Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
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YOU ARE THE REASON
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he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
KIROKAZE
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@vitalphenomena
HIATUS MAY 11 — JULY 29.
NOBODY EXISTS ON PURPOSE. Nobody belongs anywhere. We're all going to die. Come watch TV?
VITALPHENOMENA. by lye, 26, they/them. EST. 2011.
— rules&roster. roster wheel. prompts. open posts. credits. —
TRIGGERS APPLY. 21+ only.
For OOC info, content warnings, and rules, see below.
@vitalphenomena harris said, “ungrateful little yuppie larvae.”
“that’s what you get for gettin born on the bridge end of the bridge and tunnel, i suppose.”
around the broke teeth and whimpering on the ground in front of them - she is employing a city blind not her circus mentality, harris harris can beat the fuck out of whoever he wants - she pipes up, not unfriendly, “say. what’s your workload lookin like these days?”
EXASPERATED, AGGRESSIVE: "I don't know what you're talkin' about."
Harris flicks hair out of his line of sight. Pash's question has him achier than the task at hand, which he continues by ramming the sturdy toe of his boots into his victim's abdomen.
"What, you want my fuckin' schedule? I'm supposed to work a double tomorrow, and I open the day after that. I'm busy."
@vitalphenomena burns said, “it’s a river of slime!”
enthused, “ohya fer sure!”
“the fish’re fine but whatever they got goin on in there makes em wicked slow. can’t deke outta the way of nothin, so usin a pole feels, like, unusually cruel. just teasin, no need to be mean to em. you can basically just pick em up in yer hands.”
"You took me to shit river to touch fish with my bare fuckin' hands?"
"I'll kill you."
“so this isn’t a shooting lesson at all.”
she breaks the action, removes the spent shell, then turns it once between her fingers before tucking it into her pocket. it's ritualistic. appealing, in times of such uncertainty and change.
“it’s some kind of personality assessment?”
she shifts her footing, searching for firmer ground. a grouse emerges from the brush a few yards away. instinctively, she raises the barrel, but her grip falters, the weight of it suddenly unsteady in her hands.
DOLOKHOV SMILES THE PLACID SMILE OF A MAN WHO HAS NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT BECAUSE HE IS ALWAYS RIGHT.
There's an undeniable smugness to it that borders on impolite.
"I have no clue what you are talking about. I couldn't think to test a good woman like you." Because he is a good man. Looks like one, maybe, at the very least.
He goes quiet. She might be able to do something if he—righteous, snide, the act of firing a gun too ingrained in his bones for him to be any good at teaching someone else how to feel the way he does—stops intervening.
He grimaces in disappointment.
"What are you afraid of?"
Lee Pace as Brother Day FOUNDATION Season One
what they don't want you to know about stella romano is that she has an addiction. and that addiction is to treating her men like her little girlfriends
fight between gojo and phil. who are you putting your money on
@huntedvideo said: " some people are born to be heroes. i'm not one of them. "
"Stop."
Spirit frowns—profoundly disappointed and a little bit scared.
Paralyzed by cocaine-fueled indecision and paranoia, Spirit often lays in bed, heart hammering, wondering why she was born at all. Whatever the point of her was then, before she had any control over her fate—it surely can't be the same anymore.
She's made something better of herself. Fin, too. And it should be as obvious to him as it is to her that he is, at his baseline, so fucking good, so fucking kind, and most importantly, he's been her hero for years.
"I hate when you're, like—when you talk about yourself like you're bad. You're my favorite."
He is a nebula leak … his glow extends off of him, she sees these little sprays of light bleed towards her. The singed scent gets to her second. It’s comforting, for a moment. Her entire hotel room is broken bulb pieces and a wet spot on the carpet.
❛ … I’m awake. ❜
Her tone suggests, half and barely yet. Her lost-faith keeps her lids partially upright breaking her long steamed habit of falling asleep the moment she wants to. Easily, effortlessly.
She swifts to her back and then slowly props herself by her elbows. He looks the most beautiful like this ⸺ Glowy ⸺ and that’s even ahead of how good he looks when he just came or when he thinks he’s done something really, really good.
SHE'S AWAKE!
He's usually not so alert at this hour. He's not meant to be, but he wills himself to be there for her.
It very much could be too little, too late, and the increasingly-prominent (brutal) realist inside of him knows this, but the remaining optimist shines through, telling him that he has to try.
"I missed you," he whispers. It's true—not mere flattery.
He steps close to the bed, but he has not been invited into it yet.
"Did you sleep a little?"
this amazing as fuck artist
woe @bruisedpenny
me, me, bp, bp.
The scalpel sheathed in a smile. She seems to think herself immune, and maybe she is. There is almost admiration in that, but his flesh recoils nonetheless. Khan debates shattering it with a word, but the prospect of sparring with her— verbally or otherwise— no longer amuses him.
The overhead halogens create a migraine aura in his periphery, so he blinks, expecting the lightshow to recede. It does not. Another deficit of artificial selection: heightened visual acuity renders him useless in suboptimal lighting, and he suspects that Jacky deliberately keeps the illumination just shy of comfortable.
“I will learn the rules. But I will not degrade myself pretending they are anything other than ornamental.”
