again & again & again

(here to write)

[saseplayground]

the rule is to ⋆*˖✧write✧˖*⋆◝(⁰▿⁰)◜

characters .:. setting .:. verses

the more you know. .:. free for all. .:. case by case.

welcome to saseplayground! i am sase & this is my playground. after a long time away from the rp scene i am back & Here to Write :) for me that means no pages, no icons, no slaving for aesthetic, & if i follow it is because i want to write with you & i am going to talk to you about it! here are my basics:

i am at least 30. at the time of writing this i'm basically there & i don't wanna update it every year

first meetings are key. i'll come to you with ideas & brainstorm to make it happen in a way that's interesting for us both to write. it doesn't have to be written to completion (& it's fine if we get nonlinear afterwards) but first meetings can really set the tone for the rest of the relationship & are crucial for my muse to get a feel for yours. edit to add: certain muses can be more flexible with pre-est, but i still love to get that first meeting down at some point for the memories :)

no smut. shipping is simply nowhere on my priorities list, but even if our characters end up loving each other i don't care how old you are, i don't write it

tragedy, violence & gore, & other disturbing themes are welcome. as long as it serves the story & isn't simply gratuitous, i love it! most of the characters' backstories (or current stories) do contain disturbing elements & they might show up occasionally. i will tag these as "hazardous." & elaborate more in the rest of the tags

bottom line is basic decency y'all ♡ if you write characters you love, or if you just love characters, i respect the hell out of that; since i also know you're a real person behind these characters, i respect you, & will read every inch of your blog before interacting

[il-mostrc]

Hannibal had a parade of letters come to him while he was incarcerated. Banal psychiatrists and grasping second-raters. Pencil lickers, he called them. A few caught his eye, though not through flattery; he had no patience for it. The women and men who wrote of infatuation bored him. He understood exactly what they were doing. The cage made him safe to love. The bars made him possible to approach. A letter is a way of standing very close to a fire without any risk of burning.

He never replied to them but he did reply to Dove. He sent her illustrations he had sketched in his cell, a dove cradled in the arms of a headless woman. The features of the woman were quite similar to those of his recipient. The letters themselves were almost domestic in their restraint. No mention of victims. No mention of what he had eaten and enjoyed. He wrote of music, of her career, of the evening he had first encountered her before his arrest, the particular piece she had been playing. There were even musical compositions, for he had plenty of time to compose in his head.

It was exactly this that was sent to her a number of months after his escape. The sheet music looked ordinary until you tilted it toward the light. There, embossed faintly into the paper at the base of certain notes, were letters, one per note, invisible at any normal angle. Assembled in order, they named a town.

In the mornings, he would dress himself, put on his fitted hat over his altered hair, and sit at the same cafe table with the same coffee. He watched the door. He watched the street. He had worn a prosthetic nose for a time, a subtle reshaping of the profile that had appeared on wanted posters in post offices and police stations across the country. Every morning the chair across from him remained empty. He would finish his coffee, leave a precise tip, and carry on the rest of his errands with caution.

It was a risk. A risk that he felt was worth taking. Regrets were rare for him. He had examined his life and found very little he would have done differently, and none of those small revisions involved his victims. Dove was different. She was a regret only by proximity to him, which was perhaps the cruelest kind. Her career had suffered in the aftermath of their association. The recitals that dried up, the orchestra position quietly rescinded, the name that had become, in certain circles, a footnote to his. That had been a passion of hers. He had admired it. The damage was entirely his doing.

[saseplayground]

Dove discovers the message while playing the piece. The piano in her home is situated between two windows, and the light slants perfectly to illuminate the nigh imperceptible letters. She's played all of Hannibal's compositions, all beautiful, but in the days to come this is the one that she will always remember as the end.

As the beginning.

Did he know she wouldn't alert the authorities? Does she, until the choice is before her? Perhaps some part of her had hoped that he would simply go on to live his second chance life so that it would never become her choice. She's avoided thinking about it until this point, and she does consider it, as she considers everything she can about the situation. Things have changed now that he's free. There are people he hasn't hurt that might one day find their fate at his hand—and yet even knowing this, she still does not call the number given to her by the FBI agents after the interview.

Instead, days fall away as Dove turns the matter over and over in her mind. The potential for consequence looms much larger than she's faced before, far more than losing social status and most of her career. Running becomes a method of thought, both stimulating and soothing. She has the feeling that, if she can run long enough, a conclusion might finally be reached. Inevitably, she overextends herself. In the dizzying half-light of predawn she stumbles and falls. Rolls onto her back in the cool, dewy grass, feels her muscles tic like a cooling engine. There's just too much she doesn't know. Too much beyond her experiences.

