 ). all in all they ended up making all sorts of things to give isaac once they brought him home, letters, cards, homemade books, drawings of the 4 of them together or at least how cam had imagined them to be — though the box wasn't something isaac saw until he was nearly 7 himself.

knowing how difficult cam's birth had been, simon & amelia it was best to book an appointment for a c-section. unfortunately isaac was too eager to meet the world & she went into labour 2 days before their appointment which meant that they had to try giving birth normally if or until a c-section is requited. they were right to worry when they eventually had to do an emergency cesarean. really, the doctors left it too long which only made matters worse. she seemed to pull through, even waking up long enough to spend some time with isaac but later that day, more complications arose & she eventually succumbed to those injuries. 

losing her ( let alone losing her like that ) was simon's worst nightmare come to life.

———————————————————————————————

i'm going to be making this part 1 of 2. part 2 will be more about the immediate after her death & go a lot more in depth on their home life/what that looked like without her there & how isaac & cam were treated within that. links will be included here when they're up. her death was also fully preventable so i will mention winning a malpractice suit in that 3rd post as well. how he felt about her death directly will be included in part of a larger meta on isaac's survival guilt.

finally is a couple more posts written in her pov from my old isaac blog so read at ur leisure

prompt — an anon asked "are you proud of isaac?"

"Of course I am. He’s a fighter, just like his mom.”

She got to watch him grown up to be the amazing young man he is today. It was her own personal torture to watch what was happening to him and never being able to lift a finger to help him, but unlike so many as of late, her death had been final. There had been no coming back, there had been no helping her son. But even though he was forced to go through his life alone so far, she couldn’t be prouder of who he had become. He was learning to be his own person again, to go through life knowing it was okay to be a little selfish some times, that it was okay not to only worry about making everyone else happy.

”Isaac is such an amazing young man now, I just wish I could tell it to him, to say it to his face.”

prompt — a melissa blog asked "how can i help isaac?                

”Melissa, there’s nothing more you can do for him than what you already are. Just keep treating him like you are, like a son. Be the mother I couldn’t be.”

#pregnancy // #birth // #medical malpractice // #death // #miscarriages // #not sure how to tag this exactly #but yeah she's so pretty and the hair in the last pic is so clearly isaac's curl type when its grown out #if the man would ever take care of his fuckin curls anyway !! #i. lahey. character study — pragmatic to a fault #amelia #but yeah i saw some pictures of a young bernadette peters and i knew she was perfect #queue.

[chaoffee]

Borrowing Apples

Characters: Venti x gn! reader

Au: canon

Warnings: possibly ooc; stealing I guess?

Notes: a little something in celebration to Venti coming home ✨ it was inspired by one of his voicelines ^-^ I hope you all enjoy! Goodluck to everyone still wishing for him or Ayato! I just realized I spelt borrow wrong, its fixed now-

°•—

The trip to Dawn Winery was a quick one, but it got prolonged when you saw an odd turquoise among the green leaves in one of the trees. Curious you had snuck up to the tree, only having your curiosity quelled when you saw it was the bard from Mondstadt known as Venti. Looking up at him, you saw he was deep in thought, staring hard at Dawn Winery, his fingers twiddling with a leaf.

"What, pray tell, could a bard be doing in a tree?" You asked, startling the poor bard. His eyes wide as he darts to look at you.

"Don't scare me like that!" He huffs, "I could've fallen out of the tree or worse, blown you away!"

You chuckle, "Maybe you should be more aware of your surroundings so that hypotheticals like that, won't come true."

He turns his gaze back to Dawn Winery, deciding to ignore your reply. "Penny for your thoughts?" You asked, curious to why the bard is eyeing Dawn Winery. He's not planning on stealing wine from Master Diluc, is he?

"I was musing over whether I should borrow some apples from Master Diluc."

You frown, "How do you borrow apples?"

"By whisking them away as if they were never there, of course!" He grins.

"That sounds an awful lot like stealing,"

"You wound me, dear Y/N," he places a hand over his heart before perking up and looking down at you. "Say, what brings you to Dawn Winery?"

"Definitely not thinking about stealing apples like somebody I know." You tease, hearing a whine from the tree branch.

"You're not going to let that go, are you?"

You grin, "Nope! But, I came out here to deliver some dandelion seeds and a letter for Master Diluc."

"Oh? Delivering a letter to the Master Diluc? Mind if I tag along?" The mischievous grin and gleaming eyes should've been a clear indication that he's planning something and you should say no. But, alas, you can't say no to him.

