smoke break?

multmuse blog MNDI carrd

[breakrooms]

A self indulgent multi muse blog for my OCs (multifandom). 21+. Mutuals only. proship, frequent exploration of dark themes.

About Me / Muses / Memes

[breakrooms]

"No grave can hold by body down, I'll crawl home to her."

[unmichka]

Remarkably calm. Yeah. Yelena eases back a step, then another, one hand lifted to waist-level like she's trying to call an unruly dog to heel. The fall rattled her brain, and now she's seeing things. That's what's going on. That, or she's finally, fully cracked.

A quick sort through the evidence does little to assuage that concern. Alive. How--are they a super soldier? No. Maybe. Could Bob fall that far? Bucky? And then their voice. Rattled, as one might suspect. British, as Yelena had not suspected.

"Afraid? Jesus." Yelena begins, then stops. "What? No. I mean, yes, the shockwave did, when you--I'm sorry, did I drive through a skydiving zone by accident?"

[breakrooms]

Eddie lumbers out of the crater; one lead weighted foot at a time, meeting every step back of the blonde with another step forward. Their eyes squint with fascination. She's not horrified. Not in the way the last bloke was confident they were an alien. No... she's... assessing. Studying. Eddie watches her pupils dart, sorting through facts at the back her mind. It's a delightfully interesting sight.

Skydiving zone. They mouth her words silently. So many trips to earth and they still pick up new terms. Skydiving. That sounds pleasant. Eddie pictures humans diving through clouds like dolphins. A gummy smile crawls on their pale face, right up until she mentions that they did, in fact, knock her--even if second-hand.

"Oh dear," Their limping steps bleed into insistent marches, suddenly storming over to the blonde. Eddie wastes no time, pressing their palms to her cheeks at a rapid pace. Near inhuman. They pull her face left, then right, assessing in their own terms as to her injury level. "You don't seem concussed. I don't see grazes-" left, then right again. Up, then down. Eddie moves to her arms, levering them slowly. "No. You look to be in good order. Good. That's good. Splendid really. They'd have my head upstairs if I accidentally clobbered another one of you."

[bloodpinning]

@breakrooms' elijah said; The notes had been interesting to say the least. Elijah had stayed up all night in his office, armed with a confidential file and roughly eight and a half cups of coffee—one potentially ice cold and half-drunk still on his desk. Mr. Benjamin Poindexter. What a laundry list. Disordered traits up the wazoo. Lightly medicated. Total loose canon. In other words, the DSM V’s poster child of personality disorders. That didn’t even begin to cover the rest of the warnings scribbled in the margins. What had happened to the doctor at Rikers was the final straw for most other well to do therapists to decline the job. Since when would Elijah ever deny himself such a thrill? He’s buzzed in by a guard with a handlebar mustache and beer gut. Patted down with large hands against his meager frame. The groping hardly phases him—even earning a smug curl of his lip when the hands go up his inner thighs. Checked over and cleared, he’s led by the guard down dim corridors. A maze of concrete. Each pass underneath fluorescent light reflects in his circular glasses, illuminating the thick glass until he’s met with an iron door. Another buzz. The guard steps aside, allowing for Elijah to make contact. One inhale, and he’s in. A smile, secure but not soft. Friendly without warmth. He eases into the seat, finally resting his eyes upon his new potential patient. “Mr. Poindexter,” He greets, one leg haphazardly crossed over the other. Elijah gestures to his chest, then to the other man’s cuffs, “Dr. Carpenter. I trust you’re comfortable?”

The days are slow in Rikers, and by now they've begun to bleed together. Unlike the purgatory of his previous forensic hospital lodgings, drugged to the precipice of cognition, prison at least has a structure to it that keeps him stable.

He's back on the Zoloft, too, and maybe that helps. Dex is certain they only keep up with medicating him because of some belief it keeps him sedate. The officers here tow him around like he's Hannibal Lecter, and they may be right to — he sees ways to harm them all the time, slip-ups and suboptimal precautions that could cost a man is life ... should Dex want to take it.