Gradually the sky continues to lighten and she catches her breath, sits up to watch as the molten crown of sun slowly appears. Thinks of the watercolors, many of them sunrises, that she'd sent to Hannibal in his imprisonment, smaller than the envelopes they'd arrived in. There had been others views as well: some sights from her travels when she was still invited to, her backyard in bloom, the little potted lemon tree. Her piano, sun streaming through the windows.

.:.

Ultimately she decides on a road trip, stops in a few towns along the way and spends a few days getting to know them—in which time she doesn't see any familiar faces—before moving on. Dove has always been observant with a good memory for people, but she doesn't know the science of tailing someone. Doesn't really know if the FBI would even have people following her, what lengths they'd go to or the depths of their suspicion after all these months. She wonders if she should be feeling paranoid. If she should be afraid.

.:.

Finally, as evening is falling, she arrives in the town. It occurred to her early in the process that he might have moved on in the time it took to reach a decision and make her way here, but there's no weight to it. She falls asleep easily in her quaint motel room. Rises in the early dark to run and watch the sun wake, witness the town come to life. After a shower and breakfast she wanders, acquainting herself with the streets and shops, taking in the sights and sounds of people and the place they call home. Aware of the way her eyes catch on particular men. Dove isn't certain she'll recognize his face, not sure how he might disguise his features, but she remembers the way he holds himself, dignified and graceful. How he sits at ease in a chair, the lines of his shoulders. His hands.

He's a specter through the glass of the cafe window come suddenly to life as she crosses the threshold. Dove's gaze, clear as a pale sky, rests on him for two long seconds before she's welcomed by a barista at the counter, where she orders an Earl Grey. As she waits, she wonders again if she should feel afraid. But Hannibal has not changed as a person because her knowledge of him expanded; he is no more or less dangerous than he was before. She did not feel in danger then and she does not now.

With her tea, Dove approaches his table.

"May I join you?"

[saseplayground]

i spent the whole day thinking it was the 31st oop;;

i didn't put it in their bios cause they're all primarily focused on other things (except kite ppbhtp) but happy pride ♡ (❛ᴗ❛)

♡ lilli. bisexual & currently wary of the idea of being in a relationship & falling into codependency again, a hallmark of her past relationships

♡ nove. pansexual, but like...have you seen him lmao

♡ hugo. sex-neutral asexual & demiromantic

♡ lucus. bisexual & polyamorous ghost

♡ malachi. sex-drained. that said, he's gay as hell & aggressively ignoring it. there's a romantic streak buried deep, deep, deep down

♡ dove. asexual, greyromantic, & completely out of her depth

♡ kite. bisexual with a preference for women

♡ manna. H E A V I LY demisexual & at heart a romantic, but having any kind of relationship is the furthest thing from her mind

♡ junco. asexual & aromantic & completely devoted to manna

mun is ace, generally sex-repulsed & rather jaded (but not immune) to romance. i had some wonderful ships the last time i rped & know that sometimes they just fall in love ♡

[saseplayground]

[MALACHI] CHARACTER QUESTIONNAIRE.

What does your character smell like? vaguely like a kitchen the days he works, also old spice pure sport body wash hghhg also probably. some kinda pine deodorant

How often does your muse bathe/shower? after work he'll take a quick shower, but on his off days sometimes he's lazy/preoccupied with other things

Does your muse have any tattoos/piercings? he had his ears pierced sometime in high school (specifically to pick fights with guys who thought it was gay to have your ears pierced) but let them close up not long after running away from jason

Any body movements/quirks? not great at being still. bounces his heel when sitting, will tap/drum the fingers of his left hand on his leg or another surface when sitting or standing, plays with whatever's available (straw wrapper, pen, keys, etc), uses his hands when he talks

What do they sleep in? whatever's clean hgghslh. tends to get pretty warm in his sleep & will shed layers accordingly, also in his sleep

What's their favorite piece of clothing? doesn't have one, but he doesn't keep clothes he doesn't wear

What do they do when they wake up? malachi almost always has a song going in his head when he wakes up & he'll let it play out, hum or sing along, occasionally go straight to his guitar depending on the day. generally skips breakfast & is starving by lunch

How do they sleep? Position? pretty heavily, can fall asleep through almost anything & in almost any position. he's a sprawler though, so inevitably he's going to take up a lot of space

What do their hands feel like? warm, strong, calloused, he's got some knuckle hairs that are often burnt off. they're pretty resilient to temperature & splashes of hot grease or oil

If you kissed them, what do they usually taste like? well first of all malachi's not letting anybody (ESPECIALLY a woman) get that close to his face, but if you did somehow manage to get a kiss from him. he'd prolly taste a little sweet. man's got a sweet tooth

[southrnweed]

Thistle had cast a glance to the food in question the kitchen had technically been up and running enough to make. Yeah, it was a good argument. A partially up and running kitchen didn't push out steak and shit.

