PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
Peter Solarz
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if i look back, i am lost
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@vitalphenomena
HIATUS MAY 11 â 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.
â rules&roster. roster wheel. prompts. open posts. credits. â
TRIGGERS APPLY. 20+ only.
For OOC info, content warnings, and rules, see below.
Grief is perennial bloom until you dig it up from the root and still, sometimes nature has a way of budding the plant elsewhere.
â ... I don't know? â
She knows what Margot said ⸺ the franic moving things into place, a messy tuck under the rug, quick and without proper discussion or aftercare ⸺ what she remembers what was said. He probably wasn't good for her. He wasn't good for her.
She twists in the couch corner. Her palm provides a place for her cheek as she naturally falls into herself. Margot's never seemed so serious and forlorn ... it solidifies an instinct that survival and entrusting Margot is one in the same ⸺ because at times she can be naive, a needy vessel willing to pour herself into anyone that shows her an ounce of care she lost out on growing up ... internally and deeply she must know Margot won't dispatch her for this (like most killers in her position would do).
â I don't know why I dreamed that. I don't think you'd hurt me. â
MARGOT DOESN'T SEE THE POINT IN RE-HASHING SOME OF THISâMAYBE ANY OF IT. Nate is dead. Nate needed to be deadâfor Hara's sake, most crucially and fundamentally, but for two other reasons: Margot's persistent justification that she is ridding the world of men engaged in systemic violenceâand her awareness that she would be killing people even if she could not hide behind this greater good.
There's an inevitability that lends to the finality of it. Death itself, that is. And as badly as Margot needs to do what she does, she can't fathom why it would ever need to be at Hara's direct expense.
I don't think you'd hurt me.
Good.
Where Hara is wilting and curling in on herself, Margot is rigid. Too frozen to provide comfort to either of themânot a reassuring hand on Hara's back, not an offering of whoever's water glass is closest.
"I wouldn't. I couldn't."
Despite her better judgment, Margot offers this: "If you have any questions about what happened that night, or who I am as a personâperhaps things you didn't consider before, or I didn't think you needed to know. You can ask. I'm here."
That's a shame, or it would be if Philo knew about it and somehow willed himself to be so impertinent to say so directly to Pyotr's face instead of doing the good henchman thing of never commenting on it and taking that secret to the grave.
Thankfully it never comes to that and instead Philo continues to be dutiful and lug Carl around like unfortunate luggage, squinting through the hazeâit should be noted here that the mask does obscure some of his vision, which feels like a ridiculous notion for anyone wondering how a mercenary doesn't get sucker punched or stabbed more often if he has visible blind spots.
You'd be correct and Philo has sustained all many of wound and head trauma many times. It's fine. He was born for it.
He nods in obvious agreement, already noticing how condensation starts to form on his upper lip as the fog (it's like a damn yak licking his face) flows in. His mood is momentarily uplifted because now he gets to go Nice! and give his employer a thumbs up as he stuffs Carl in the trunk as non-suspiciously as he can while also being unnecessarily rough as possibleâit's a delicate line to toe but Philo has much experience.
PYOTR, UNENCUMBERED BY SOMEONE ELSE'S BODY WEIGHT OR ANYTHING THAT WOULD CLOUD HIS VISION (at night, his supernatural senses are at their sharpest, which should be intuitive, given his vampiric nature), WALKS IN LONG, CONFIDENT STRIDES. When he remembers that Philo can't keep up, he slows to a more comfortable, if not bumbling, pace.
He watches Philo, pleased with his handiwork. So pleased, in fact, that once Philo turns away from Carl in the trunk, Pyotr offers Philo a thumbs up of his own.
And off they go.
//
Pyotr drums his fingers idly against the inside of the passenger side door. The city night passes them by in lurid florescent flashes. Nothing could ever be dirty or violent from here.
"Do you like where you live?"
she's being flippant not so much because she's drunk (barely) but because she's tired (fundamentally). third time in a row she's been stood up without even the pretence of an apology. the mere mention of casual's started frying synapses one by one.
          â oh, i wish. try working with a guy who's also your room mate, lonely'll never sound more tempting. â and sure, she'll be annoyed by other people instead of by herself, or the fact that killing two post-shift hours at some random bar feels less miserable than sitting on her sofa on her own. popularity contests are for people who haven't got anything better to do with their lives.
          trinity stares down her empty beer bottle like it's yolanda's change of plans, see you monday text. â you got any decent tequila back there? â
YEAH, DOCTOR SANTOS, IT'S DANGEROUS OUT THERE WITH THIS YOU DON'T OWE ANYONE ANYTHING MENTALITY THAT HELPS RUTHLESS SURGEONS SLEEP WELL AT NIGHT. Unfortunately, Yvonne's a big fan of creating boundaries preemptively and ruthlessly. Emotional distance doesn't necessarily mean a lack of emotional intelligence, right? Right.
