yippee ki-yay motherfucker

@vastiitas

you're a loaded gun, kid, where're you gonna run to? we all know you were damned from the start.

2,232 posts

#VASTIITAS ; DISPOSSESSION, DISILLUSIONMENT, & LAUGHTER IN THE FACE OF VIOLENCE. a love letter to humanity: the good, the bad, the ugly. AS PENNED BY TEK.

>> Rules. History & Verses. IC Posts. Headcanons. > Open Starters. RP Prompts. Wishlist. Musings.

NOTE 3/25/2026: Trying my best. Still slow as ever. Shorter things get priority. Will be travelling in April and Internet may be questionable.

#navigation&mastermaps;;#for those who can't access the theme (re: ME when i am on the phone)#do u see my obsession w circles on this blog bc this motif is driving me insane #this horse's eye glowing amber red... the sun the eye the bullet hole... did u know a hat is merely a halo

tentative shit abt bw training and pulling parallels from irl orgs.

been listening to a memoir 'bout a c/i/a girly and it's been interesting to listen to some insights and also being amused 'bout some stuff that i sorta pre-hc'd 'bout some BW training. I hc'd that one of the things cole was trained in was being put in an unfamiliar town, city, and terrain, and having to navigate from point A to B using just his own wits to simulate being in unfamiliar territory without much pre-information n debriefing -- that author describes a different situation wherein you sorta have to spot being tracked in regular everyday cities and towns amongst civilian folk, but i could easily see that being integrated into BW as well.

Another exercise was getting close to a mark or target in order to get an 'in', and this one did have me thinking a bit -- I don't think cole does a lot of 'undercover' work wherein he adopts a whole other identity. i think he's not that great jumping into a whole other persona, re: the got-fired-from-your-fake-job incident. but also, something thematic about the cowboy being a representation of rugged individualism (even if myth does not always translates to reality). there's a core of him that's very Him and hard to scrub out, but i also do think there's a few benefits to who he is that lends to this sort of work. (i think, also, when it comes to undercover identities, it usually helps if that identity isn't too different from who you are in order to reduce cognitive dissonances, but this is speculation on my part)

he's naturally withholding of information, more one to let people talk 'bout themselves than to provide information the other way around. his parents teaching him to 'watch' and always observe the world and its people gives him a bit of a natural affinity to people-reading and gathering information. his background as a kid from nowhere works in his favor. there are many people who were victims of this war, and him sprouting up as some American tourist w some vague bg of having spawned in the terrible aftermaths of it is an easy thing to write off/accept.

but mostly, he's easy-going to a point, affable. he knows how to start a conversation and hold it. in this book, the 'mark' was an agent grading their abilities and describes how some of the other trial runs failed by awkwardly and abruptly starting a conversation, going in too hard 'bout world politics -- but the narrator did good in finding an 'in' based off of interests listed in the profiling and what it said about the character she was to converse with. i thought it complimented cole's weird way of courting somebody tangentially, spiraling around someone before going direct, (re: he says that the shooting range hasn't had any real competition in awhile, instead of outright asking ana if she'd like to partake, re: him trying to get ashe to call him handsome 'til the rest of the DL gang dogpiles him on it). he's got a bit of a capybara vibe going on for him that makes it easy for folks to talk to him, long as they aren't looking down on him for one reason or another (e.i. intellectually, socio-economically, etc etc.)

#ooc;; mun barks #hc: head up in the clouds;;#hc: skills #v;payroll parole on the warden's uniform and dime #smthn smthn it's basic as hell but i thought it was interesting --#smthn smthn i also think that BW training might've also emulated what we might see w the S.//EALS due to the different terrain n landscapes #a paramilitary organization might find itself in as that's their sort of specialization in land sea n air #tldr; i think cole has natural tendencies that align w the work #w the exception that he doesn't do well with playing Personas that are big departures from who he is #granted i don't think that such personas would be big departures from the person playing them so that there isn't such a large #cogn. dissonance that leaves a wide room for error #he can be that busser boy - he can be your background security - etc etc.#i do think his initial covers were easier to do with reyes -- the two have a natural bickering chemistry #that reads as authentic n genuine -- tho i also know vaguely that the whole pt of covers is to be Not Seen and be Ignored and be written #off as a Normie. idt my cole really fucks w the theater kid stuff -- or at least i'm not interested in portraying him as such

# lasthail . hail mary , full of grace , holy mary , mother of god , pray for us sinners , now and at the hour of our death .