He was inclined to feel less bad about being a nuisance, but he still couldn't shake feeling as though he was imposing. At the very least these two were friends or relatives or something that would explain why it was okay for the dude to be there but not for Thistle to be.

The hunter had mouthed the password as he typed it into his phone, pocketed it once it had connected. ❝ Yeah-— ❞ He caught Nove's glance, his STARE, and blinked a bit owlishly back. Right, the vibes. Still didn't mean bad. Staring didn't always have to mean hostile.

Thistle held the gaze, his brows narrowing now. ❝ Yeah. I'd appreciate that. ❞ It was only then did he break it to toss a lop-sided grin over to Malachi. The cook? The owner? Both? ❝ I'll take a gander at the menu while I sit, see if anything calls out to me. ❞

Malachi and Nove. ❝ Thistle. ❞ A thumb jabbed succinctly to himself in greeting. It transitioned into a sort of finger gun that he pointed in Nove's direction even as he directed his attention to Malachi. ❝ He got a habit of that? Burnin' holes in folk? ❞

[saseplayground]

"Thistle?" Just making sure he heard right; the plant association is immediately stronger than half-asleep, unknown hours of the night falling down rabbit holes on Youtube. "Cool."

At the inquiry about Nove, Malachi looks at his friend, eyebrows raised slightly in invitation to answer for himself. Nove's gaze shifts from Thistle's finger gun to Malachi once more.

"...Yeah." Nove's voice is low and rusty, quiet in a way that draws the ear. Malachi continues to look at him, almost expectantly, but Nove turns now to his food and there's nothing more forthcoming.

"...It's kind of his thing," Malachi finally says, as if he's finishing a sentence. As if, perhaps, they'd practiced this. Close enough. He shrugs easily, hands drumming shortly on the countertop. "Anyway, grab a table and I'll bring out that coffee an' menu for ya. I'm assuming you want caffeine with those emails, but we got half-caf or decaf if you're tryin' to quit."

It's something he's seen often enough, people trying to wean themselves off caffeine like smokers quitting cigarettes. Malachi himself is wholeheartedly devoted to the stuff, though he tends to favor extremely shitty energy drinks at inadvisable hours.

[stagborne]

He has a brief moment of reconsidering once he thinks about how invasive it was going to fill. It was unnatural, and every fiber in his being protested the mere thought of it. It had been a bad idea, but he had been between a rock and a hard place. It was this or his boss pushing him to stay at the hospital for longer, which in truth was probably not too bad of a fucking idea. However, this was Will Graham we were talking about. He was perfectly willing to bleed out for his pride. However, he was not sacrificing his dogs.

“A schedule,” he confesses after a moment. Most of his life was already a carefully planned routine. It was partially for the dogs and then a good percentage for himself as well. He liked to do the same things. It was never too boring for him. All just some methodology of what it meant to appear like everyone else. Will uses it to be convincing as well. Normal, average, mundane. It tended to work. “It’s less stressful when there is a pattern to things. It leaves out the guessing work. I can write down my usual routine, if you’d like?” He offers. “I am not eating meat right now,” He admits after a second and laughs. It’s not funny, but if he doesn’t laugh, he might fucking scream about that one. “After the surgery, it’s just been easier to not.” The tension holds tight around the corner of his eyes. “I try to keep things as clean as I can with how many dogs I have. But I am not a neat freak– only particular about where things are put. You’ll soon find out.” All his shirts were folded in the exact same manner and in a perfect row. He was not going to subject her to his peculiarities. A second passes, and Will’s mouth twists almost immediately when she suggests calling his doctor. He can only offer an olive branch here.

“I treated myself. It doesn’t seem too bad.” He wouldn’t be returning to a hospital in quite a long time if he could help it. Aside from what put him in there, he had a real aversion to the lack of privacy. Leaked photos and people in his room when he slept, there are things he just cannot stomach. “So, you do not need to worry. I am going to be an agreeable client. Now, you tell me about yourself. You’re a person too. There are things you like and things you don’t. Share them– we’re going to be stuck with each other. I’d, at least, like to start on even ground.”

[saseplayground]

"Yes, thank you." A small smile as she accepts his offer. Although unstructured days are perfectly doable, having a schedule allows her to plan her other duties, like shopping and housework, further in advance and doesn't require constant coordinating.