"Sure, but no tricks on Master Diluc. He's starting to go gray from all the trouble you and Kaeya cause for him." You warn, already starting the walk to the mansion. With no thud on the ground, Venti was by your side in a swift movement, grinning from ear to ear and a skip in his step.

It's peculiar how little sound he makes. Perhaps the anemo vision he wields makes him as light as a feather that drifts soundlessly through the wind.

—

Master Diluc stood infront of you, his eyes reading the letter you had just delivered to him. Venti had said he'll wait outside for you, not wanting to intrude. That alone was strange to you as the bard never gives up a chance to give Master Diluc a hard time. You stood there pondering on what Venti was planning, waiting until Master Diluc was done.

He let out a sigh, whisking you from your thoughts, "Thank you for delivering the letter, Y/N."

You gave a swift nod, "Do you want me to deliver a message for you?"

He shook his head, giving you a reassuring smile, "No, you don't have to deal with this much longer. It's nothing to reply-"

A crash echoes into the mansion, stilling you both into looking at the door. A bunch of shouts coming shortly after. You and Diluc share a look before hurrying out the mansion.

"What's going-" Master Diluc was cut off, watching a dark headed figure dressed in turquoise run past him with apples cuddled into his arms.

"Come now, Y/N! There's no time to waste!" Venti calls out to you, turning his face to look back at you with a wide grin. A few other people ran past you, all yelling after the bard.

"Venti! Come back!" You yelled after him, eyes wide.

You slowly look at Diluc, who stares right back at you, a scowl on his face.

You could only grin awkwardly at him as your feet started inching away from him. You two held eye contact until you quickly turned and ran after the bard, yelling an apology to him, barely catching him curse loudly.

It didn't take long before you were reunited with Venti. He sat happily by the cliff close to Dawn Winery, his legs dangling off the edge. You sat yourself next to him, trying to ease your racing heart. An apple was extended to you; you looked over to Venti, seeing him smile contently at you.

"It's only fair I share my bounty with my accomplice," he says, eyes twinkling in the evening light.

You sigh, shaking your head, taking the stolen apple from his offering hand. "What am I going to do with you?" You asked in fake exasperation.

He chuckles, "That, only you can answer, my dear accomplice."

"How wise," You mused, biting into the apple, making idle conversation for the rest of the evening.

#genshin impact #genshin impact venti #venti the bard #genshin x gn reader #genshin x reader #venti x reader #chaoffee fics

[rrenounced]

Hera Blue Potion: What would cause your muse to abruptly end a date with someone?

Love Potion Headcanons!

Honestly? Just about anything could in the right circumstances. Giovanni doesn't put much seriousness at all in relationships and dating--he'll flirt, and date, and break off relationships without warning, following his own finicky desires.

But, back to the topic, just about anything.

It could be an important call from an Executive, it could be accidentally spilling hot soup on his suit, it could be the next world-ending threat that he doesn't want to be too close to.

If you're the type of person that can't handle his plans changing on a whim or would take it too personally, he's definitely not a person for you to be dating.

Now... as the question probably really meant, what could his partner do to make him up and leave?

Basically, anything that shows a strong condemnation of his lifestyle, among a few other things.

One-dimensional hatred of criminals. Wasting both their time.

Hared of LGBT. He can find men more interesting than you.

Dislikes cats. Nothing personal. But long-term romance isn't going to work out.

Black and white thinking. The world isn't that simple, no matter which side you're on.

Closed-minded. He doesn't want to live in an echo chamber nor does he want his opinions perpetually shut down.

Boring or meek. If you're wasting his time now, you're just going to continue being a waste of time.

#starikune #the puppeteer behind the curtain => OOC #words from the boss => ANSWER #stubborn as the earth with goals as lofty as the sky! => ABOUT GIOVANNI

[vigilant-shadow]

🧸 🎵🤝

[ 🧸 ] does your muse keep anything sentimental? if so, what do they keep and why?

Xiao does have a few sentimental items, and they are all neatly stored in the sub-space he had created a long time ago, immune to the passage of time or its effects on them.

Among those items are: a small doll that a child from Liyue once gifted him as a 'thank you' for saving them from a bad situation. It sits on a small desk placed in his room. The doll was handcrafted by the kid, made to resemble Xiao, though, unlike him, the doll's constant expression is a soft smile.