Independent , private , &. plot-based rp blog for dr. captain ryland grace from andy weir's project hail mary (novel) &. project hail mary (2026) . book-canon with movie influences . written by kat , she/her , 30 . i am not affiliated with andy weir . read my carrd ! no minors please .

#bounty poster {PROMO}#YAY KAT YAY

THE WALKING DEAD 4.05, Internment

#K is for Kid - a gal or guy just like you; don't be in such a hurry to grow up since there's nothin a kid can't do {soulmissed};#sentimentality's got a hold on you {connections};

@soulmissed says: ‘ i need a few things. '

Couch cushions fortify a hefty wall 'round a cozy nest-pile made of scavenged blankets and pillows. He sees August's plush tucked comfortably amidst them shaded by a table cloth slouching a bohemian rooftop over the scaffoldings of wood chair backrests. A grin slings his mouth as he perches his arms akimbo on the hips, says, "Dunno, kid, this pillow fortress is lookin' awful sturdy." He tips his chin towards the den — can't help but bite, "What're you lookin' for?"

#ic;#soulmissed #v;Modern Take on a Dying Breed

thelaurelhighlander

#i: blood & iron;;

@vastiitas.

and so, the sparrow's wings never could truly be clipped. he would find his way alone, no matter the cost, lest he be eaten by the guilt that came with no effort at all. even if trying meant failure; proving right to the claims of recklessness. he remembered breaking free from tedious briefing with more shame in his heart than what he started with, the commander's reprimand, the end of the day relief his body was in one piece.

" you kept your word. " quieted observation from where he sat, knees to his chest, the ridges of cybernetic spine jutting out like an arching feline. he needn't look towards familiar footsteps, his face angled away simply so he didn't have to. it was thankful, despite his posture. " i could not allow the danger to my home to continue, neglected. " jaw shifted. " in doing so, i only made a fool of myself. "

After so many years together in the heart of a battlefield, sharing space in those idle hours of reprieve, Cole was fluent in the twitch and spasm of Genji's eyes, the twist and bend of his brows, the tension and slack that could define his spine and shoulders. Seeing his face so open, bare, and very clearly despondent, has him feeling some way he can't quite define.

He seats himself comfortably besides him the way they'd been able towards the twilight years of Blackwatch before everything had flown a kamikaze trajectory. Cole breathes out, emphatic, "There's nothing foolish 'bout wanting to protect your home, Genji. Could've gone better, sure, but it could've gone 'lot worse." He plants a consolidating palm on his shoulder, squeezes, "I'm just glad we got you back in one piece."

An exhale deflates him, some heavy release puncturing air from his own spine, his own shoulders. His head knocks back, gaze rising up to the monotone greys and flourescents tiling the ceiling. "We ain't Blackwatch anymore. But I reckon some habits are hard t'kick."

#ic;#burynot #v;back in the saddle

@chronal-anomaly asked:"Are you pro or anti garden gnome?"

His laugh kick-starts as a double-take splutter, has him rearing back to take a look at her before it finds its footing in the door and busts open on the entirety of his face in the crinkling likes of smile-lines and crow's feet.

"Now, the hell kinda question is that? We wagin' some war on some garden gnome folk today?" There's a beat as he folds his arms and shifts his weight, some rolling thing that goes from shoulder to shoulder before finding its anchor to the base of his heels. Consideration tucks a pinch to his eyes, rumbles out a hum along the throughway of the throat. There's some mischief slant to his expression, imp glint in the iris. "Now, if a certain Swedish Man counts," He trails off, lips twistin' crooked, "Then, well, let's just say I might make a bid more one way than the other."

#ic;#chronal anomaly #v;tba #shooting the shit {crack};#potshot chitter chatter {banter};#local 6'1“ cowboy has forever beef with the 4'7” short old man - more at 11

#sentimentality's got a hold on you {connections};#going to die in your best friend's arms {ashe};#most country song ive ever put on my blog i think #aud: radio singing;;

it appears my next direction for this blog is to become invested in his BW era/Black Ops work 😓

#ooc;; mun barks #//to be deleted;#ive gone down a rabbit hole of autobios and now i am being assailed w shit from the military propaganda game #i'm too tired to write or draw or think n get back to dms rn but #🤔 my current modern verse does not include this work and the question is do i rework it so that it does or do i make it a separate verse #idk i am lacking in freshness for muse rn which is part of my issue w writing

liminally-spaced

#i: home sweet home;;

There's a coldness that overtakes him in the instant after Cole's curiosity digs deeper.