At the admission that he isn't eating meat, Dove nods once, already making a mental list of alternate protein sources to include in his meals, a familiar task. With his self-assessment, she gives another singular nod and doesn't push or seem doubtful of his word. She'll be mindful for any signs of infection or other decline in his condition, but as she said, outside of him being incapacitated she will respect his choices.

Will's request for Dove to tell him about herself elicits a pause. Her chin tilts slightly in consideration, and her gaze slips away from him. It's not that it's unexpected or unwelcome, but no matter how many times it has been asked throughout her life, she's simply never quite gotten the hang of it. How does one communicate oneself to another? How much "self" is needed in order to be conveyed? What is it that makes a person known?

Dove knows she is a person, does not feel any lacking as an individual or in her life, does not neglect herself in any sense of physicality or enrichment. Her body is well-tended and healthy, she has hobbies, and her home is curated with things she loves. She has friends and stays in touch with both sides of her family—that is to say, her more affluent uncle by whom she was raised alongside her cousins, as well as her father and the motley collection of "uncles" with whom, however briefly, she grew up. Her career is of her choosing and one that she finds fulfilling. Surely, there are things she likes and dislikes.

"Well, I've said that I like to run, and I always enjoy watching the sunrise while I'm out. I have quite a few houseplants at home, including a lemon tree—not technically a houseplant, but it lives inside during the winter. I play the piano, and sometimes I paint, just small things." Her hands indicate a rough canvas sizing of about four inches.

These are things she likes to fill her days with when she has no other obligations; what of her dislikes?

"Mm...for a long time, I didn't eat meat. Not even eggs. But after I started running I eventually found out I wasn't getting enough protein, so...I made the selfish choice." Her smile is small and slightly rueful, but not guilty. She doesn't use this choice to self-flagellate. However, the way he'd said it, eating meat seems to simply be an issue of digestion for him, and she doesn't want to be rude eating something he no longer can. "Do you mind if I eat meat, now and then?"

Dove wonders if, with this information, Will feels that they are on even ground. It seems important to him; he's divulged killing, acquittal, and the manner of his wounding for the sake of it. Perhaps the ground would become more even if she also told him about her father. It's not something she often talks about, although she's not ashamed of him, and she certainly doesn't get the impression that Will would be bothered by it.

[saseplayground]

starter for @il-mostrc

During the course of Hannibal's incarceration, Dove writes to him. Not daily or even weekly, but consistently, correspondence always pleasant and, to all eyes that read the contents before the doctor himself, innocent. But it's impossible to believe that anyone with good intentions would keep in touch with such a monster, even for the humanity of it, and in the aftermath of Hannibal's escape she's one of the first to be scrutinized. With her consent, there's a very tidy ransacking of her home that finds no evidence of plots, schemes, or immediate contact with the doctor since his escape, much less the man himself.

They move on to questioning and Dove is very cooperative, but with little result. She can't offer any insight as to where the doctor would go, except that he might like someplace more peaceful, or what sort of plans he might have beyond a desire to not be caught again. It's asked and answered that she has had no prior romantic or sexual involvement with Hannibal, confesses to no unrequited feelings for him, expresses no belief that he harbors such feelings for her. She doesn't claim to have been so close to him as to be allowed to glimpse the reasoning of his mind, the drive behind his actions.

Then why the letters?

This is an old question; early on it had been leaked to a paper particularly fascinated with Lecter that Dove Solomon, a risen star in the world of classical music, wrote letters to the serial killer and cannibal at whose table she had dined on occasion. There had been some fuss, small outrage in certain circles, mutters of accusation in others, and as a result she was not welcomed to play as much as she once was. There were of course many requests to interview by both gossip rags and more upstanding columns, but she always declined, and in the end many reputable sources wrote it off as her being the child of a convicted murderer, and thus having a bleeding heart for those kinds. It wasn't forgiven or necessarily forgotten, but over the years it became simply a burr in her otherwise upstanding character.

So, the letters.

Dove doesn't disagree with public opinion. She can't condone Hannibal's actions, but neither can she abide the thought of him, once so freely social and appreciative of the world's beauty, trapped in the stale dark for the rest of his life. She has no delusions about the severity of his crimes and it's not about what he deserves. It can be said as simply as this: Once you know someone it becomes a choice to abandon them, and she chose not to, even if the rest of the world did. Especially because the world did.

On paper and in person, there's nothing to suggest she's anything more than a bleeding heart—opinions are divided on whether it stems from conviction, naivety, or sheer stupidity—but that doesn't stop the FBI from keeping an eye on her. They'd be fools not to.

Dove told the agents honestly that she doesn't expect Hannibal to contact her, but she's not entirely surprised when he does.

