Ty (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ersatzdivinity) wrote2016-03-23 02:08 pm
ersatzdivinity) wrote2016-03-23 02:08 pm
Open Musebox Post
Have a thing you'd like to play with one of my characters? Post a comment top-level here!
Have a thing you'd like to play with one of my characters? Post a comment top-level here!
[After Alexei died, she'd thought the idea of a support group was not only unnecessary, it was insulting. She'd known his assignment was dangerous. They'd both been prepared for the worst. The notice, when it came, had been all but expected. Why did she need a support group, filled with people grieving for strangers, each in their own kind of pain?
Ultimately, six months after, she'd caved to her counselor's gentle insistence, and she was glad she had. The moment she'd seen Beverly, blue eyes meeting green across the room, she'd known. There was a kind of knowledge in that look, a knowledge reflected in their introduction, something that told her here was a woman who understood her loss. Beverly had lost her own husband almost a year prior, and the conversation they had that day had stayed with her so insistently she'd come back the next week. And the one after. Soon, conversations had bridged the gap between meetings, written notes, and eventually...
Opening those same green eyes, Natasha slowly rolls over, careful not to wake her partner. Almost a year now, they've been living together, the three of them, and almost three now since she'd met Beverly and little Wesley. Hard to believe. She'd never seen herself with children, with a family, not like this. Her career was important, the work fulfilling and necessary. And yet, here she was. Reaching over, she brushes light fingers over Beverly's upper arm, and an unintended smile tugs at her lips.]
Ultimately, six months after, she'd caved to her counselor's gentle insistence, and she was glad she had. The moment she'd seen Beverly, blue eyes meeting green across the room, she'd known. There was a kind of knowledge in that look, a knowledge reflected in their introduction, something that told her here was a woman who understood her loss. Beverly had lost her own husband almost a year prior, and the conversation they had that day had stayed with her so insistently she'd come back the next week. And the one after. Soon, conversations had bridged the gap between meetings, written notes, and eventually...
Opening those same green eyes, Natasha slowly rolls over, careful not to wake her partner. Almost a year now, they've been living together, the three of them, and almost three now since she'd met Beverly and little Wesley. Hard to believe. She'd never seen herself with children, with a family, not like this. Her career was important, the work fulfilling and necessary. And yet, here she was. Reaching over, she brushes light fingers over Beverly's upper arm, and an unintended smile tugs at her lips.]
[Beverly stirs at Natasha's touch, drifting in that pleasant, comfortable place between wakefulness and sleep. It's rare she gets mornings like this, mornings where she's not awakened by the alarm and on her feet immediately: coffee, toast, uniform, see Wesley off to class, lab. No lingering in bed, simply enjoying the warmth of Natasha's body next to hers and the softness of the pillow beneath her head. She is hardly going to let such an opportunity pass her by. So, eyes still shut, and murmuring something unintelligible, she scoots closer to the other woman, burying herself into Natasha's side.]
[Days off together aren't incredibly common for them--between Beverly's medical career and her own in communications, working closely with the diplomacy corps, their time is often in high demand. But she's trying something new, making arrangements to allow for this at least once a month: at least one Saturday where they get to sleep in, as much as either of them ever do, where they get to have these little moments before Wesley wakes up and before the day begins. So far, she thinks, it's worth it.
Beverly doesn't wake, exactly, but she does murmur something and roll closer, eliciting a smile from Natasha--a small, private thing, even now, in bed. Shifting carefully to fit their bodies together, she wraps an arm around her partner's waist, brushing a soft kiss over the top of her head. She doesn't say good morning, not just yet. Now isn't for talking, now is for running her fingers over the lines of Beverly's spine, fitting a hand to the small of her back, breathing in the scent of her and memorizing the feeling of contentment it all brings.]
[Perfect, just perfect. A little sigh of satisfaction escapes Beverly's lips, her skin tingling pleasantly under Natasha's caresses. She leaves a trail of gentle, sleepy kisses from Natasha's collarbone to her jawline before nuzzling into the crook of her neck.
