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@gravegotten
Selective RP blog for an independent horror/urban fantasy OC, Lucy Gautreaux with several popular media verses.
Synopsis: Local medium goes pro and accidentally saves the city but not herself or the Velveteen Rabbit, but make it Gulf South Horror.
Est. 2013 | Rebooted 2026 | 30 + | Written by Kelly | CST
Caard | Mobile Rules | Drabbles | Headcanons
He is bowstring tight and she worries for a moment that he will lash out — or maybe wishes he would because she feels hot for the first time in months and it is nothing to do with fire consuming the building in front of her. Like whatever emotion she is feeling kickstarted her body so she could feel it in full. A rush in her ears that sounds like blood and a heart and her face flushes like she’s holding back a scream but could just be proximity to the fire. A long moment passes where she doesn’t look at him fully, but she can see the tension ease as he recognizes her in the peripherals of her vision and that annoys her too. Lucy can hear a different demon in her head telling her if she made herself a threat she could change that — the means to make her will stick, as it were. She has her doubts.
The head is impossible to make out but she stares at the spot where it disappeared like she can see it. There’s no need for her to imagine what his final moments looked like she lived them herself; an uncomfortable thought. Her side itches and she has a suspicion there is a growing hole in it and, while she knows it is not visible, she zips up her sweatshirt all the same.
“Sorry?” It’s less a response than an exasperated exclamation and she finally drags her face away from flames to look at him. Long pale fingers flex and close, and when that doesn’t work she tugs at a strand of hair, pulling a curl long and letting it bound back into place which seems to work better because when she speaks again it lacks the same bitter frustration.
“Don’t continue to say that to me if you have no plans of doing this differently…please,” there is no question of if he means it — what is the benefit of lying here? And he doesn’t strike her as a demon that enjoys it for the sake of the game.
“This will happen again.” It’s not a question of if but when as much as she hates to voice that out loud. “And I would rather not hear it,” she says, deflated and finds herself cold again which feels better than the heat from before.
“Are your sources at least reliable?” She asks hoping for some reassurance — was he really all that bad?
She could try to make herself a threat, to him she'd never be. It's impossible for Cain to miss the frustration Lucy's posture and clipped tone convey in tandem. He knows what that execution's aftermath must look like to her. Not that he already told her of his plans with the same hybrid now sent to Purgatory. Whereas the flames devour his flesh and scorch bones, at last, he's taken longer than intended. There's a scowl's vestige carving betwixt Cain's brows while he watches the fire dance, fortunately no wind to spread its wrath onto anything around ; still soars smoke into the heights and the stench of burning matter permeates the air. It won't stick for long.
"I'm not apologizing for the murder", he calmly counters, "but for the mess here." In no world will he regret taking down a monster who took too many innocent lives to count— if New Orleans was as good at taking care of itself as Lucy claimed, this wouldn't be necessary in the first place. Her question prompts a low laugh devoid of joy, the demon's chin tipping upward before he half-pivots on the spot to face the one-woman jury subjecting him to a glare.
"Do you truly think I act upon hearsay alone, knowing how deceitful humanity has always been? Same goes for supernatural species." A mock-pleading crease to his brows accompanies the subtlest of head tilts, as if to say without words 'Come on!'. "Of course I study my targets before I strike. And that one", precedes a pointing motion toward the fire. "Should've gotten finished five hundred years ago, give or take." Cain doesn't believe he owes Lucy any explanation on the matter and yet, fact is that he became better than the version who killed her in cold blood. So consider it decency.
“I don’t care about which bit you are apologizing for I only know you’ll cause a mess another time. Save them for when they will matter,” she retorts, and looks up at the building again. She should go, she should leave, and the urge to slip down a leyline, to hole up in the House or her cemetery almost wins out.
She is a hypocrite, she knows that. After all, how many bodies or her own has she buried? Her mind wants to reel against the comparison — she doesn’t go looking for the fight but she is not above being the end of one either, and she can’t find it in her to feel sorry for those.