Hakkai's smile becomes closed-shut, an involuntary reaction rather than a hostile one to a question that picks at still-fresh wounds. There's a sudden tension to every part of his body. Unbidden, his fingers twitch, itching to clench themselves into the same fists that held his utility knife on the night of—

"No," Hakkai answers, trying and failing not to show how strained the answer is. "No, I don't imagine she would have been. But she's dead, so thankfully the consequences of my actions can't do very much to her."

A distance has settled itself into Hakkai's voice, disguised by the same polite tone he uses to greet anyone and everyone he doesn't care to allow close. Then his head, which has remained fixed in its position to allow him to bore a hole into the ceiling with his eye, returns to holding itself upright atop his shoulders. The frost melts all at once from him as he changes the subject; "I don't suppose you've lived even half as orthodox a life? You really don't strike me as the type."

The question has as much grace as stepping on a land mine, with all the subtly of a sledgehammer, and he sees how the shrapnel shutters Hakkai down, the crust of frost-bite invading every edge and corner that defines the man's silhouette. Cole's eyes catch the minute movement of his fingers twitching and it invokes a mirror reaction. Old instinct, old habit -- the shit that keeps people alive when they live on the razor's edge. Everything sets him up with the half-expectation that Hakkai will backtrack, and he finds himself surprised and disarmed by the honesty that staggers out of him like a wounded man.

His head dips, and his voice follows its direction in an octave lowered, "I'm sorry for your loss, Hakkai." No more smokescreen and obfuscating trail dust. He's earnest, expression emphatic, and he's not surprised when the question is turned to him.

Cole smiles a humorless thing, but he is laxed in this cot, flesh and prosthetic hand clasped leisurely together in some facsimile of a prayer as his arms hang loosely from their perch on his knee caps. "Lost my arm to a machine workin' on some mega farm and fell on some bad times," He unfurls to some leisure lean back; lungs decompressing over the ache of a cigarette craving, the dirty work of exhuming a grave. "Met a woman." He chuffs and his eyes dip down, corners shearing off into crow's feet. His head knocks forward and shakes, grin bowing off to some crooked, wry thing, "And she was one hell of a woman."

"She was on a mission, and had herself a posse, and I made for a good, one-armed bandit all things considered. Things were great 'til they weren't: We expanded too big, and I made one too many arguments in our merry band of thieves. Reckoned they didn't like that, so they fixed me an exile."

#ic;#recre8ed #v;modern take on a dying breed #modern: prison blues.

get to know the writer dash game

Tagged by: @burynot Tagging: @soulmissed @seabiscuit @maddog @intromusic @mercymedic @handspike @intothewildsea @joyousdefunct @sylfane

nickname(s): n/a. zodiac: bull. last movie i saw: Project Hail Mary :weary: last thing i googled: what's it like to be in a storm cellar during a tornado- favorite musician: don't really have one, i think, song stuck in my head: imposter syndrome other blogs: buncha rando side blogs, had an art blog at some point do i get asks: ya, i like to hoard the kind ones -- i take screenshots n puttem in a single post in my drafts. following: i follow all my friends' blogs and folks whose writing i adore. i'm one of those folks who like to follow even if there's no interaction because some of y'all are just very talented in how you write and portray your muses and i'd follow you wherever if you'd let me. when it comes to mutuals, i try to find folks who've similar rules to my own as it helps me determine we'll be compatible amount of sleep: ???? i wld estimate more than i ought to lucky number: some form of 2's and 4's. what i’m wearing: t shirt and shorts dream job: working with animals or something outdoors. dream trip: all the national parks... favorite food: steak n baked potatoes,,,, lemon drenched lamb. play any instruments: used to do piano lessons languages: a little bit of this n a little bit of that -- toddler-level, conversational korean, high school level french, some random ass grab bag of words in spanish n greek n russian which i wouldn't count as much. can recognize some japanese now n then when it's slung out. favorite songs: whatever's the hyperfixation atm random fact: to find the juiciest rotisserie chicken at a grocery store, you want the one that's been sitting out the least. So fresh from the oven is peak juicy. look for the least amount of grease/juices that have leaked to the bottom of the chicken as that's all moisture that was from inside. Also look at the skin, it ought to be tighter than not. Less wrinkly the better. Also look for if the legs have split off from the thigh, as this is also an indicator of it having been out long and drying. describe yourself as aesthetic things: overcrowded shelf bowing beneath the weight of too many books, even more stacks of books crowding up the floor, disheveled clothes and disheveled hair, perpetually running off of coffee, dead dirt you find flattened out on those baseball fields. boss calls it the "forgetful professor".