Another item is from an even longer time ago, before Xiao was under Rex Lapis. It's an old golden spear, one he no longer uses for the fact that it'd probably break immediately. The spear was a gift to him from the older yaksha as a way to welcome him to the family. He also has a bunch of small minerals that he found with the others, before everything turned horrible. On some nights, these rocks make him smile, on others, just seeing them is enough to make him cry and scream. The spear rests leaned on the closet, while the rocks are stored in a box, sitting on the desk next to the doll.

Yet another item he cherishes with his entire heart, and the newest in his collection is the flowercrown he got from Venti on Windblume. It's frozen in time, as fresh as it was on the day he got it. It makes him smile and fills the room with the comforting smell of Cecilias, reminding him of his lover. The flowercrown is neatly placed on a mockup head made from bamboo wood, sice that's what he found easiest to carve, and the head rests on his bedside table.

Lastly, he has a golden ring with the name Alatus carved into it. It was a gift from the old god, when they decided to take him and make him their personal toy, pretending it to be love, when in reality, it was just lust and a desire to control something. Even though that is behind him now and he knows it wasn't even a sliver of love, Xiao still has times when he falls into his old habit of thinking it was, and it was the kind of love he deserved, gaining it only when he was good and did as he was told. When he is in such a state, he'll cradle the ring in his hands and cry, blaming himself for how things turned out, blaming himself for the pain the god's actions brought him. When he isn't in that state, the ring reminds him that, even if he was broken in the past, it's behind him now and he won't be getting hurt like that again anytime soon. The fact that it isn't on his finger means he's free from the god and their torment and that he has found actual love now, no longer needing to just do as he was told to experience it.

Side note: I wasn't listing things he still uses such as his spear or flute for example.

[ 🎵 ] is there a specific song or songs you associate with your muse? why is that?

I have a few actually!

Firstly, to get this out of the way because it feels like cheating: The Vigilant Yaksha by Kin Sen. I feel like it's obvious why I would lol also Lover's Oath, considering that the first time we hear it is with him.

Okay, now onto actual songs that aren't just straight up his theme or smthn lol:

The Horror and The Wild by The Amazing Devil -> It feels really fitting for him, especially in a scenario where he is to face the god that used to own him, now a million times more powerful than the god could ever be.

Protector by City Wolf -> He's solely focused on protecting everyone, and he'd do anything if it meant keeping those he cares for safe. It just feels right.

Little Bird - Rachel Rose Mitchell -> The entire song is very reminiscent of his loyalty to the old god, doing everything as he was told for that small bit of love he would get as a reward, and then that last verse is for a hopeful future, one where he no longer has to worry about that, where he is free to make his own choices.

I have a bunch more but if I listed them all this post wouldn't be done till next year sooo I think three is good enough to cut it at

[ 🤝 ] how does your muse approach intimacy? are they hesitant, or do they like it? what types of intimacy do they like and dislike? (ex. physical intimacy, sexual intimacy, emotional intimacy, etc.)

Getting intimate with Xiao is... Hard, to say the least. He's very cautious around it and hesitant to do anything, knowing how easily hurt he could be from it. However, he loves it, craves it even, which puts him at war with himself.

Emotional intimacy with him is hard to accomplish purely because of the habit to bottle up all emotions and hide them behind a wall covered in spikes that is his outward coldness. He keeps people at arms length, fearing that if he opened himself up to them, they would realize he isn't worth the trouble. Plus, he doesn't wish to burden anyone with his feelings, since he was trained into considering them invalid and unimportant. He's trained into considering himself so insignificant that just a few nice words have the capability to make him break down.

Physical intimacy is hard for him as well, feeling he deserves nothing but pain. However, that boy is so touchstarved, please, he needs all the hugs and cuddles and kisses in the world. Due to being unused to them, even the smallest acts of physical intimacy like brushing hands against each other can make him unbelievably flustered. Whenever he gets overwhelmed by something, there's always one surefire way of calming him; and that is taking a nice, warm, long bath with him, just cuddling him and running hands down his body, not in a sexual way, but rather in a calming, comforting one, helping him wash his hair, the entire thing would have him melting into the person's arms, possibly even falling asleep as fingers gently run through his hair and massage his scalp.

Sexual intimacy with him is the hardest to achieve. He is deeply traumatized after all. It's gonna take a bit of time for him to feel comfortable enough around his partner for that to even be a possibility. Even then, his initial reaction to any touch will probably be to flinch away for a long time and he's going to need a lot of encouragement and whispers promising safety, that he wasn't hurting anyone and that he wasn't going to get hurt. The sexual intimacy isn't as important for him as the other two, but it still makes him feel happy, to know that his partner feels safe enough around him, and to know that he feels utterly safe around his partner.