Closer now, so fast it is hard to really say it happened if the movement did not eat up half the space between them so they are within a normal distance for speaking and not the wide berth she gives him usually. Wood pops and creaks and she hears a roaring as something in the attic catches.
“I don’t really know you,” she reminds him. “Not really. I mean — I’ve heard things before and hear things now. And then there’s what you have told me too. And to me? Every single one sounds like a different man.
We both know the path to hell is not always laid with the best intentions but plenty of them are…and I don’t know,” she shrugs, and kicks out at bit of rock.
“What do I have to go on that tells me your discernment is any good? Maybe you course corrected too hard. When does someone have a shot at redemption to you? How long does it need to last? And besides being the Father of Murder why do you get to decide?” It’s not accusatory really, just a rush of questions all right after the other like some dam broke and everything is getting washed out right onto his feet and when she’s done she has the sense to look embarrassed about it.
“It’s —,” she tries again, leaning into something that feels less like pulling the pin out of a grenade and asking it to stop being a grenade. “Everything’s changed. I’m trying to figure it all out.”
indie Gambit / Remy LeBeau. Here for a good time. 18 + / CET / Vibes & Verses included free of ᴄʜᴀʀɢᴇ.
sideblog to @himbohotel
CODE | ©
In a diagram scratched on a windowseat, she sees other deaths she might have died.
@crosshairsdemon he’s the devil on her shoulder
Her wanting to give in to worst instincts TM is just Han in her ear going “don’t you ever wanna fucking lose it ?”
“you're impossible to ignore.”
The mission is done, the hybrid is dead. Finding him was the true tribulation in it all and now, whoever wants to find him again, will have to look for his ashes. Cain watches the flames soar up, belatedly tosses the severed head into them to burn alongside the rest— no one followed him. So he expects no soul to disturb. He very nearly flinches when a familiar voice cuts into the soft crackle of fire, seemingly out of nowhere. Tension immediately squares his shoulders and twists his mien into a scowl, head whipping to the side from which he heard the voice come.
It's Lucy, dead and not dead. Ghost but no ghost, he never even asked her what supernatural category she belongs to. The sight alone wipes all stiffness away, however, although the sigh he exhales borders on a growl. "Must be the arson", he finally mutters. "I'm sorry, but I have to be thorough with that one."
JEALOUSY MEME // @gravegotten
He is bowstring tight and she worries for a moment that he will lash out — or maybe wishes he would because she feels hot for the first time in months and it is nothing to do with fire consuming the building in front of her. Like whatever emotion she is feeling kickstarted her body so she could feel it in full. A rush in her ears that sounds like blood and a heart and her face flushes like she’s holding back a scream but could just be proximity to the fire. A long moment passes where she doesn’t look at him fully, but she can see the tension ease as he recognizes her in the peripherals of her vision and that annoys her too. Lucy can hear a different demon in her head telling her if she made herself a threat she could change that — the means to make her will stick, as it were. She has her doubts.
The head is impossible to make out but she stares at the spot where it disappeared like she can see it. There’s no need for her to imagine what his final moments looked like she lived them herself; an uncomfortable thought. Her side itches and she has a suspicion there is a growing hole in it and, while she knows it is not visible, she zips up her sweatshirt all the same.
“Sorry?” It’s less a response than an exasperated exclamation and she finally drags her face away from flames to look at him. Long pale fingers flex and close, and when that doesn’t work she tugs at a strand of hair, pulling a curl long and letting it bound back into place which seems to work better because when she speaks again it lacks the same bitter frustration.
“Don’t continue to say that to me if you have no plans of doing this differently…please,” there is no question of if he means it — what is the benefit of lying here? And he doesn’t strike her as a demon that enjoys it for the sake of the game.
“This will happen again.” It’s not a question of if but when as much as she hates to voice that out loud. “And I would rather not hear it,” she says, deflated and finds herself cold again which feels better than the heat from before.
“Are your sources at least reliable?” She asks hoping for some reassurance — was he really all that bad?