#ooc;; mun barks #fjlsjg put it under the readmore cos idt its that interesting tbh-

Bruce Willis as John McClane Die Hard with a Vengeance (1995) dir. John McTiernan

#amused to muse {musings};

@vastiitas : a storm cellar during a tornado warning.

tiny box as a hole in the ground, extended by rickety stairs that descended from tightened hatch. johnny remembered asking about it, upon arriving to now familiar middle of nowhere and getting a lay of the land, none convinced it would ever come into any use. wrong, like he was about a lot of things. he was learning an awful lot about the weather during his stay; overhead clouds unlike he had ever seen before. come to learn it was far more serious than an ordinary gloom, which meant holing up in a shoebox until rumble and roll quieted down.

sitting still, never something he was good at. not only used to rounding a race track but running headfirst into danger. attempting to stop it. perhaps the human torch should be no match for a tornado, knowing him, he'd still try. a science lecture from reed was hidden somewhere.

" 'm not used to this. " muttered from decided corner, body half curled onto built in bench. right hand imitated assumed position for holding a lighter, thumb flicking pitiful against his pointer finger. nothing came of it, save for a weak spark, no matter how hard he thought. wished. hell, prayed to whomever listened. " i should be out there heating up alla the cold air an' then everyone would be all 'wow johnny, you stopped maybe a tornado.'" narration reduced to a grumble, his free arm kept wrapped around both knees, holding tight. " not sitting in here. being useless. "

The storm stampedes overhead, wind a thousand hooves baying a freight train's scream. The mayhem's muddied and muddled by the Earth and conrete shell hugging their entire world, vibrations buzzing along the ceiling like an inconsiderate neighbor. Johnny's spine's a wilted flower in the corner, his usual golden boy glow dampened by the dark and musty of this place. Cole nurses an unlit cigarette between his fingers, welting the paper as he bides between Want and Being Responsible. He's pulled out from his internal conflict by Johnny's voice, gaze floating off from a dented, capped zippo lighter to the blond's sulking form spritzing flint sparks from his fingers.

Cole chuffs, buckshot exhale knockin a bounce to the shoulders, half-humored. "What a way t'call the rest of us mortals useless." It's not meant to be mean, but it comes out that way. He settles in beside Johnny on the bench, some languid, fluid movement with a pitch of the hips, "Folks have been wrestling with the weather since the dawn of time, Johnny Storm. We'll be all right." He palms the man's shoulder, empathy loaded in his voice, "You will be, too."

#ic;#m4tchstick #v;lil slice of heaven saddled on a cowpuncher's dream

“Handsome as life and poison. Sun-blood handsome. Bleeding sun.”

— Lucie Thésée, tr. by Richard Archambeau, from “Poem,” wr. c. 1941

#t: words & sayings;;

@godmarkd says: "What, I think you'd look good with a Mohawk too. C'mere-" he's got the trimmers in one hand, grabbing at him with another

Emre's fingers curl into the back of Cole's collar the way a hawk's talons might find some unsuspecting prey. It's Abrupt and Precise, and Cole can feel his shirt creak at the stitchings as it yanks taut. He snaps a vice grip over the trunk of that wrist that's got that trimmer buzzing the sound of a lawnmower, strains distance between its vibrating, metal teeth and his head.

"Whoa, now," The word rolls on a swell, the sort you hound a green colt with, "Nuh-uh. You back off with that thing, Emre Sarioglu, or we're gonna have problems."

#ic;#v;second home and second chances #godmarkd #shooting the shit {crack};

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