"Oh, fuck, that sucks. I love my roommates, though." Mostly. Except for when Yvonne's feeling passive aggressive and that becomes poor Fallon's problem.
"âI mean, I've got four of them, or something, and that's crazy. You've just got one guy in your place? That's not so bad."
Yvonne's rambling while she searches for the decent tequila, which they generally keep out of her immediate arm's reach. Seems counter-intuitive. Shouldn't this shit be easier for her to sell?
"People love Lalo. Twenty bucks. You doing a shot? You should do a shot."
@topshelfperverts @eterknows
@vitalphenomena "what if i'm broken?"
he's got a mop of curls unkempt - he'd slunk out of home barefoot to pick her up. they were seated in his car, he was parked in a nice neighborhood, the kind where every house on the block was worth more than a million dollars. but he wagered a guess the security cameras were all acting up, the longer they stayed situated under streetlamp.
seatbelt's off, he's turned in his seat to look at her, where the shadows hide her face, and where the slant of moonlight reveals just enough, the sheen of her cheeks.
âdon't we all break apart?â his voice is low, âi don't think you are, dafne. but i don't know anything. i'm in pieces too."
SHE DOESN'T MEAN TO CRY SO MUCH.
Something about being out of her apartment this late had been liberating, at first. She was eager to accommodate a client's busy scheduleâeager to be away from the usual horrors of her apartment, the ones that specifically rear their ugly heads once the sun goes down and the clock on her oven hits a certain time.
Then, of course, came the unpleasant reminder that no matter what she does, no matter where she goes, this will always follow her. He will always intervene when something interferes with hisgrand stupid plan.
Or, she thinks, he will intervene for fun. To amuse himself. It never makes sense.
Angel, somehow, makes more senseâeven when she can barely see if his hair's damp from night sweats or having showered before bed and when she can't tell what she's supposed to see in his eyes.
"I don't know," Dafne says, sounding as forlorn and hopeless as the question makes her feel. "I don't know what everyone else is supposed to be doing. I don't know what my life could be like."
He's in pieces, too.
"Doesn't that make youâdon't you care?"
In a sense, he had some semblance of what he signed up for, having left his dignity at the door in the process. All the same, he wasn't immune from being antagonised to the point of reacting, a notion that, as just actions just now attested, seemingly was acknowledged... and just as quickly quelled.
"Hmph." A verbal complaint is heaved, but he acquiesces all the same, standing down by way of leaning the knuckles of his hands against the desk, a gesture that sees his posture lean further across the gap separating them both. "No." Two letters is all the confirmation he'll part with, that yeah, he'd put his daughter's life into the hands of someone crooked, if given no other choice.
"Enough." Again, his felt frustration rears its head, this time with a curt call, that comes attached with a reflexive snapping of fanged jaw, patience whittled away to nothing. Which, as a time frame is duly established, left one final point of order to address.
"What will you be looking for in return?" As he's well aware The Order is far from a charitable organisation. "State your terms, and let's get this over with."
HE'S JUST A BIG OL' SOFT KITTY, ISN'T HE? Aw.
Machine Head tilts his machine head, but he doesn't make the sympathetic little purring noise he'd like to make. This is something Miguel should be grateful for, if he's got the good sense to take his wins where he can get them.
And Miguel is sensible. Both generally speaking and compared to people like Machine Head and Mister Liu. That's significant. It's refreshing! 'cause likeminded people, they can become so grating and monotonous for this particular crime lord.
Machine Head's at ease. He thinks he can defend himself. He also knows he can summon reinforcements to defend himâor punish Miguel for any violent outburst.
"My terms? My terrRms? Buddy, I'm not a lawyer. Our legal department's gonna have to write you something up. HA!"
Machine Head is perfectly capable of negotiating and bargaining without a nerd with some degrees to back him up. He's also perfectly capable of being difficult!
"We're gonna need you to stick around for another eighteen months. You know i've got goons dropping like flies, and it is sooOo hard to find good hel~lp these days!"
You've been here already, Mari Yellowjackets 3x10 (2021-)
sorry for liking when women got blood all over em but i'm a feminist
Were it ever voiced, they'd fall on separate sides of the same coin, delineated by beliefs. It wasn't his place to break the news, part with a truth that may undermine the path that the other man was trying so desperately to travel down. This world they shared could be cruel and vindictive in ways not yet dreamt of. The best that either of them could do was learn to roll with it, rather than drown in sorrow.