But why would he? He's no animal, and he keeps a little secret close to his chest ; there is, in theory, an end in sight to his days in a cage. The hours spent watching roses bloom and birds fly from the window in his ESH cell suit him just fine for now. When he has his freedom back, he can was his hands clean of this chapter once and for all.

Therapy is a wrench in that structure. He's placid enough to roll with the punch of change, sure, but he can't deny the acrid feeling over it he can all but taste. He sits, hands gloved like a witless baby who might scratch his own face, and regards Dr. Carpenter with the same arched eyebrow he'd met the escorting officers with.

"Like I'm at the Ritz," his voice is gravelly from disuse, a reserved amusement flickering across his eyes. The late Dr. Mercer had been it for him ; every therapist since has been an obstacle at best, or a source of torture at worst. "I'm sure you're here 'cause you wanna be, too. Real five star island resort, right? Hopefully our doorman didn't give you too much trouble."

[breakrooms]

"Oh, don't worry, I never deny myself a good pat down." He hopes the joke lands, teeth just bared enough for the cigarette stains to peek through, "Big guy enjoyed it too, I can tell. Clearly all part of the 'Ritz' appeal, I suppose."

He's leaning in his chair, now, elbow tucked over the metal back in purposefully relaxed elegance. A stray thumb still manages to find his own lip. It drags back and forth, over and over as he surveys the man before him. He prefers 'Dex'. That's the first line of his own hastily scribbled notes--rough and janky, haphazardly scrawled in the back of the escort vehicle.

Benjamin Poindexter Dex. Psychopathic and antisocial tendencies. Displays erratic behavior when presented with stressful environments. Good at improvisation. Responds well to--

Okay he doesn't want to read this anymore. Elijah adjusts his glasses, brows raising with a sharp breath before he flips over his notepad. The usual script seems fruitless here. Clearly a handshake isn't going to do. Elijah has to bite his tongue to hide the twitch of his lips over the gloves. It's a funny sight. One he's seen before, and yet still, he forces back a laugh. So, instead, with a gentle clasp of his own chest, Elijah introduces himself.

"I'm Dr. Carpenter. I've worked a few cases with some Rikers residents in my time." Eight, he's pretty confident. Well, nine, now. "Now, I have it written out in my great little notebook here, but, I prefer the oral tradition. Tell me a bit about what's landed you where you are, Dex."

[sunblxdes]

Chase starter for @breakrooms // Elijah

Jessica actually found the man. Chase knew she eventually would, being one of the best PIs in NYC and the one of the only people he feels he could truly trust with information about his past.

What he wasn't prepared for was the slew of overwhelming emotion that threatened to burst out his chest at seeing one of his previous handlers.

James Volkov Jr. Son of the man with the same name, who'd been responsible in distributing Super Soldier Serums through different countries during WW1, furthering HYDRA's hold among the continents. It trickled down to his descendants, of course, and the organization found itself under South Korea's soil.

Much to his luck.

Fuck. He's not ready. He's not ready for all of it-- seeing those piercing blue eyes. It flashes in his head. The chair. The cage. Crawling for scraps. Clothes torn apart. Get it together, Chase.

Which is why the hunter finds himself in front of Elijah's clinic, right in OXE building. His fists clench inside his hoodie's pockets.

Chase doesn't believe in talk therapy. Everything that's in his head can't be solved by "talking about it", which is why he'd faked attending his state-appointed therapist for years. A waste of time.

But he finds himself wanting to try, anyway. Anything to fix his mess of a brain. Chase knocks, just in case the doctor's got a patient in.

[breakrooms]

He's been mulling over a separate file for an agonizingly long time; seemingly lost, rereading the same sentence of patchwork horrors over and over, when the knock rings out. Hazy eyes glance to his watch. Noon. Just after. Odd. His brows crease with deep focus. Bob isn't back until dinner--burgers--and Eugene is back in Germany for...he doesn't know what, actually, he didn't ask. He knows for sure it's not a patient. He'd had Russell move them to the next few days.