JACKY HASN'T BROKEN A SWEAT OVER KHAN'S CURRENT CIRCUMSTANCES, BUT, YES—SHE WENT OUT OF HER WAY TO MAKE EXISTENCE DISTINCTLY UNPLEASANT FOR HIM. Either sadistic or indulging in curiosity, she wants him sleep-deprived. Agitation doesn't look good on him, by any stretch of the imagination, but that's not the point, is it? She's never been wooed by mere aesthetics.
Or anything of ornamental value.
"That's not true," she informs him, smug but pedantic.
"I can only imagine what you'd be reduced to without structure. You need this, unfortunately. You're only as good as you are useful. I'm sure this has crossed your mind. Good! It's one of the first rules. Are you listening?"
Jackson doesn't pretend to understand why women do the things that they do. They're emotionally driven, less predictable for it but (usually) easier to get his way with.
But she's putting herself on a silver platter she shined herself.
He isn't so stupid as to actually take her to his current boss, but he's going to have a little fun. He's going to see just how far she'll go in pursuit of whatever this death wish is.
"I don't know. Why else would you think that?"
JACKSON'S ABOUT TO HEAR SOME BULLSHIT:
"Maybe I don't want to think about the people who know me being sad. Maybe I want them not to know because if they missed me, we'd all be fucking miserable." Since he's so fucking curious and keeps spinning questions around until they're pointed her direction: "Who wants to be fucking miserable, baby?"
“what, you got a date with the fuckin xerox machine?”
the thing of much goo and many teeth shlicks across the floor, toward pash at a fast tick. too fast - yeeeuw - so she has to jump out the way. that blow-by air has top notes of rust and rotted matter, and the fella is gearing back up to snarling.
mid-beatdown back talk doesn’t have that much zest on it; she’s so acquainted with the fact that she’ll be getting the fat end of the wedge with somebody like nanami that it bores her. gojo can talk his shit, whatever, but she doesn’t get the hype vis à vis mr. fuckin kento doll.
his working for GOOP has nothing to do with it. thank you. but it sure don’t help.
pash is now the middleman between creature and cranky nanami. she allows it to tap the back foot as she plants hers, envisioning them both in red dirt. one last toro, toro before -
flintlock, smokeshow, BOOM-CRACKLE. pash takes the thing out as it charges at her, cutting right through its middle. she brought a stout-snouted toy to play with, a custom charged blunderbuss of all things, and it was really a 50-50 shot that it wouldn’t blow her right arm clean off. check it out! it didn’t!
so all nanami has to worry about is the explosion of innards they’re both now covered in. weapons like that only do well at close range.
“keep an eye on this a sec,” she slides the gun across the floor to him, “this won’t take long.”
the scatter makes what is left of the cursed corpse sizzle. we can thank roscoe gordon for this, a powder keg concoction imbued with spellbound properties, fit into rounds that were designed to kill a thing once and dead it twice over. again, very experimental practice mostly fuelled by pash flying by her buns and ammo. and it had luckily resulted in nothing but a yucky mess and no bad reactions.
i mean, “not to be a fuckin know-it-all, i’m really not, but you might wanna keep an eye on your skin if any of that shit got on ya. just, y’know, to err on the side of caution.”
pash strides over to the remains. she yanks her sleeve up and begins to dig around in the slimy stomach area where the blast had cut. her ears ring deafeningly. “c’man, you bastard.”
IT'S NOT THE XEROX MACHINE HE'S GOT A DATE WITH, PASHANDRA, IF YOU MUST FUCKING KNOW!
Nanami, despite his supernatural abilities and his physical sturdiness, is ultimately still (hu)man. A woman fires some kind of crazily modified gun less than two meters away from him—he's gotta flinch. He grits his teeth, too, but he does not turn away. He needs to see this happen—to determine if Pasha's worth Gojo's hype, namely, but also, to act fast if he needs to ensure this thing gets good and dead.
His vision's clouded by viscera—the tangible, putrid manifestation of humanity's hatred, insecurity, and rage. Shit and vomit. Utterly demonic. You never do get used to it—not even when exposure's an inherent risk to this full-time gig.
When the gun's close enough, Nanami lifts his foot up and stamps down on it without looking down. It's still too risky. Cleaver half-raised, he's fully trained on Pasha—on all that she is.
"I know what's toxic," he snaps, so agitated and so grossed out that he doesn't initially consider she isn't referring to the cursed spirit's residue. Whatever ammo she and her ghastly friend Roscoe Gordon concocted in his musty, rent-controlled apartment hasn't had the chance to be studied and scrutinized by sorcerers or other magic-wielders Nanami actually respects.
"But you told me this would work. If you're going to give us cancer," Malignant growths that metastasize supernaturally fast, "This doesn't actually work. Your risk calculus is shit!"
Pasha rummages. Nanami is less helpful than the leaking intestines of the creature, which yield remarkably fluidly to Pasha's invasiveness. Beyond the rot, she uncovers something that vibrates with unadulterated cursed energy.
Nanami looks away, finally—for the split second required to check his watch.
"It's late."
lets out one truly pitiful little whimper & then goes back to doing fucking whatever