[southrnweed]

No hours (he checked), reasonable enough hour to excuse the ghost crowd, and there'd been music playing as he'd opened the very unlocked door to the establishment. As far as Thistle could tell? The place was open and accepting business.

A single patron resided there. Or maybe it was a relative of the owner? The seating position was a bit too intimate to be just any old customer-— but there was food being eaten and clearly the kitchen was up to something. The place was by no means vacant.

He'd had something on the tip of his tongue, likely some polite calling out to signal his presence and to get some actual confirmation on whether or not the joint was ACTUALLY open, but he'd caught the gaze of the one by the kitchen window and had just sort of stared right back.

He'd met some weirdos, some charming and some not so much. There was something OFF about the dude, but wasn't there something off about most folk? Besides, weird vibes didn't always mean bad vibes. Thistle of all people knew that. Still, the contact was broken and the man turned to say something through to the kitchen window and then a second figure was emerging onto the scene.

Immediately, his expression turned apologetic. ❝ Ah, shit. My bad-— the door was just... ❞ He thumbed back towards it, turned when he was signaled to lock it behind him despite being undecided if he was going to take the cook up on the offer yet or not.

❝ I don't wanna impose is all. Especially if the kitchen ain't fully up n' running. ❞ He could come back later or... or-—

❝ Y'all got Wi-Fi? I don't mind parkin' my ass over in a booth with some coffee 'till y'all are actually open for real. I kinda gotta answer some emails and shit anyhow. ❞ Even though Obi was handling most of the dayjob shit, he was still admittedly part of the social media duo; it was still a joint brand and that meant a joint effort and that meant, ugh, emails.

[saseplayground]

It's Malachi's general policy to be friendly yet ultimately give what you get, which is why he keeps to the fringe of customer service, staying in the kitchen rather than running around on the floor. Had Thistle been snippy or rude, he would have given him bottom-of-the-barrel service and left him to coffee and emails. Being more apologetic and considerate than Malachi? He gets best service.

"Nah, you're good, man." An easy grin and wave of his hand to dismiss all concerns of imposition. "Kitchen's running enough for this—" Malachi hooks a thumb at Nove's steak and sandwich "—but I'll getcha a menu with that coffee and you can think on it, see if there's somethin' else you want. If you're hungry now, best not to wait. Wi-Fi's mickysmiths, password's capital M Micky, capital S Smiths, number 26."

While Malachi spoke, Nove had been watching him; now he turns to look again at Thistle, gaze steady and even, not much expression to read. Not especially curious, but studious. Malachi, although accustomed to Nove's staring, is still conscious that it's not the most comfortable thing to be subject to.

"I'm Malachi, by the way. This is Nove—don't burn any holes in the guy, okay?" This last request is aimed at Nove himself, whose name sounds like nova and who glances at Malachi, firelight eyes dipping in perhaps apology before landing right back on Thistle.

[venusblooded]

“Such a shame to hear that your last boyfriend didn’t quite manage to spark the flame in you,” Venera murmured, her tone smooth with quiet amusement. “Which is precisely why girlfriends tend to be a little better… though, of course, that ultimately comes down to personal taste.” A soft hum followed as she offered Lilli another warm smile, one that seemed almost conspiratorial now.

“Exploring is never a bad thing,” she continued lightly. “Though perhaps I shouldn’t wander too far into topics that aren’t entirely relevant here.”

Even so, there was something deliberate beneath the flirtation. Venera had always possessed a tendency to charm the people she wished to draw closer, whether for personal gain, curiosity, entertainment, or something more difficult to define. It certainly helped that Lilli was beautiful in that quietly vulnerable sort of way Venera found particularly appealing.

“Still,” she said more softly, her gaze lingering on Lilli’s face, “it truly is a shame that someone as stunning as you had to deal with a man who treated you poorly.” There was no mockery in her voice, only a low sort of sincerity that made the compliment feel dangerous. “You deserve far better than that.” As she spoke, Venera reached into her purse and pulled out her keys with effortless elegance.

“I’ll take you home. It’s no trouble for me.” she assured her smoothly. “Honestly, I’d rather know you got home safely than have you wandering through the dark by yourself after a shift like that.” Then, without much hesitation, she reached for Lilli’s hand. Her fingers slipped between hers naturally, warm and deliberate, as though the gesture had always belonged there. “Us girls have to look out for each other, don’t we?” Venera purred gently as she guided her forward. “Lord knows no one else seems particularly eager to do it for us.”