A lazy, immature thought whispers to just ignore it. His office light isn't on. It's not like anyone would be able to tell he's inside stewing over another poor soul's greatest hits. Yellowed nails scratch at his chin, teeth sinking into dry lips in the process. Once again, he's reminded where he works. At least four people in house can hear his heartbeat through a door. Maybe the freaks can get his heat signature, too. Hiding isn't going to do shit.

Another knock.

"God, fucking, yeah, shit--" He knocks his knee on the way up, wincing while throwing his head back. Elijah sighs. Now his journey to the door is a hobble. "Coming!"

The door rips open, his glasses now sit down the large slope of his nose. With a blurry squint, he practically recoils. Chase. Not at the Rickshaw on Eugene's arm. Here, at his office, quite frankly looking like absolute shit. Elijah didn't know he could look like shit.

"I'm gonna go out on a whim and say you'd like to come in? Couch is free."

[daemondaes]

Myths & More: One of the world's oldest independent bookstores still in business today. With a handful of locations scattered worldwide, it is, in fact, technically a chain—but still, always and forever, family-owned. Una Naux is a familiar face at all of them, and seems to check in on the branches with a startling rapidity, as if all her time not spent at one location is spent in transit to another. She's gotten good at juggling the business; slip-ups of this magnitude are rare. It's only natural, however, that even someone as composed as she might have an off day.

She smooths back her hair and clears her throat—a suave recovery for someone who nearly lost a Louboutin. "Store credit, obviously." Weak tittering accompanies a plastic smile. It's been a long time since any of her jumps have landed her so close to overlapping someone. Calculating the least populated spot to arrive is part and parcel of time traveling. It's a small error in the rotation of the planet in relation to the date that's brought her not to the stock room, but the sales floor.

A wave of her hand dismisses her own words. The answer was a half-joke anyway. She sizes up her potential customer, then shrugs.

"I did say dollars, didn't I? Goodness, I'm more jetlagged than I thought. A fat lot of good that would do you. Pounds, then." Her sigh is soft, nearly girlish. This isn't the first time she's offered to pay someone off, and with her longevity, it certainly won't be the last. It's only then that she realizes she's not sure what this person thinks they may or may not have witnessed.

[breakrooms]

Eddie stands in bewildered delight. Ever so slowly, their lips turn into a gummy smile, earnestly nodding their head at every sighing word from the woman. They can sense the panic--a familiar sense of their own usual disorientation post falls. Something about being caught in the act makes it so much worse. Each wave of the woman's hand has Eddie's eyes following like a puppy gazing at a treat. She's regal, in a way. Proper. It's a nice contrast to their usual stragglers.

They attempt to stay still--feet constantly twisting in, then out--unable to resist the excitement bubbling away. A traveler of some kind. Teleporter? Dimension shifter? The possibilities only have their eyes twinkling with delight. 'Imagine the stories' --Eddie ponders, losing themself in the sea of 'what ifs' currently storming in their mind. Where was she before she was here? A garden? Egypt? The moon? Maybe--

"Did you say store credit?" Eddie points, circling their pale finger back to the ladies' prior words. "That's a far greater interest than finances, I assure you. I suspect I'd be spending a thousand or so pounds on books anyway. I do my flat mates' heads in with the amount I spend, honestly--"

Eddie comes to terms with the fact they're doing an abysmal job of keeping their mouth shut. At least the yabbering is about themself, and not this woman appearing before them. They give another sheepish smile, this time with a polite nod to the lady themselves. "You're actually capable of granting that, aren't you, I assume you're the boss?"

[breakrooms]

I really like character lore. Like more than I do writing. To encourage myself to write it down more I present some good, bad, and ugly facts about my blorbs. Elijah, Eddie, and Grant facts under the cut.

Between the completion of his thesis and his work at Oxentrate, Elijah briefly volunteered at a troubled youths facility. His work saw him overseeing a few group projects for teenagers in and out of home, transient in their own way for reasons he could understand.

During one art session he brought one of his old scrapbooks from his high-school days, nervously sharing the story of his dreams of being a famous photographer. He thought--much like back in high-school--they'd tease him for it. Kids being kids and all that.