@phantcsmic said "i'm afraid you're just a figment of my imagination." (Val)
I'm afraid of that too, she thinks and stifles the thought (because even if it is true what does it matter now?) as he sits in front of her, his one seeing eye looks at her, frantic from head to her sock clad feet as he stumbles into her living room. They just saw each other the day before and he's already back, slinking into the house like a stray looking to hide under her porch. He's half put together really, horns and sharp teeth; more demon than man and he towers over her in a way that would annoy her most days. Now though it feels good to feel something besides what could be the spiral of her own thoughts. As she watches him she once again wonders if she was too late in coming to him in Hell. He's always been cautious, but he sees things now, things outside even her own grasp that she doesn't say are imaginings, but perhaps hauntings in his mind. "I'm not," she says and she tries to sound assured of that fact. She moves forward, an awkward and jolting action as she wraps her arms around him and she feels a familiar wave of discomfort flow over her. That is real, she thinks. Imaginary friends don't feel sick like this. It's not the first time she feels relieved for that, but she nearly revels in it now, in the way she has to force herself to stop trembling, effort — she has to make an effort and that is real. She pulls him closer, moves her arms so she can drag his face down to her shoulder until her hair covers his face and he's half folded over. "See -- I'm Real."
give ur delinquent halloween son a dog
This one was so easy I had it in my back pocket. He is a jagdterrier. Jagds are some of my favorite dogs but you have to be prepared for every bad terrier trait under the sun when you have them (which is why I don't currently). They are sharp, they have an incredible prey drive -- you cannot trust them without supervision around other animals. They frequently have pretty intense dog aggression that requires a lot of management.
You have to let them commit war crimes regularly or they will take it out on your furniture or whatever looks fun to destroy. Other than that? Literally the cutest babiest of creachurs. I love them so much. As intense as they are they are also lovely with people, they want to be with you at home, they are in your lap or in the space you are when you are home and you will never know peace and never want to know it again.
Added to this that they go to ground for prey which means they are in the tunnels so sometimes you have to dig them and the dead quarry up at the end of a hunt? Barrel coded.
Assign Stiles' a doggo, please <3
I'm not at all familiar with Teen Wolf except vaguely. Everything I know has been learned by osmosis through writing partners and the big boom of it on tumblr back in the day. So, what I know of Stiles is mostly your stuff and I took all his best traits and dialed them in with what I see him doing on the dash. I knew I wanted a working or sporting dog (or one of the ones that will eventually get put into those categories once recognized). Then I went down a few of the top bird dog breeds I know, Vizslas, the spaniels, the retrievers. A lot of them fit, but I needed one that was a little more outgoing and a less easily directed. I also wanted to maintain the overall courage that he exhibits and his resilience. That all led me to the German Wirehaired Pointer. They are described as:
With his sporty weatherproof coat and can-do attitude, the noble German Wirehaired Pointer is a versatile, sturdy gundog who thrives on outdoor activity. Around the house, the GWP is an eager, affectionate, and amusing family companion. GWPs are balanced, resilient, agile, and with an intelligent, and worldly expression. GWPs are bright and eager, but their independent, inquisitive nature might frustrate novice owners. A good fit for those looking for a loving companion who enjoys sports and togetherness.
@crosshairsdemon immediately knowing who flag poled her lmao
@eladead continued from here
It's embarrassing, really and truly embarrassing to get stuck like this and it is only something like luck or a curse that has her staring down at the vampire. Lucy frowns and crosses her arms which is actually quite a feat considering she is starting to feel pins and needles in her hands at this point and she is sure that her ankles are not the size they should be. She isn't bleeding anymore which is something but she is cut up from the fall and her bag is twisted in the tree limbs. "There was an incident," she says by way of explanation. The full story is longer and she is convinced there is a certain demon really enjoying his new set of pictures of her in such an embarrassing situation. No longer in high school and she is still subjected to this. "Could I persuade you to lend a hand?" Lucy has tried everything under the sun to get herself untangled and even Felix could not manage. She can't even get to a leyline from here either so possession has been useless too. "I'll owe you a favor. Which -- okay, this doesn't instill a lot of confidence. But go ask around; a favor from me is very useful. And maybe keep it to like three references I'm pretty sure something is going to give soon."