[saseplayground]

Unfortunately they always sparked something in her, which is the thing to lead her down the messy road in the first place—more fitting to compare her relationships to going up in flames. But Lilli knows Venera is talking about a true flame, the kind of love that can't be extinguished. The kind she longs for most of all. Under the influence of Venera's charm the ache of her longing takes on a sweet edge, and for a fleeting moment it's easy to imagine what it might be like to be loved by someone who would always treat her as dreamily as this...beautiful to imagine, but impossible to believe in. Still, Lilli can't help but smile in return, a slow heat rising in her once more.

"I've done a little exploring," she admits coyly, ignoring the fact that it had mostly been making out with her best friend of the time, plus spontaneous drunk kisses with other girls here and there. Never anything serious enough to become destructive. "But no sparks yet. Guess I'll have to keep exploring."

In response to Venera's sympathy (and being so sincerely called stunning by the most gorgeous woman she's ever seen), Lilli can only shrug, suddenly a bit awkward despite her prior flirtation, a mix of flattered and self-conscious. Drawing on her cigarette for something to do, the ember glows softly, emphasizing the blush of her cheeks. "It didn't start that way, you know? Like, he was great, at first. It just always goes bad at some point."

█████ and Lucus always say it's not her, and Hugo's just a kid who's experienced too little of the normal world and too much of the weirder kind, but he just as resolutely thinks it couldn't possibly be her fault, either. Lilli would like to believe them, except why does it keep happening? But it's so much easier to simply not think about that in Venera's presence, to believe her when she says she deserves better.

And then Venera takes her hand like it's the most natural thing in the world, taking her breath away, and Lilli practically floats along with her, would be happy to go anywhere in the world with Venera's hand in hers. For a moment she wants to say my friends look out for me, but more than that she doesn't want to disagree with Venera and ruin this blissful moment, risk pushing her away. Besides, it's not exactly like she's wrong, either. Outside of Lilli's few friends there's no one else who cares. Even for all that Viviane, the one who raised her, has said she does, Lilli's always known it's not true.

So she grips Venera's hand lightly in response and says, "Yeah," softly, but a small smile gives her away. She's not bothered by the knowing; she's happy to have anything in common with Venera, something that puts them in the realm of togetherness.

[saseplayground]

time to talk about how delusional, obsessed, & unhinged kite is when it comes to dove ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

first of all, dove is an angel. dove can do no wrong. kite doesn't bother coming up with reasons to justify why you're wrong & dove is right, because the reason is dove

secondly, dove is a delicate flower. kite believes that dove is distressed by the sight of blood, by the knowledge of any violence occurring, by people saying mean things, that dove can't handle the nitty gritty of kite's career choices & simply doesn't speak up about it because she also can't handle conflict. this is the only reason why kite doesn't go to dove for care after her fights (although she wants to be tended to by dove soooo bad, she probably has a bandaid that dove gave her when they were kids laminated & tucked away. disgusting)

dove once had a childhood friend who had a bit of a crush on her. kite makes it her business to at least meet all of dove's friends, so she met this friend & they hit it off. she ended up pursuing said friend romantically (possibly because she sensed he liked dove, but you couldn't prove it in court), & as he didn't have the guts to pursue dove & kite was really quite persistent, he started dating kite. things ended after they had a fight & she hit him for saying something she perceived as offensive about dove (NOT what the fight was about, & the thing he said was NOT offensive). one of the only times dove has been genuinely upset with kite & the worst day of kite's life. she might still have nightmares about it

dove has since set some rules for kite about meeting her friends. the only reason kite doesn't try to stalk dove's friends & clients is because dove has very explicitly & firmly told her NOT to do that. yes, kite is SO jealous of dove's clients, but she's mostly got a lid on it. "my sister is more gracious than the second coming" vs "how dare these people require my sister's help" headass thinking

kite wants so bad to live with dove, or at least be neighbors, & absolutely plans her whole day around a chance of seeing dove whenever possible

has a bunch of shit she buys for dove that dove politely declines (when dove does accept something, kite brags about it to whoever will listen). dove has already told her that this is unnecessary & asked her to be more mindful in her spending, but kite continues to indulge herself anyway as it is the least of her vices

she probably has a lock of dove's baby hair & at least one of her baby teeth. what the fuck is wrong with her

[stagborne]

He waits to see if she will have a reaction. He wouldn’t have really blamed her for that. If he could sniff out fear, it would validate what he already knew to be true. It would have come full circle, and he probably would have kicked her out, swearing to Crawford he was not going to try this again. Dove’s unwavering stance stems either from deep conviction or a fundamental misunderstanding because that was all there could be for someone like Will Graham. There was no universe in which he did not produce a reaction.

Her sympathy feels a lot like pity, but it was better than the fear or disgust he had expected. It was something he could learn to stomach, even if it only managed to curdle there.