They complimented the work--telling him it was 'alright' and 'pretty cool'. At the time, he had to work back the lump in his throat and tell them to get their cameras ready.

He has a picture of that group in his home office, tucked aaaall the way at the back of his bookshelf.

When Eddie first learned angels could change their human appearance, they were enraged. Decades trapped in a body they couldn't see themself in, forced to be an image of beauty and not love, exposed as a fruitless, avoidable experience. Devastation is too small a word to describe it.

The hoarse screams of betrayal to their father seemed to go on for an eternity. His calm presence an even worse gash to the wound. People understand a womanly form better. He'd guided Humans are fickle, simple thinkers. No rationale soothed the pain, and Eddie once more, at the end of their wits, flung themself to Earth. This time, they didn't care where or how they landed.

It did not help, at all, when they ended up landing in 1960s Soho, suddenly forced to come to terms with all the ways a human body could look.

Grant tells himself his divorce came out of nowhere. Loraine couldn't handle the travel. She didn't support his drive. Time changed them both. It's the same rehashes of the same excuses every time; never once truly looking inward. Though sometimes, over a stiff drink in his office, he does contemplate.

Maybe he could have been nicer when the IVF didn't work. Maybe he should have spent less time with his assistant. Maybe he should have flown back for her mother's funeral.

But then, like every night those quiet moments come around, Grant can only shake his head. She could have let go of the idea of children. She could have trusted him with the younger woman. She was grown enough to face those things without him. It's not his fault.

It's not.

[bobrvynolds]

This is where Bob finds out that Grant had no idea who he was. Not many people did, but some have asked about him.

He knows he shouldn't be snooping around the tower when media's around-- especially not if it's an infamous one from the Daily Bugle. John's warned him enough, but this one seemed so keen on getting information.

Anything for a headline, he guesses.

Bob returns a meek smile and stashes some of the crumpled receipts from the dashboard into his glove compartment, which is stuffed with more of the things. God, he really needs to clean that out.

"Work? Oh, no. I uhh.. I live in the tower. I t-take part-time outside if I need extra cash." Bob mutters, distracted by the car in front of them that's trying to park. Video Killed The Radio Star hums softly from the truck radio.

The boy freezes as he realized what he'd just said-- offering an opening for a question-- and quickly backtracks. "I m-mean! I mean, yes. I work at OXE. Yes."

[breakrooms]

Grant can't hide the slight grimace. The clumsy attempt at vehicular housekeeping has only seen more papers tumble across his shoes, Christ, does no one respect their property these days? He rolls one ankle, watching with disinterest as the receipt tumbles to the floor. Sucking a breath through his teeth, Grant forces his face to settle. This poor bloke works at OXE, maybe a story about the little guy is more relatable than the giants.

"They've got enough residentials for the help to stay in house? That's progressive. Didn't get shown that on the tour." He admires, though his tongue drags across his molars after he speaks. Curious. Work perks high enough to live inside the building, but bad enough that the boy needs to work odd jobs. De Fontaine did always have a peculiar moral compass. Grant remembers the story he wrote for her in--

The truck grunts and groans to life as soon as the car in front gives up on the park. Relief floods Grant's system. On the road means closer to his apartment, and his apartment means a stiff drink and a smoke. His head knocks back, resting idly on the headrest as he relaxes. Which of course lasts all of three minutes. His eyes open with a reluctant breath. Right. New York. Traffic. Grant doesn't know what he expected.

He presses his thumb to the corner of of his eye. Great. Conversation will have to do. "Is the part-time work as exciting as what you see in the tower? With the big guys going in and out, you must have seen some sights."

[breakrooms]

a holy starter for @bobrvynolds

They've been watching him for a minute. From one slightly damp park bench to another, Eddie is utterly entranced by the man before them. It's not like he's doing anything important. Not to the standards they've learned from humans, anyway. He's just got his face down in a book, brows creased in pure, measured focus. It's enchanting, really. The wrapped attention of one man and his tattered book is a welcome sight.