Slurred words
"Y'know when you meet a.... a hero? An hones' t-god dyed in th' wool hero? Lucy's like that. Dead a'course but that's like. Right, yknow? Proper. You look and y' KNOW. Shines right through. And she's got the chops for it, heart like a whale and a swing like the Babe. A woman after my own damn heart honestly. 's a shame about it all, I wish...
Ah, wishing's for pissers. Fuck it. We're friends and that's plenty, more than I've earned for sure. Like Isaid.... bloody hero...
"No no nono wait, hang on, wrong thing, it's not that, she's not a hero, that's like bloody... Hercyoolees or Cuckullen or whathefuckever... I'm thinking of martyrs. That's it."
@createdestroyrepeat i think of the quote "yeah how come no one ever mentions Lucy's big naturals" way too much when I play BG3 bc i could not find the right body type for her.
Anyway, this post brought to you by the fact that you never will. She's president and CEO of itty bitty titty committee.
@gravegotten liked X for a single line lyric starter
“Ain’t it something when everything falls apart?”
"Something is a very mild way of putting it," she said, leaning back and sighing heavily. "It's a shit show -- how am I supposed to duct tape all this back together?
Their friend had no idea how right she was. Terrible things would try and try again to crack Bernadette open with all the compassion one would spare an alien piece of technology. The British Men of Letters would want to know what made them. The Archangel Michael would want to know how to make more. A smattering of fools in between would range from curiosity, to academic fever, to a crusade against any inhuman traits, to a need to collect anything unique—regardless of whether or not it breathed. To think Bern had been born an unremarkable kid with a different name, invisible to most and irritating to the rest. Nothing anyone would consider worth studying further.
Lucy's resolve pulled Bern's eyes shut, and a hand pressed over them with a grimace. Trying to go it alone with a dying angel in tow was killing them. And the sentence for failing wasn't death, their stint in purgatory ensured they'd never find eternal rest. No, the sentence was life. Hollowed and bleak and haunted by the silhouette of a trench coat that should be at their elbow always.
"... Okay." The hand fell, and revealed some redness in the irises it concealed. "I'll bring him here. You know I don't fuckin' deserve you, right?" Brown eyes lifted, tired and watery. "I swear all I've done is bring you mess, and you keep letting me in." Not that Bern hadn't worked jobs for Lucy. They were on permanent call for anything out in nature, especially deep in the woods. Missing people, spell components, welfare checks on inhuman things trying their best to survive without harm who maybe hadn't checked in for a while. Anything near or in the water. Bern didn't share that fear, and if Lucy needed something that even HINTED at venturing into water, they didn't wait to be asked. They just went.
"Good..." The way she says it doesn't quite make it sound like she believes it, but she wants it to be good. Let it be good. She's been losing a lot lately and she wants a win, she wants to feel useful again. She wants to feel more than this grasping at something she cannot name or won't or maybe she can't even remember what she has been grasping for to start. Lucy almost says it isn't about what they deserve, but that's not the right answer. She sees the glint off Bern's eyes and feels something inside herself crack. Gingerly, she reaches forward and sets a hand on their shoulder and gives it a quick squeeze. With anyone else it would have been nothing, a gesture of easy comradery and for her it feels like she is forcing herself through concrete to get there. It's not enough she thinks -- this is where a hug would go for anyone normal but this is all she can manage right now. "Don't say that. You deserve more than this, you always have," she assures her friend with a slight tug at the edges of her lips. It's not much of a smile and she removes her hand careful not to move it again, keeps it steady so it doesn't look like it's a chore an effort to do this. "As for the letting you in part...well I think the house might override me there. Take a rest, Bern. You need it and running yourself into the ground may not kill you permanently but it will not make what your doing easier."