#Freedomwisp #Answered #Long post #Whew that got away from me quickly #If anyone shows interest I may actually post ficlets about the items he has

[didelphim0ss]

I FORGOT WHERE I GOT THESE

But I filled it out for Pavel for funsies.

How easy is it for them to change their mind

- Pavel is stubborn, but he's painfully aware of this trait. He doesn't see himself as the brightest, either, and will force himself to at least listen to another person's point of view. That said, he's still very set in stone once he's made a decision. Kind of like a brick; once you've thrown it, it's bound to hit something.

Does your muse keep eye contact when talking, or do their eyes wander?

- It's difficult for Pavel to judge the proper amount of eye contact to maintain during a conversation. He'll either look at something off to the side and past whomever, or stare through to their soul. He prefers the latter, it being a bit less weird comparatively.

Do they care how other view and think of them?

-Oh, absolutely.

How far ahead do they plan or do they just go with the flow?

-Pavel, while he prefers things to be planned out, is not much of a planner. He follows, occasionally offering input along the way.

How quickly do they make decisions, both small and important?

-Very. Pavel charges things head first, so it's less 'going with the flow' in the sense that it's a gentle stream he's floating down, and more diving head-long into a raging river.

How strongly do they live in the moment? Is there always a part of them thinking of other things, or do they give themselves fully to the experience?

- Pavel is a highly strung individual. His mind is constantly running, and it's hardly full of anything comforting. That said, there are a few, select scenarios in which he is 100% focused on the matters at hand: combat being the most frequent and important.

Would they like to live forever? Why, why not?

-He wants to be able to rest at some point!

How aware are they of their weaknesses? Is it easy for them to admit them?

-Pavel is hyper aware of his faults, perhaps to a greater degree than they actually are. His brand of admission comes in the form of self-deprication, which he also considers a fault. Go figure.

Do they tend to see the bigger picture, or are they more likely to delve into details?

- he can be pulled into seeing the bigger picture, but he's often focusing on details, though it's more like fretting over them than not.

How committed are they, be it decisions, relationships or life goals?

- Pavel almost always follows the lead of another; a dear friend and commander for whom he would die, kill for. For the people he serves and protects, he gives his all.

Personal goals are a different matter, and one he doesn't put much care.

How well do they read people?

- Better than he'd let on.

How do they view themselves in relation to people around them? Do they think themselves better, worse or equal to them? Why?

-Pavel's self opinion is quite low. He sees himself as inferior to other people. Being a mage in southern Thedas has not helped him value himself, and even among his fellow mages he feels significantly lower. It isn't for lack of skill; he is not an accomplished knight enchanter for nothing. He credits his corroboration with and envy of Templars for this.

What are their thoughts on changes? Would they prefer things to stay as they were, or do they like it when new things come around?

-Pav is pessimistic when it comes to change, believing people are resistant to it, but stagnation is hardly ever a good thing, either. He wishes for things to be "good", but whether that means change is in order or not remains a mystery in his mind.

Do they see things as they are or as they would like them to be?

- You wouldn't call Pavel a visionary. He sees things through no rose tint or wish. If anything, he's a touch bitter, and it reflects in his world view.

What’s their role in a party? Are they entertaining everyone, looking after people, arrange the whole thing, or maybe they’re just sitting at home?

- Pavel is a powerhouse. He's muscle and magic, and he's the right-hand of his party's head. He's a follower, but he likes to make sure his people are taken care of, preferably in indirect manners like acquiring supplies and ensuring their distribution.

Do they ever dwell in their past, both positive and negative memories?

- Absolutely, almost constantly. Though the negative memories are very much centre stage over the positive.

#Oc meme #I'll fill it out for other characters probably #Either of my own inclination or by request

[his-lost-horn]

vxtum: I can't stop thinking about the assassination attempt on Cyclonus and the babies - when one attacks Cyclonus and Tettares and the another attacks Dinobot and Gravitas.

unifyingspark: Could change that scene too, instead of the bomb going off when its rolled in and touches Tetta's little foot and goes off, the Void comes come out of her and covers it, absorbing the blast instead of covering her (tho really same thing in the end lol), with the little one backing up, making a stressed chirp-click. I like that her shadow leads Cyclonus to the attacker x.x

vxtum: I started piecing together a scene. When Cyclonus learns what species the two assassins are, he immediately sets course for their homeworld planet. Galvatron and Scourge are too far away, and when they tell him that they can just take a spacebridge to his coordinates and bring some of their military fleet (Cyclonus & Dinobot are pretty much floating outside the world's gravitational pull in this scene), he tells them to 'take their time'. He wants to terrorize the planet for a little while, and informs his mates to keep their sparkbonds open to their fullest.