The lack of a response was expected, all conversation taking a backseat to the primary aim to get out of the area. Leading the way, no fixed destination is set, but he makes sure to stop and rest at the first glimpses of a local business, filled with lights and stragglers. Situated towards the rear of the gas station, not far from where a red door labelled 'Emergency exit could be found, time is allowed for the quietening of racing pulses and the calming of heaving chests, so far out of the woods...
But not entirely free of the net called scrutiny.
"How would I?" Answering with a falsehood, posed as a question, as part of every mission he was due to set off on, he'd do his own spot of due dilligance, looking up and gathering what details had been previously collected by the Spider Bot he'd sent on in advance of his arrival to scout out the scene. But such preparation work did not always result in a positive way.
"Enlighten me, whilst we still have time to speak."
BECK THINKS THEY'RE STOPPING TO TAKE IN THE SCENERY. Certainly, there is much to take in. He hears people maintaining casual conversations, hears the lively sounds that indicate the modern world is still functioning as it always does. These things are endlessly fascinating to him. Reassuring, too.
Instead of stopping to thank the patrons for being themselves, though, Beck chases after Miguel lest he be left behind. (Some part of him realizes that if Miguel thought the risk of Beck outweighed any advantage conveyed by his superpowers, Miguel would abandon Beck instantly.)
Are they safe now? Beck wants to ask. He's already forgotten what he'd been so curious about, but Miguel is carrying that conversation forwardâwhich, in its own way, is a victory. A sign the Spider cares. Right?
"Right," Beck says slowly. "You would not. You do not. Iâ" Wide-eyed, he looks up, beyond the cityscape and towards the rapidly descending sun.
"âI am made. I was made. I do not know why, and I cannot ask, because they are gone. The people. But I think I need to be a hero. I want to be a hero." That matters.
"You saw what I can do."
There they are. Tate leaves his hand on their thigh as they climb against him - he can feel the way they tremble, but can't figure out how to encourage them without being too forward. But - it's not like they're not interested in this, and they're going to have to relax eventually, so for now he lets it be.
He has kissing to do anyway.
The hand on their thigh slides up now to curl around their waist, bunching that baggy shirt they're wearing, but not yet asking to take it off. It must be said, though, that now Tate is very much thinking about what's under it now that they're close enough for him to touch like this. He shifts his hand again (can he sit still at all?) to tease at slipping under the fabric.
"Can I?"
EVENTUALLY, YES. Once they don't feel their own weight or burdenâonce they accept that the Tate who Tate wants to be is the one Avery is fortunate enough to experience. These self-assurances can, unfortunately, take some time.
Kissing in the interim is not only practical, but also preferable.
Tate's fidgety, which makes Avery squirmy, which, hey, what the hell, means they're peeling their shirt off and tossing it to the ground. They cling to Tate, as if for warmth, and eager to make up on time lost out on kissing while taking their top off.
Their neediness means their hips are unsteady, their breath too heavy in Tate's face.
"âoh." Did he ask them a question? Yes. Does it matter anymore? No. But, as a gesture of good will:
"Can I?"
@miidnighters
All right, ouch. He's definitely gotten the âViltrumiteâ dig before, but it stings a little extra coming from a dude whose face looks like a Home Depot security camera on meth.
"Yeah, well, the thing about Viltrumite genes is, they don't automatically make you a connoisseur of whiskey." Heâs shooting for casual, but it comes out defensive, and he hates himself a little for it. âBesides, Iâve been a little busy saving the world to build up a real tolerance.â
Oh, and heâs not even twenty-one yet, but in the grand scheme of things, heâs accomplished-- ⌠well, less than most twenty-year-olds, unless you count the property damage.
Actually, donât count the property damage.
"And Iâm, uh, not paying for that.â
WHOSE FACE LOOKS LIKE A WHAAAAAaaaAAAAT?!
This shit is DESIGNER! This shit is MORE PREMIUM THAN DESIGNER! The tech is so exclusive, so advanced, so complicated, that Invincible, Viltrumite and all, would have a stroooOOOoke trying to comprehend it!
Shit looks good, too. Sleek. Sophisticated as well.
Meanwhile, sulky-sulk little dipshit over here's whining up a storm, and Machine Head doesn't know how he's going to stand it for much longer! The self-righteousness, the false sense of superiorityâgive him a breaaaAaak.
But DON'T break anything in this bar. He's got a reputation to uphold. Fellow classy businessmen to stay in the good graces of. Invincible couldn't possibly understand.
"oOmni-Man never taught you?" he taunts, pseudo-curious. "There's n~nothing in this world that comes to ya for free, Invincible. Let me tell you: I'm a ~self made man!~ And what do yOoOu have to show for yourself?"