Though, it does seem rather lonely.

Eddie tilts their head, adjusting the angle of their observation. Now their steely blue gaze now looks past the reader, focusing on the few odd souls out for their morning walks. A group of students giggle under the trees. An older couple sit at the farthest park bench. Walking groups and work buddies. All around them, are friends. Once more, Eddie looks to themself. Alone. Then, to the man, reading. Also alone.

Without sparing a second thought--they'd talk themselves out of it, otherwise--Eddie scuttles over. Their boots crunch against the frosted path, giving them all the subtlety of a stomping toddler. A soft grunt has them sitting on the same bench as the man. Not too close together. They learned that lesson last time. Eddie clutches their hands between their knees, inquisitively leaning over to look at his page.

"You look rather enthralled." They note gently, nodding their head towards his book. "I wanted to come see what was so interesting."

[breakrooms]

@daemondaes sent: "It's just this is sort of like a representation of life, you know what I mean?" From Cherry, to—

He's still in the process of registering what's happened to him. Grant stands tall; one hand in his trouser pocket, the other clutching at the now coffee-stained section of his chest, sighing in what can only be described as...acceptance. He didn't see the girl before the impact. How he missed the pink flash of chaos he isn't quite sure. Still, the issue still stands. His six shots of espresso is now leaking into his white shirt.

"Ah, Christ." He mutters in his thick Irish brogue, swiping at the mess with clear irritation. This is why he should stick to the crummy drive through shit.

Much to his surprise, the girl speaks. Some philosophical trite that sets his jaw tight. Grant has to force his lips to stay straight, brows raising with the gargantuan effort that seems to be. On his much needed inhale, Grant manages to force a smile.

"A very noble way to put it." He lies before gesturing to one of the flimsy serviettes, "would you mind passing me a few of those? I've got a right mess on my hands."

[breakrooms]

@daemondaes sent: "I'll give you $2,000 if you keep your mouth shut." From Naux, to—?

They'd come in as a treat. A bookstore called Myths & More, how could they note come in? Have a little nosy. A browse. A peruse, perhaps. Truly, they'd been rubbing their hands together at the mere idea of that delectable stench of old paper. Upon entrance, the shop had looked...well, empty. Not of books. Those were in abundance. Floor to ceiling shelves with books on anything and everything. Myths & More was seemingly inundated with books, but not, apparently, a tender.

That is, of course, until they turn the corner. One minute, Eddie is quietly admiring a row of first editions, when they're unexpectantly bumped--bumped being an incredibly generous word. Eddie lets out a soft puff of air, met with the knocking of another body against their own. They weren't there before, were they? Surely not. Even after spending so long away from home, their senses haven't gotten that bad. As they break apart from the slight tumble, and Eddie dusts off their jacket, they take note of the air.

Crisp. Electric. Tasting of an odd disturbance of something greater than just pollution or their average blessing. 'is this what it's like to be on the other side of it?' - they wonder, brows furrowed. Then, the brunette speaks. Firm and authoritative. Eddie bites the insides of their cheeks.

"Right. That's quite the number. Pounds or dollars? I can't quite say I've nailed the conversion rate."

[ohisms]

━━━ for every "👤" [ alternatively: "NPC" ] sent to my inbox, i will introduce you to ONE NPC relevant to my muse's lore !

[raesource]

headcanon questions

if you are sending to a multi-muse, remember to specify the muse that the questions are being sent for . feel free to edit these as you see fit .

🌟 What’s something small they did as a child that hinted at who they’d become?

❤️ Who is the one person they’d drop everything for, no questions asked?

💔 What’s the one wound (physical / emotional) they’ll never fully recover from?

🗡️ What’s their “I’ve killed for less” trigger?

☀️ What’s their happiest childhood memory?

🌧️ What kind of weather matches their soul?

🍽️ What meal do they cook when they need to feel like themselves again?

🎶 What song instantly makes them emotional & why?

🌙 Do they sleep peacefully / fight nightmares every night?

