#faerietael

[shinanai]

@faerietael:  ' i  don't  feel  safe.  what  is  wrong  with  this  city? '   meme /  accepting.

          New Miami wasn’t exactly the sort of place Nicholas frequented despite it being a tourist attraction,  at least not outside of work.  He could count on one hand the amount of times he’d been there and he had to admit,  each time it got a little worse.  It was all well and good for the economy of the town,  sure,  but wherever there was a thriving city was certain to bring all sorts of unsavory people who wanted something to claim as their own.  If anyone would know what sort of unsavory people lurked,  it would be him,  wouldn’t it?

          New Miami’s underbelly happened to be growing undisturbed it seemed.  Or maybe it was simply because this was the part of town the lot of them had decided would be safest for Vash to traverse without being seen.  He was a wanted man.  If anything Nicholas was surprised they had yet to stumble across more people wanting to lay claim to such a hefty reward.

          Meryl’s comment draws his attention away from the bustle of people,  a brow lifting behind the shade of his sunglasses at her close proximity.  Vash was holed up in one of the hotel rooms they’d snagged,  and Roberto seemed just as content to lounge behind   -   which had left the unlikely duo to go out and restock supplies and grab something to eat.  The edge of his mouth upturns,  the cigarette hanging from his lips rolled to the center idly.  He takes a drag,  letting the smoke billow from the crack of grin he’s given.

          “You’ve not been around much,  huh?”  It’s a bit obvious,  he thinks.  She sticks out at times,  as though she’s lived a rather sheltered life...  at least as sheltered as anyone on this forsaken planet of Gunsmoke can.  Though Nicholas supposes he can’t judge a book by its cover entirely.  Or that he shouldn’t.  He shrugs off the thought instead,  elbow extended to nudge at her shoulder idly.  “This ain’t half as bad as some places I’ve been.”

          Which was true,  really.  But what was it to try and compare shit and dirt when they weren’t nearly the same thing but looked to be?

          “Don’t worry,  I’m Nicholas the Punisher.”  His tone is jovial and lighthearted,  a mild but earnest attempt to ease whatever concerns she may be having as the walk through the bustle of the street.  “Nothing’s gonna happen while I’m around.”

[evilwithiin]

-- @faerietael

ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴋʏ ᴏᴘᴇɴꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ᴛʜᴜɴᴅᴇʀᴏᴜꜱ ᴄʀᴀᴄᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ʀᴀɪɴ ʙᴇɢɪɴꜱ…

For a moment, he looks to an endless ceiling, the oil-like droplets forming dark tears over latex. For a moment, The Shape is content to allow the liquid to fill his mask, drowning him in its power...until he remembers. (small fingers in his, eyes like a reflection)

Avoiding the sky's wrath, the figure lurches over, finding quick refuge in a pile of discarded car scraps. She is nearby...

!ᴊᴀᴍɪᴇ!

Just as he had urged her silently time and time again, she has chosen to stay close. Michael sees her shoes sliding in the mud with their neatly tied little bows. With a grunt, The Shape thrusts a hand out of the scrap pile. His fingers open and close with an urgency, hoping to grasp onto her wrist and pull her to safety. They will wait until the entity's rage has calmed. She will not be punished for the failure of others.

[theegotists]

@faerietael​  liked  for  a  starter  from  the  mirror  man  ! 

                                              “I  just  think  sort  of  thing  is  made  for  me,  you  know?”

Pale  fingertips  tap  against  smooth  porcelain  as  he  leans  against  the  sink,  clutching  either  side  as  he  gazes  at  himself...but  only  his  eyes.  They  look  pretty  brown  today,  but  there’s  a  spark  in  there  somewhere  just  waiting  to  burst  into  a  dazzling  emerald...or  maybe  turquoise?  “I  mean,  look  at  me.”  He’s  speaking  to  himself,  the  motion  of  his  lips  only  noticed  in  passing.  He  isn’t  ready  to  look  at  them  just  yet...

“Why  not  do  something  that  makes  me  happy?  That  I  love!”  His  index  finger  slips  into  a  gash  with  teeth,  a  split  in  the  sink  probably  caused  by  one  of  Earl’s  rages  and  he  recoils  from  it.  Catching  a  glimpse  of  her  blonde  hair,  Kenneth  spots  his  daughter.  “Why  are  you  standing  like  that?”  He  pulls  a  face,  one  looking  her  up  and  down.  She’s  always  standing  in  the  door  like  she’s  going  to  scurry  away  whenever  the  opportunity  arises.  Jesus,  it  makes  him  anxious.  