“I’d rather you not imagine. It’s not a nice place to be.” The things that happened have already been done. There was no going back and changing anything. Will wasn’t certain, even if he could, that he would. It had also been his own decisions that led him to his own fate. He knew what he gambled, the stakes always too high for him, inevitable in his descent.

His tongue runs on the back of his teeth at her last question. It was unavoidable in this state, wasn’t it? The most evident reason for her to be here was to assist him. He could be stubborn and prideful, if he desired– but what would that get him? Everything fucking hurts, and his dignity had been spilled with his guts. “Mostly everything, if I am being honest. I can get around and walk, albeit very slowly, but I cannot bend or reach. Dressing, cooking, and getting from one place to another are all difficult. I’ve tried to keep it clean around here, but it’s next to impossible like this with my dogs. This morning I reopened my stitches trying to wash my own hair.” His smile is sharp, severe, and lacks any humor. “Not quite helpless, but might as well be.”

[saseplayground]

Dove nods, once, and they are impossible to forget but the circumstances that led Will to this moment are not to be lingered on here, have no weight on her involvement or course of action. She is here in a professional capacity. Straight-forwardness is always best, and in this case Will's bluntness can only work in his favor.

"Do you prefer to keep a regular schedule for any of the things I'll be assisting with, or do you like your days more free-form? Please don't worry about inconveniencing me; your comfort and recovery should be the priority. Please also let me know of any dietary restrictions or preferences, and if you have any particulars about cleaning. I'm fairly tidy, and I appreciate your welcome to make myself at home, but I don't want to create any unnecessary disturbances."

A threadbare hesitation before she continues.

"And...I'd like to ask if you called your surgeon about your stitches reopening. As your aide, I can't in good conscience ignore anything that could impact your well-being—but I recognize it is your decision, and I will not call the hospital unless it's an emergency and you are not able to yourself."

Part of her thinks he's responsible enough to have taken appropriate measures already, while another part suspects he might very intentionally choose not to except in the most dire situation. Either way, it's not her place to assume.

[saseplayground]

reunited with my sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet honey darling ♡

[stagborne]

They were his life, and that much was clear. Most of his days, especially post-surgery, had been dedicated to their care in the best ways he still could. It provided him a routine through the day, something that passed the time, and the numbing void of his career was not felt so deeply. They were his last anchor to existing adjacent to this world.

“I appreciate that.” He says after a moment, “I only want to dispel any untruths and put us on even ground. So you’ll have to forgive me for being blunt. It’s the only way I really know how to be.” It had always been a necessity to keep the sharks at bay and provide useful work. “I work for the FBI, and I’ve investigated really bad people. I’ve only ever killed someone in self-defense, and I’ve been framed for murder. I was acquitted." It’s one hell of an ice breaker, but they were all things readily available to her if she sought them out. His smile is stiff, keenly aware that it was not a good first impression, but he’d prefer they be on the same footing here. (Worse, a part of him expects her to fear him, and he wants to avoid that most.)

“I was nearly disemboweled after a particularly nasty case, so I have a lot of mobility issues. As you can see, I have a houseful of dogs with no such issues. I mostly need assistance with their care. And for things that are still too difficult for me to do myself. On occasion, it would be nice to simply have a conversation. You’re my first visitor.” It was half-true. He had turned everyone else away. He didn’t want their pity– couldn’t stand to see the guilt in their eyes for not having believed him sooner.

“You can take them with you. They’d like that. I do not get to go out very far right now. Steps aren’t too easy, and getting back up the porch is hell. They’d appreciate stretching their legs further out than the yard.” Will’s dogs are all well-trained and able to recall on command. She wouldn’t have any issue with them other than their chasing squirrels and penchant for rolling in mud.

[saseplayground]

He speaks and she is a clear, still lake. You can see the words fall into her, sink down and deep, but they don't disturb the water. Don't disturb her. Framed for murder. Dove can't help but think of her father. Not exactly framed, just unlucky—but now is not the time, and she lets him go again. Looking at Will, he is no more lucky simply for being acquitted. She looks at him steadily because he wants her to know these things, and because of that she won't look away from it.

The disembowelment is, oddly enough, the hardest to hear. Maybe because it has so clearly happened, while the killing and the framing are more timeless events to wonder about later. Her heart tells her she feels pain for him, but a stranger's pain on top of his own is not something she will offer, so she holds it where it is, feels it bloom and fade to a bruise. Nearly disemboweled. He should have a live-in nurse with him, should probably still be in the hospital, but instead he is here with his dogs, asking her to help him help them.

Is it because his wounds have not fully healed that she thinks she can see the love bleeding out of him?