🔒 What’s a secret they’ll take to their grave?

🪞 What do they secretly hate about their own appearance?

💪 What random skill are they weirdly proud of?

👶 Baby picture of them - what’s the most embarrassing thing about it?

🏠 Describe their home when no one’s watching—messy, spotless, chaotic cozy?

😭 What always makes them cry, even if they hate admitting it?

😂 What’s the dumbest thing they’ve ever laughed at for way too long?

🧸 Do they still have a childhood comfort object? Where is it now?

✏️ What nickname do they secretly love being called?

⚔️ How do they act when they’re furious but have to stay polite?

🩸 What’s the worst injury they’ve ever had & the story behind it?

🕊️ What would instantly calm them down in a panic attack?

🔥 What’s something they’d burn the world down to protect?

🌹 What scent reminds them of the person they loved/love most?

🪥 What’s their most oddly specific daily routine?

💔 What’s the one apology they’re still waiting for that’ll never come?

🃏 Are they the type to forgive / hold a grudge until the end of the universe?

🌌 What’s their biggest “what if” that keeps them up at night?

🦋 What was their “I’m not a kid anymore” moment?

🎭 Do they wear a mask in public? What’s the real them like underneath?

🧳 If they had to leave home forever with only one bag, what do they pack?

🌑 What’s the darkest thought they’ve ever had about themselves?

☕ What’s their comfort drink?

🖤 What’s a “villain” trait they actually possess?

🤝 Who is the one person they never want to disappoint?

🎁 What gift would utterly destroy them (in a good / bad way)?

🩹 How do they react when someone they love is hurt?

🌅 Are they a sunrise / sunset person - what do they think about while looking at their favorite?

🧣 What texture/clothing item makes them feel safe?

🦉 What piece of advice do they give everyone but never follow themselves?

🔪 What’s the most violent thing they’ve ever done for love / survival?

🦋 What seemingly insignificant memory do they cherish the most?

🌹 What is their love language & how badly do they need it right now?

🪨 What’s the hardest choice they’ve ever made?

🧋 What food/drink do they hate that everyone else loves?

🕰️ If they could relive one day of their life, which would it be?

👑 In their own story, are they the hero / villain / someone else entirely?

🌡️ What temperature do they keep their home at & why?

🧸 What would their younger self think of them now?

💌 What’s the letter / text they’ll never send?

⚰️ What do they want written on their gravestone / what do they want people to remember them for?

[kaisources]

- -. ݁⁺ ⊹ : THE LONG AND WINDING ROAD . . . roleplay sentence starters based on complicated friendship, mundanity, &. uncertainties films ; the puffy chair. genre: slice of life, family, romance, hurt and comfort, angst.

Come here. I'm sorry.

I wanted to make sure you knew what you were leaving behind.

Do you know how much you're gonna miss me?

You sure you don't want me to come?

I got some things to do. We talked about it.

If you could pull off it would be fucking awesome, you know?

I'd take it, you know what I'm saying?

What do you want to know about [name]?

Oh, I see what this is.

Dude, dude, I'm your man!

You're a good guy, obviously.

What do you want me to say?

I'm picking you up for a road trip.

What are you doing in the bushes, you fucking weirdo?

Come on, come on, get out. It's beautiful, isn't it?

I'm glad that you bought this pizza, you know? And that we get to share it.

I'm so happy to meet you. I've heard a lot about you.

You pushed the right button on that one.

I'm getting used to it, you know what I'm saying?

I know you loved that fucking band.

So is this like a road trip then?

I didn't know it was your birthday.

You don't think [he/she/they] would dig it?

I don't know, I was actually reconsidering it.

You were pretty pumped about it a while ago.

It's just this is sort of like a representation of life, you know what I mean?

For whatever it's worth, we are on this road trip and it's all about connecting.

Hey. Are you mad? You seem mad.

Are you disappointed in me?

I want you to have some faith in me on this.

I'm gonna take care of it, all right?

I'm gonna get us some alone time, all that stuff.

I'm gonna go get the room for us and you just mostly stay out of sight.