Stubbornly, her eyes stay closed, but this time, her words are clear:]
Mmm. Let's stay in bed forever.
Stubbornly, her eyes stay closed, but this time, her words are clear:]
Mmm. Let's stay in bed forever.
[Natasha is more than happy to tilt her head just slightly to the side, both allowing and enjoying the feeling of lips pressed against her skin. Her arm urges Bev just that little bit closer, and when she laughs it's not a sound so much as it is a sensation, a slight buzz in her chest that's felt more than heard.]
I think Wes might have something to say about that. I'm surprised he's not up already.
I like that a lot. Handy and sexy.
Do you own one though?
Do you own one though?
apocalypse.
He doesn't know how long he's been separated from the others. He doesn't know how long he's been unconscious, either, only that his heart is racing as he jolts upright and scrambles to his feet, wincing at the pain in his temple. Fingers lift to the side of his face, come away sticky, but the scream that woke him comes again, leaving him no time to do anything about it, he can move, so he does, grabbing his fallen rifle and heading for the noise, eyes peeled for anything else on the horizon, human or not.
it's in tents.
A fire might not be the best idea, never know who you're going to attract these days, but 10K knows without it they're both going to end up with frostbite or worse. As long as they keep an eye out, everything should be okay; the Z's hate the cold, if undead monsters can hate anything, so they shouldn't have to worry too much. Not that that'll stop him.
Putting another small log on the fire, he lifts his chin at his companion. "You should sleep. I'll take first watch."
hit me with your best shot.
Whatever you want here!
He doesn't know how long he's been separated from the others. He doesn't know how long he's been unconscious, either, only that his heart is racing as he jolts upright and scrambles to his feet, wincing at the pain in his temple. Fingers lift to the side of his face, come away sticky, but the scream that woke him comes again, leaving him no time to do anything about it, he can move, so he does, grabbing his fallen rifle and heading for the noise, eyes peeled for anything else on the horizon, human or not.
it's in tents.
A fire might not be the best idea, never know who you're going to attract these days, but 10K knows without it they're both going to end up with frostbite or worse. As long as they keep an eye out, everything should be okay; the Z's hate the cold, if undead monsters can hate anything, so they shouldn't have to worry too much. Not that that'll stop him.
Putting another small log on the fire, he lifts his chin at his companion. "You should sleep. I'll take first watch."
hit me with your best shot.
Whatever you want here!
Scream is one good descriptor for it: yelp is another as Amos twists his ankle (hard to do in combat boots but he's always been special) and takes a tumble, rolling through the dry grass to scramble back up in a crouch, twist, and bring his 1911 to bear on the zombie that's waaaaay too close to grabbing him and snacking on him. Undead are gross and disgusting and Amos hates zombies with a passion. Despite his grossed-out disgust he is quite capable of shooting them dead again and as it falls, sits and pants for breath before motion in the corner of his eye makes him flinch and look.
Kid with a gun and a headwound. Amos blinks wide dark eyes and says, in a voice far calmer than the situation suggests, "Please don't shoot me, that's not fun."
Kid with a gun and a headwound. Amos blinks wide dark eyes and says, in a voice far calmer than the situation suggests, "Please don't shoot me, that's not fun."
Hope doesn't scream. She learned a long time ago that there's no point. And it's not like she didn't know this was going to happen. That this is always what happens. So even as Emil screams again she aims and takes another shot. She does take notice of the figure moving toward her, potential threats (and far, far more rarely, potential help) has to rated higher than another person lost.
in tents + my own shot + bonus questionable science, yolo
livandletdie
2017-01-31 06:34 pm (UTC)(link)
With a lower core body temperature, Liv seeks heat like moths seek light. These days, she goes from camp to camp, a mysterious stranger on a personal quest. (A quest that she can never speak of, a quest that would get her killed at best, or lead to her turning monstrous and killing innocent people at worst.
