#pseudowar

[codebreak]

the  spin  of  the  chair  moves  from  side  to  side  as  she  swivels  in  it,  scrolling  through  the  data  in  front  of  her  with  her  chin  perched  in  her  hand,  glasses  on  the  edge  of  her  nose  as  she  reads. 

it’s  late  +  she’s  been  staring  at  the  same  information,  looking  for  inconsistency  in  the  shipping  manifest,  “  i  think  i’m  going  even  more  blind.  ”  she  sits  back  to  rub  at  her  eyes,  looking  at  trick  for  a  moment,   “  found  anything  on  your  end?  ”  

she’s  thinking  now is  a  good  time  for  a  snack  break,  or  a  nap,  but  if  he’s  found  something  it  gives  her  a  rabbit  to  chase,  +  her  favorite  thing  in  the  world  is  a  good  cyber  chase.   “  please  tell  you  did,  i’ll  make  you  cupcakes  or  banana  bread.  anything  you  want.  ”

@pseudowar / x

[eltriador]

------continued from here.

HE'D HEARD EVERYTHING that had to do with what he was a thousand times before . sometime between now and when he finally hit the grave he'd probably hear it at least a thousand times more , but lee rolled easy with the punches . he always did . life was too fucking difficult to take so seriously ( and he'd had enough seriousness in those first few decades to last him the rest of however fucking long he was stuck here , anyway ) . for now he'd settle for the brisk laugh of a beautiful woman , despite how self - deprecating his joke was . it was the little things .

as far as léon antonio sepúlveda castillo went , he was nothing but a red flag . scars that told of his misgivings , sad eyes that covered themselves with glittering mischief in hopes nobody would notice , smiles that were all teeth --- the better to grip with , my dear ... he smelled of leather and gun oil , looked like the nightmare man of any suburban mom's greatest fear for their daughters to date ( while secretly hoping he'd whisk them away instead ) . one big , red flag . he was all right with it .

moe herself wasn't the beacon of a good girl , either . it's what he liked about her - the tattoos , the piercings , the dark lipstick and eyeliner . the goth phase she never seemed to grow out of , the way she smelled like bad ideas and smoke . it'd been a long time since he'd acted on a bad idea . he was overdue .

" sit , stay , shake , speak . do little tricks if you offer a treat in exchange . " all teeth , that grin of his . there was no way it could get wider . " good - enough . but you have to rub my belly if i do . " @pseudowar

[loganmoved]

@pseudowar said: your t-shirt’s inside out.

there he is, in all his glory, hunched over a steamy cup of coffee, grinning like a madman. logan had managed to crawl out of her quarters, sleep in her eyes from a long mission the night before. danny's words inspire a delayed reaction, causing the pilot to look down at the tag exposed on the outside of her shirt, only after she has settled in across from him.

she pulls at the tag, causing it to rip away easily from her top. " not anymore, " she reasons, given that there's no tag to distinguish what is and isn't inside out.

much like a cat, she stretches and yawns and eventually decides it's time to exist in the adult world again. so, logan saunters over to the coffee machine and pours herself a cup. " how're you awake right now? i mean, i could manage another four hours. at least. "

[nezemny]

@pseudowar

Nikto doesn't do anything by halves, so really, Krueger should have expected this. Nightmares long since graduated into night terrors, limp hits made more precise, more painful. All those years of training, all that time being tortured, resulting in him being just as deadly asleep as he was awake - if not more. And really, the Austrian should have expected it, because it was Nikto, and it was him, and he might have warned him about it before they'd fallen asleep in a huddle but Krueger had merely shrugged it off as just one of those things people exaggerated about. Yeah, turns out Nikto hadn't been exaggerating, and he now had the bruises to prove it. Dark spots blossoming across his arms and ribs already, and the taste of blood in his mouth. His own hands pinned to the sides as he'd had to resort to other means to waking him - read: kicking the Russian hard enough to give him momentary dead-leg. It'd worked like a fucking charm, and now along with the bruises and the blood, he's rewarded with frighteningly blue eyes focused on him with sudden and new, sleepy clarity. Ruined lips twisted in something unpleasant and unsure. Awkward... "Has anyone told you that you snore?" Krueger tells Nikto, quite seriously. Like he hasn't just been woken by his first good night rest in a while with violence and the stench of fear. Like his teeth aren't tinted red and his tongue isn't swelling from how hard he'd accidentally bitten it. "Like, really fucking loud. Should get that checked out." [ scream ] for one muse to wake up because the other is having a nightmare