"You are not," he agrees, so grandly and magnanimously no one can doubt the sincerity of what he very obviously considers the highest of compliments.
And, really, as beautiful as Belle was, she lacked all of the other qualities that Aoife has in spades alongside beauty.
"You are a princess, beautiful and bright as any of the mermaids in the ocean," he adds, because really it is so very important to remind the fairer sex that they are so very fair.
"Belle is merely a peasant." A beautiful one, but even so. A merchant's daughter is no princess.
SHE IS A PRINCESS! Aoife's aware this isn't an astute observationâit's as plain as anything under the sun or Kinloch's stormy skies (the latter are, of course, something Aoife's more familiar with than a sunny day). That doesn't mean she doesn't like to hear it acknowledged. She does! She's not ashamed of that! Not like uppity Ailsa.
"Mermaids in the ocean?"
Yeah, sure. Mermaids in the ocean. Then again, on top of being a hunter, he is a world traveller. He must know what he's talking about.
"âof course, I mean, of course. And I am not merely anything at all."
âď¸Youâve Reached DurĂĄn Law: â i have a terrible feeling that something awful is gonna happen to you. â @vitalphenomena // D. Chavez
âYou donât have to do this if youâre really that nervous.â She knows she's not her usual stylist. A manicured hand emerges from under the cape and grabs a handful of the dark, wet curls piled on her head, a frown creasing her brow. Dolores came in for a wash and cut, emphasis on the cut. âLook, I know my hair textureâs kind of daunting to some people, but Iâm just...â She sighs watching Dafne flit and fuss behind her in the mirror. âI don't know. Need a change, I guess.â Ideally in the form of a pixie-cut, regardless of the abject horror most stylists express. Itâs hair, itâll grow back.Â
DAFNE SNAPS OUT OF IT.
She blinks rapidly, and when she looks at their reflections in the mirror, she finally sees two women. Not anything else. Not nothing: an inky void, so indiscernable and so vastly without light that its black expanse becomes purple.
She regrets this immensely. The very act of renting a salon chair. But she's desperate; foot traffic is consistent here. Clients come for the salon's name and not because of Dafne's futile marketing on her own individual behalf.
But something awful is going to happen here.
"Your texture's great!"
She sounds shrill, like she's overcompensating. She resumes blotting Dolores' hair with a towel, soaking up any excess moisture from the shampoo rinse.
"Where did you say you work again? I'm sure we could figure something out that's perfect. Oh! How do you feel about the length?"
He doesnât mind that she doesnât acknowledge his status any further than she already has - the idea of it makes him a touch uncomfortable, especially in this setting. He doesnât want to be treated any differently to any of the other patients.
He does, however, try not to stare too hard and make her uncomfortable while sheâs cleaning him up - this is her job, and he knows that prolonged watching from him can be construed as a Thing. Easier to stare at the wall, or to watch Jesse.
âOh. Um. They did x-rays at the rink?â Though - the medic had sent him here anyway. The images from the portable machine are probably not up to her standard anyway - or futile, given the lump under his skin. âI guess my only other question is do you have any idea how long Iâm gonna be out?â
"âyeah. Yeah, they did."
And they were abnormalâabnormal in a way that ultimately rendered them useless to Samira, or to any doctor rooted in her version of reality. You know, the one that everyone else is supposed to live in.
The technician at the rink must have been nervous or cold.
"Are you asking about your recovery time? It depends, but we want you to look after yourself. I want you to look after yourself. Do you have a physical therapist? Or does your team have one?"
HE COULD FEEL A HEADACHE COME ALONG. Flo was better with dealing with...young people. Flo was better at dealing with people, in general. Pete is good with their young grandson and their son and his wife, but outside of their family? He's an old curmudgeon and it's a badge he'll wear proudly. If anything because it will make most people think before they start yammering away at him.
"No, we ain't got cameras, kid." Pete rumbles, raising a practiced brow as he watches her. "I ain't talkin' it out. And I don't know the guy. Look -- are you runnin' this bar or me?
YEAH, FLO'S GREAT. From how Pete talks about her (which has only happened once or twiceâand was probably an accident) and from what Yvonne hears from their regulars.
Instead, she's got this to deal with. But she know when she moved out here that there'd be no frills and some serious fixer-uppers.
For example:
"You should prooooolly get some cameras in here," she advises, a little more stern than professionally acceptable. "'cause if shit happens, you're screwed."
She's about to start describing a hypothetical situation where they could use security camera footage to catch someone leaving without paying or starting a fightâthen humiliate them on social media. However, Pete's never heard of that. She'll have to teach hiâ
Are you runnin' this bar or me?
Yvonne freezes. She looks around like a guilty kid.
"Obviously you are. I know that."