The company is a nice bonus.)
She's slow as she approaches, cautious. In the firelight, she looks paler, even if she's eaten recently.
"Hey." Liv crosses her arms and shivers. "Mind if I join you?"
The company is a nice bonus.)
She's slow as she approaches, cautious. In the firelight, she looks paler, even if she's eaten recently.
"Hey." Liv crosses her arms and shivers. "Mind if I join you?"
His rifle is already up and at the ready, finger on the trigger, when he hears the shot and sees the source of the noise: one zombie, down and not getting back up, one human on the ground blinking at him, looking far too calm for the situation. He guesses it could be shock, maybe, but by now he's pretty sure that anyone who could die of shock already has. He doesn't lower the gun just yet--never know, this guy could be part of the group his had tangled with. He'll ask in a second. There's something more important than that to deal with first, though, and that's:
"You bit?"
"Nope." Amos answers in a New Orleans accent, snappier than the typical Southern drawl. He eyes the kid, then very slowly moves to check his gun, before holstering it at his hip. He starts dusting out his hair and his jacket, all the while keeping a weather eye on the gun and moving as nonthreateningly as possible.
"You alright?" He returns the question. "Not hurt?"
Asking after the wellbeing of a stranger might be odd, but Amos can't help it.
"I'm fine." An automatic response, but it's more or less true. There's some aches and bruises, a lingering headache, but he's pretty sure there's no concussion. He's not dizzy, no double vision, no nausea, and that means he can keep on going. The rifle stays for a moment longer as he examines what he can see of the guy, and seeing no bloodstains he finally lowers it, shrugging the strap over his shoulder. "Hey--have you seen anyone else around here? I was with some friends, but we were attacked--I'm just trying to catch up with them."
He's close enough now to hear the sounds of Zs, a rasping, guttural thing that still makes his spine crawl no matter how many times he's heard before. No time to really look at who they're attacking; it's human, because that's all Zs go for, and that's all that matters. Bringing the butt of the rifle to his shoulder, he lines up his first shot, lightning-quick eyes assessing targets. He picks off the one that looks like the biggest threat to whoever they're attacking, then starts thinning the crowd. Five of them, and three are down in as many seconds with clean shots to the head. The last two he can't afford to waste ammunition on and the angle's bad, anyway; catching a glimpse of red hair, he quickly shoulders the gun and moves in closer, pulling his slingshot out to aim.
"Duck!"
"Duck!"
There's a hand on the rifle beside him as the footsteps come closer, though it doesn't exactly reach for the trigger. She's just a girl. Not that that means anything, he's met a lot of girls who could and do kick ass. But she isn't holding a gun. And she looks cold. And he's not cruel, even if he is cautious. So he lifts his hand away from the weapon, shrugging his shoulders in agreement.
"Go ahead. It's cold out here." He gives her a minute or two to get settled, eyes habitually scanning the trees behind her and seeing nothing. "What are you doing alone out here? Nearest town is miles back."
"Go ahead. It's cold out here." He gives her a minute or two to get settled, eyes habitually scanning the trees behind her and seeing nothing. "What are you doing alone out here? Nearest town is miles back."
"Jess you," Amos answers, relaxing his shoulders as the rifle lowers and shifting to a more normal tone instead of the carefully calm one he had been using.
He really doesn't like being shot.
"I got separated from my friends, too." He got to his feet and tested out his ankle. A little twinge but it still held weight and Amos nodded. "We could stick together for a bit until we find somebody, maybe?" He glanced up and grinned, bright and friendly. "Promise I'm not usually so bad at escaping zombies." Well, on occasion. But he was really lucky, so that mostly made up for it? Sometimes.
She does, though she lets off another shot as she does, taking down one even as she allows herself a moment to look at his work, considering possibilities as she retrieves her knife.
"Thank you."
"Thank you."
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