Sleep didn’t come easily to the Russian. This was doubly true of tandem sleeping. For lots of people, the warmth of another body next to them may come as a comfort, a loved one to share in the charge of protection. To Bogdan, it was only another threat. No one was to be trusted. He’d been proven time and time again that eventually, everyone betrayed one another. It was a waiting game. Sleep was a perfect time to take someone out. It was the perfect opportunity to catch someone unawares. 

He’d done his best to caution Sebastian, and the man had insisted. They’d graduated to co-sleeping! It was a new level to whatever they were. The Austrian had insisted on it being perfectly okay. He’d insisted he could handle it. Nikto had agreed, though begrudgingly, to at least give it a chance. Despite his misgivings, too, he’d drifted into slumber with relative ease. A night didn’t pass without nightmares for him, though. His waking hours occupied with worry translated to nights filled with the memories of the source of said worry.

The jolt awake was jarring; it was frightening. One moment he was in a cell under Mr.Z’s mercy, next he’s staring down a bloodied Krueger. Tired eyes half-lid, narrowed sharply as he tries to make sense of what’s going on. The statement stands to confirm his assumption. It was exactly as he’d predicted. He’d lashed out. “We don’t snore,” the statement is flat. He’d told him this would happen. He rolls off of the other man, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “We said this would happen.” Try as he might to mask the guilt in his tone, it was futile.

[oftoska]

A lazy, sloppy grin slapped itself across his face. There was nothing more cheeky than a man who thrived in blood showing up covered in it - no better than a dog rolled fresh in dirt tracking paw prints all over the house. Except Pax was clean as a whistle, probably cleaner than Mal was in the moment, and bringing only the occasional fallen hair into Moe's place. His grin was one of satisfaction, victory even. A job well done.

Which of course meant he wanted to unwind with a tall glass of whiskey and good company. He'd even brought the whiskey (no commentary about how it was a bottle he kept carefully wrapped and tucked into his things) for the occasion. If she didn't mind the smear of blood from his grip on it. If she did he'd pour it for them. More fingers in his glass, of course. He was a big man - it took more to get him buzzed.

"You're getting blood on the carpet."

Her tone was loud. She had that air of disappointment about her that parents too-often took with their children when they did something unapproved. It only served to make Mal's grin widen somehow. Impossibly too many teeth. Pax huffed, lowered his head and sauntered deeper into Moe's home. As if he lived there. As if he'd been there a thousand times before.

"Cold water an' some club soda'll pick that right up. Mind if I use your bathroom, sweetheart?"

He asked but didn't wait for the answer. Bottle deposited on the nearest surface as he moved through, Mal sought the closest washroom to take a real look at the mess. He squinted at the fluorescent brightness when he flicked the light on and trained his gaze to the mirror. A substantial gash over his right eyebrow was a big piece of the bleeding. He suspected its twin lived on his side, the lesser cousin on his arm. When he spoke again it was louder - meant to carry through the space.

"Y'got a needle? Some thread? Gonna have t'close some f'these."

Maybe sweet talk her into helping with the one on his arm. Maybe his side. A promise to clean the rug, probably.

@pseudowar (moe) + prompts (accepting).

[eltriador]

"You know, baby, you're awfully upset over the sprayed on abs, and not nearly upset over the fact that he called dibs on a baby vampire - You wanna talk about it?"

------" FIRST OF ALL , there's no such thing as imprinting . there's no magic mate to fix everything and fate don't play match maker . it's disgustin' that was even a thought ? but the author is clearly demented . second , that wasn't a baby that was a horrifyin' animatronic from that kid's horror game that just got made into a movie . you know , the duck and fox and shit . third , i don't even have time to break down how completely fucked the pack system in this shit is . people liked this ? "