It's quiet for a time after his last words and Dove is so very still, not as prey, not with fear but with presence, her breathing slow and even. It can be difficult to tell the difference but she is not withdrawing, rather becoming spacious to make room for what he's told her, just as he is becoming not less but more of a person with this information.

On occasion, it would be nice to simply have a conversation.

She doesn't want to not say anything for too long lest he mistake it as her not wanting to be here anymore; she is exactly where she wants to be.

"Thank you for telling me." The words are soft, half a breath, and genuine. She's glad she didn't hear it from anyone else. "I can't imagine..."

Another pace of silence as Dove continues to breathe, pull herself back in to a manageable scope. He is not looking for condolences.

"...Can you tell me the things you'll be needing assistance with, aside from the dogs?" She's smaller than him, but stronger than she looks.

[saseplayground]

good news: i found out what the scrumptious flower is

bad news: it's invasive u_u

[saseplayground]

starter for @southrnweed

The lights are on, the door is unlocked, and the hours are nowhere to be seen. All signs aside from the hustle and bustle, which can be excused as it being a little late for breakfast but a bit early for the lunch rush, point to the restaurant being open. And what kind of restaurant is closed from 11-1, anyway?

Plus, once Thistle enters the establishment, he'll hear music coming from the kitchen and see there actually is one person sitting on a chair pulled up to the kitchen window, two plates of food in front of him and clearly not an employee—so even now it's still uncertain as to whether the place is open or not. But whatever else goes through his mind, he's likely to be distracted by the way the man at the window turns to stare at him. It's a little unsettling, not only because his eyes are visibly amber-orange from a distance, or that the manner of his direct stare is reminiscent of a wild animal, but there's something else...it might remind Thistle of the paranormal, as if the man is almost haunted. Nearly haunting. Half a ghost.

Before anything can be said, the man turns back to the kitchen, says something lost in the music. Sounds of another voice and a second man appears, this one extremely normal and wearing a hairnet, leaning through the window to also look at Thistle, expression more apologetic than frustrated.

"Hey! Welcome. Uh, we're actually closed right now..." Malachi glances at the food in front of Nove, an as-yet untouched sandwich and one of the rarest steak you'll ever see, partially eaten. "Closed" seems to be a very relative term today. "...buuut that's my bad. If you don't mind just locking that door behind you quick I can whip you something up for here or to go, otherwise you got about an hour and a half before we're open."

[saseplayground]

Another pic crew thing

taken from @stagborne ♡

[saseplayground]

[DOVE] CHARACTER QUESTIONNAIRE.

What does your character smell like? very subtly of autumn olive, bergamot, eucalyptus, & pear

How often does your muse bathe/shower? daily showers after her morning run, some evenings she'll take a bath to wind down

Does your muse have any tattoos/piercings? nope, & she doesn't really wear other jewelry. she maybe has a couple bracelets & a few necklaces, all very simple pieces, rarely worn

Any body movements/quirks? most notably she doesn't fidget, only adjusts now & then to stay comfortable. she's very good at sitting or standing peacefully, though her eyes wander. she enjoys people watching but never overtly stares and she also enjoys watching birds & other wildlife, the way trees move in the wind, the dance of light & shadow, clouds

What do they sleep in? during the warmer months she wears shorts & short-sleeved bamboo pajamas, & in colder months pants & long-sleeved wool pajamas

What's their favorite piece of clothing? a merino wool knit cardigan with shades of blue, white, & small pink accents

What do they do when they wake up? she'll always wake up right around 5am & stretch! not a full yoga routine but just getting her body acquainted with moving. then she goes for a leisurely warm-up jog & does another light stretching session. sometimes she'll do plyo warm-ups as well, & about twice a week equipment-free plyometrics. then she goes on her full run which is less about distance than time, usually lasting from 30 minutes to an hour. occasionally she'll opt to do sprints or simply walk depending on how her body is feeling, & once she gets home she showers & has breakfast. she also always watches the sunrise, whether it happens before, during, or after her run

How do they sleep? Position? on her back or either side. she doesn't move around much in her sleep, but her hands tend to migrate up towards her face; she'll often wake up with them curled under her chin or resting on the pillow

What do their hands feel like? smooth, gentle, strong. she keeps her nails short & clean, always ready to work, & they are lovely on the keyboard

If you kissed them, what do they usually taste like? stahp she has zero (0) experiences. never been on so much as a date (at least, not that she was aware of). if any kisses happened they would be very chaste, a simple press of the lips, not much chance to taste. intimacy is not something she can express physically, it's very mental/emotional for her, and the absolute most she feels comfortable initiating is touching someone's hand to comfort or express sincerity IF she thinks they would be comfortable with that. maybe, if she already feels very close to them, MAYBE touching their cheek or hair. maybe. very briefly