“I  mean⸺don’t  run  off,  okay?  I  really  need  to  talk  to  someone  about  this.”  He  scratches  the  back  of  his  neck,  finally  hunching  down  to  get  a  good  look  at  her.  “If  I  do  this,  we’ll  have  more  money  around.”  He  explains,  blinking.  “That  means...STUFF,  ya  know.  Like,  things  you  want.  You  want  things  don’t  you?”  Claire  doesn’t  ask  for  much.  Hell,  she  barely  talks  to  him.  He  wishes  she  would.  He  supposes  she  does  enough  talking  with  her  mother.  He’d  be  tired  too  if  he  had  to  talk  to  her  day  and  night  come  to  think  of  it.  No  wonder  she’s  so  withered.  

                                          He’s  gotta  sell  this  idea.  Someone  in  this  goddamn  house  has  to  believe  in  him.  He  can’t  do  it  on  his  own.

What  do  kids  her  age  like?  How  old  is  she?

                                “You  could  get  ice  cream  sandwiches.  I  love  those  things!  We  could  even  split  one...that  would  be⸺we  could  fix  this  goddamned  sink  too  if  your  grandpa  can  hold  it  together  for  a  second  or  two  without  hulking  out.”  He’s  pinching  the  bridge  of  his  nose  before  he  remembers  not  to  touch  it.  “Sorry,  my  language....but  just  think  of  it!  A  plastic  surgeon!”  

[richardtrager]

Plotted  starter  for  @faerietael’s  David  Annapurna  . 

Giving  this  whole  thing  the  green  light  had  been  like  pulling  fucking  teeth,  with  him,  anyways.  Sure,  there’s  a  few  tree  huggers  left  on  the  board  tickling  Murkoff’s  balls  just  enough  to  whisper  sweet  nothings  about  enrichment  programs  and  boosting  the  social,  emotional,  and  cognitive  growth  of  residents...and  that  was  enough  pressure  to  pull  the  trigger  on  the  Art  Program.  It  was  never  a  decision  he  felt  comfortable  with,  watching  money  dry  on  canvas.  The  program’s  been  up  and  running  for  a  month  or  so  now  so  it’s  about  time  he  got  the  invite  to  see  what  the  damage  is.  It’s  more  like  a  surprise  visit,  actually.  

                                                                                          He  invited  himself.  

Coolly,  Trager  pushes  open  the  door  to  the  makeshift  arts  and  crafts  closet,  the  fumes  of  fresh  paint  hitting  him  like  a  ton  of  bricks.  “Wooo!  That’ll  clear  your  sinuses.”  He  announces  his  presence,  sniffing.  Bleary  eyes  turn  to  gawk  in  his  direction,  each  of  the  patients  looking  either  mildly  confused  or  disturbed  by  his  crashing  the  party.  These  people  are  always  tough  to  please.  Take  take  take,  you  know.  

As  the  executive  takes  a  step  inside,  shutting  the  door  with  his  foot,  he  takes  in...the  art.  These  lunatics  look  like  they’re  painting  themselves  more  than  the  paper,  truth  be  told...and  those  few  guys  who’ve  managed  to  get  a  few  brush  strokes  in...--  “Oh!”  Richard  stops  in  his  tracks,  hands  in  his  pockets  as  he  leans  over  a  bald  man’s  shoulder,  taking  a  look  at  the  only  thing  in  the  room  that  looks  like  a  drawing  of  some  kind.  Splattered  across  the  canvas,  in  shades  of  purple  and  stark  black,  is  a  ghostly  figure.  Its  missing  some  distinct  features...eyes,  a  mouth...but  it  looks  like  something.  It  makes  the  hair  on  the  back  of  his  neck  stand  on  end.  

“Nice...work.”  He  finally  says,  measuring  his  words  a  little  more  carefully  than  usual.  “Loving  the  slippers  too.  Balenciaga?”  Richard  glances  down  at  the  man’s  feet  before  moving  on,  spotting  a  guy  with  brain  function.  

“Hey,  I’m  Rick  Trager  from  upstairs.  R&D.  I  think  I’ve  seen  you  before...don’t  tell  me...”  The  executive  reaches  out,  shaking  the  orderly's  hand,  eyes  rolling  back  to  try  and  remember  the  guy’s  name.  “Daniel?”  That  seems  close.  There’s  too  many  people  down  here.  

“I  figured,  you  know  what...  the  sun  is  shining,  the  office  is  cramped,  and  the  art  program  is  on  the  checklist  so  I  swung  by.”  Trager  smiles,  turning  to  look  at  the  room  at  large  again.  “Quite  the  Kindergarten  class  you’ve  got  here.  I’d  keep  an  eye  on  Picasso,  personally.  Looks  like  a  serial  killer.  You  know  those  people  draw  fucked  up  shit  when  they’re  young,  right?  The  more  ya  know...”