vxtum: He then requests the secure channels of the major broadcasting stations on New Cybertron (as well as some of the channels they managed to hack into from at the Galactic Council, automatically assuming the assassins are apart of them). As they're giving him list across the commline, he casually installs a temporary recording chip in his forearm. It then links into his visual protocols and use his optics to project an optical band. It will record and immediately stream the datafeed into the provided channels. Looks like an external HUD. ( https://youtu.be/KvsMVAD7ydM?t=31s )

vxtum: He plans on recording the /entire/ massacre and damage he does to the world, announcing through the hacked channels with something similar to 'this is what happens when you make cowardly attempts on the lives of my children to bring down the (insert name) Empire'. Before he does the announcement though, he's in the armory (a room that is a relatively 'small' space and appears to only have a limited and non-specialized collection of weapons), suiting himself up.

vxtum: And Dinobot is there, questioning him as to why he's not waiting for the rest of his trine and the empire's reinforcements, and that the two of them won't be able to hold their own or do much damage. Cyclonus has his back turned to him, pushing different sorts of ammo (incendiary rounds; plasma grenades, etc.) into his opened vambraces, drawling, "Correction one: You have not witnessed the power of Excelsis, not only through /my/ spark energy, but now with the combined energies of an 'Outlier' and a one-percenter. Correction two," he turned to Dinobot, his expression nonchalant, "you are not coming."

vxtum: Dinobot is made flabbergasted, snarling, "You plan to go /alone/? And with conventional weaponry? I will not allow it! We /wait/ for reinforcements, Cyclonus!"

vxtum: And Cyclonus rumbles low in his throat before turning to a barren wall and presses his servos flat against seemingly innocuous places. A blue light suddenly outlines his palms and digits, and the wall panels then hiss and split, folding back to reveal a handle (he does this four more times, revealing a handle each time). "My wrath desires tribute /now/, and the twins cannot be left unattended," he spoke, tone cold, and he grabs onto a handle. With a grunt, he slowly pulls out an entire ceiling-to-floor weapon rack, hydraulics hissing as it extends outward the rest of the way while Cyclonus reaches into a lit container and withdraws a semi-large, black-shelled projectile, and he turns to Dinobot with it. "This is but one of the many /unconventional/ weapons I have sought out and purchased ever since I had learned that I was carrying. This one, in particular, has the capacity to wipe an entire /moon/ from existence. You have nothing to fear, Master. "

unifyingspark: *reads like watching a movie, grinning stupid

unifyingspark: awe god Kdove T___T it's amazing

unifyingspark: Dinobot watching him, "I see you have made up your mind." He gave his once-pupil an old look. He wasn't at all surprised and yet he was and there was humor in it somehow. "I leave you with my request to join you but I will do as you have asked, the children will be cared for while their Carrier rampages."

unifyingspark: I love this though. I really want Cyclonus to be able to show his.... warrior side. I don't want him de-clawed into mommy (even tho he is lol), he's still so dangerous....

unifyingspark: And this would show that side of him, that's not gone just because he has kids. If anything, it's worse.

vxtum: lmao OH GOD.. Cyclonus is absolutely /not/ de-clawed. His priorities have simply /shifted/, that's all.

vxtum: And the moment his children are made the target of enemies, it's /war/.

unifyingspark: Yes, I love fucking with your muse god.... his little precious girl doing her studies, peaceful, then a black explosive rolls in right at her and she has only time to look and it goes off. Would have killed her if she didn't have the Void.

vxtum: He has to draw on Galvatron and Scourge's spark energy, as is, to be able to move and function the way he normally would.

vxtum: But oh god, using Galvatron's spark energy through his own spark to power his Greatsword.

vxtum: The exact same energy that powers the warlord's fucking fusion cannon.

unifyingspark: I bet it feels good, not only is it unity with his mates, but it's the power he's gained from that union and he hasn't had a chance to use it before...

unifyingspark: "Do I look good on you, darling?" Galvatron growling darkly in the bond, pleased and turned on, feeling Cyclonus fighting and commanding their energy.

vxtum: Once Galvatron and Scourge show up, Cyclonus will retire and relieve Dinobot of his duties over the children, allowing his mentor to now partake in the slaughtering. He wouldn't dare /not/ letting you have your vengeance, too, old one

#unifyingspark #morethananyking #au: unyielding and eternal #[chat commentary] #[tw: long post]