Why I gotta stay out of sight?

it's just a way to get the room a little bit cheaper.

I'm sorry, excuse my language.

All right, I got Plan B.

Um, this is gonna kind of suck, I'm gonna warn you right now.

Would you mind if I just slept in the van tonight?

How the fuck am I gonna do this without [him/her/them] seeing me?

Just go right here, I'm not gonna look.

I'll be there as soon as I can get a free second.

What are the things about me that you love?

What do you mean what kind of question is that?

I'm just trying to pick your brain about little things.

Why can't you believe me?

I don't understand why we always blow up over these little things.

You know what? Fine. Go to bed. Good night.

Nothing is bothering me. That's the point.

Look, I really want to apologize to you.

I know I lied to you. I'm sorry.

Now, if you'd just hold onfor a second.

I'll be right out there, okay?

Is this a fucking joke or what?

Let me just check with you real quick.

Look, a picture doesn't have all the details.

You're serious, and you're not joking.

You want to say something to me, go right ahead and say it.

I'm supposed shit my pants because you're all kind of silent and mysterious and shit?

I'm gonna kind of have to fix this.

I don't know, if you want to just chill out in the car or something, that'd be cool.

All right, you hang loose. All be there in a minute.

Are you gonna tell me what just happened or are we just gonna, you know, enjoy the silence?

What do you think I said to [him/her/them]?

Why are you so defensive? I was just asking what you said.

I wasn't insinuating anything.

So we pretty much have the whole day to do nothing.

Are you hungry? Let's get something to eat.

You still haven't shown me where you work.

I thought you left.

Don't get pumped up about this.

What is that supposed to mean?

I'm talking about the essence of [name].

All right, you know what? I'm not gonna stress about this.

I can't be held responsible.

It's gonna be fine. It'll work out.

Can you hand me the phone real quick?

I want whatever you are drinking.

Hey, I'm gonna make a toast.

I will not look elsewhere for happiness.

How come you never played that before?

You keep putting on the wrong accent on the wrong syll-a-ble

You know what your problem is?

What got into you tonight? Are you okay?

What happened? What's going on? What's going on?

What do you think's gonna happen to them?

What the fuck is your problem?

I don't know why you want to be in a relationship because you can't stand anything that is remotely romantic.

Will you calm down, please?

You're not gonna get out of it this time.

I need to know if you take me seriously, because if you don't, I should know about it.

I know I always say this: Don't get upset.

We should not be having this conversation right now 'cause it's late and this is a bad time--

I deserve better than this.

That's basically what you're saying, right ?

I'm talking about the fucking negative feedback that I get from you all trip!

What the fuck, dude? Why do you want to be with me?

You can't do it, and you know why?

I'm fucking sick of feeling guilty about it.

I'm sick of trying to be somebody that I think you're gonna like.

What do you mean you don't know?

It just wasn't supposed to be.

Sometimes it just doesn't work out, you know?

Are you kidding me?

You weren't there.

I didn't roll my eyes. You made that up.

Why are you upset with me?

I'm kind of ready to leave this place behind.

I'm sorry, I can't do it now.

Will you just open up the door so I can at least look you in the eye?

I want you to go away!

I'm not gonna stop doing this until you let--till you come talk to me.

We need to talk about this. I know you feel this.

I'll give you $2,000 if you keep your mouth shut.

I don't want to talk about anything right now.

Do you ever fucking talk about any godamn thing in the world?

You just want to ignore me?

I just want some peace, I just want to drive in peace.

I'm not pulling out in the middle of nowhere to let you out because you don't know how to take care of yourself!

I can't do it anymore.

Oh, my God. What you crying about?

You didn't tell me a thing. What is going on with this?

It's kind of a funny story. It's sad but funny.

Are you saying that 'cause you think I want to, or do you want to?

I'm real glad you're here.

[bobrvynolds]

Open Starter

"God, sorry. I know the truck's loud as hell. I haven't uhh.. got the money to replace the engine, or whatever's wrong with it. D'ya still need a lift?"

[breakrooms]

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph,"

Grant mutters it under his breath as he's tormented with the behemoth of the grunting truck before him. He hides the curl of his lip with a strategic movement, smoothing down the coarse hairs of his moustache in a bid to save the poor boy--Robert, if he recalls right--his feelings. After all, the kid is being nice.

Somewhere in the midst of his tour of the Watchtower the boy had heard him complaining about transport. A janitor--maybe a delivery boy, or a runner perhaps--eavesdropping. Grant supposes he shouldn't judge, his own career has been built on nosiness, but still. How could the boy hear him from--

No matter. They're both here now.

"Yes, I greatly appreciate it, mate." He sighs, shoulders sagging as he folds his tweed blazer over the crook of his arm. Neat. Tidy. Good. Grant's eyes lift from his arm to the truck, glancing from the rusted bonnet to the busted exhaust. His eyes close. With a reluctant huff, he lifts himself into the passenger side. "Right,"

His satchel sits tidy in the footwell, clamped precisely between his polished boots. The rumbling seems to be quieter from the inside. That's a positive. Good, he's found one. Grant gives himself the grace of relaxing into the seat, even going as far as to give the boy a grateful smile.

"You've saved me a spot of bother. I like the tube as much as I like my ex-mother in law's cooking. Dreadful stuff." Grant laughs at his own joke, eyes creasing, before eventually settling in. "Very kind of you, you know. I haven't buggered your, ehm--" his hand waves haphazardly at the building, "--work?"

[unmichka]

Religion has never been a concern for Yelena. There are forces and higher powers at play, oh yes, she has seen them. Met a few, shook their hands. Watched on the news and out her window as they battled it out over disputes far, far above her pay grade. Once, she’d even stepped inside one, let the cold expanse of the void seep under her skin. A dozen-odd weeks had elapsed since, and a too-dark room still sent dread crawling up her spine.

But believing in those things is a matter of empirical evidence. Thor exists; portals splice together the universes; the sun rises and sets each day. All true, even if the particulars test the bounds of her comprehension. Seeing is believing, after all.

But right now, Yelena isn’t quite sure she trusts her eyes. She edges toward the crater bisecting the highway. Smoke curls off the asphalt. Her bike—knocked clean onto the shoulder by the impact wave—sputters behind her. If this is an alien invasion, she thinks, I’m quitting.

It’s not. Maybe. The body curled in the broken road looks suspiciously human. Except no human could survive falling from—wherever they fell. Yelena peers up at the sky. Wide and empty.

Yelena steps back, ready to flee the scene, when the body moves. A shift, a groan. She almost jumps out of her skin.

“What the hell are—you’re alive?”

one angelic fall for @breakrooms

[breakrooms]

Impact is always the worst part.

Smack bang in the middle of their newest crater, Eddie winces. They let themselves hang in the agony of rubble--their shoulders braced and their breath hitched--waiting for the bloodrush to leave their ears. Eddie half expects to open their eyes to golden lights, though it would seem the heavenly father has already abandoned their latest attempt at self-indulgence.

Instead, in the hazy fog of their own wake, Eddie's eyes open to a flash of blonde. A woman. Two of them? No, three. No, actually, just one. Everything is spinning. Right. Time to make contact. Rubble falls away from their rigid frame as they bring themselves to a sitting stance. Distinctly off balance, Eddie can't stop themself from swerving sideways. An immediate groan of dissatisfaction escapes their crusted lips. Weak and whining, like a kicked puppy on the side of the road.

The woman speaks, earning an immediate flinch. Eddie's head throbs. Usually people scream. This is... remarkably subdued. Blue eyes--well glazed over from the healing concussion--finally track down the actual position of the speaker. Two tentative hands raise. "Don't be afraid... It's... ah, stars above, give me a minute."

Eddie curls forward, confident they can hear their humanly bones crunch in the process. A grunt, a grumble, a groan, and their up. There they stand, clutching themselves as they tilt their head. "You are remarkably calm. I didn't knock you on the way down, did I? You're feeling alright?"