( OPEN ) FEBRUARY CATCH-ALL

[webdesigned]

Who: peter parker & carmilla karnstein & hopefully you!!!
When: the month of february (i am a little early)
Where: all over!
What: just a catch all for my two running through the month! check inside for open prompts.
Warnings: carmilla can think about some dark stuff on occasion but nothing planned at the moment. warnings will be in toplevel comments if they come up!




PETER PARKER.
PERMISSIONS. | INBOX. | APP.


CARMILLA KARNSTEIN.
PERMISSIONS. | INBOX. | APP.

WANT SOMETHING MORE PERSONALIZED? CATCH ME AT MEOWED OR PM, OR USE THE WILDCARD OPTION!

STARTERS BELOW.
↓↓↓

Comments

peter parker. tasm.

[webdesigned]

OPEN PROMPTS. (FEB)

[webdesigned]

AROUND THE NEIGHBORHOOD.

( A. Peter does spend a good part of his time around his house. it's not that it's familiar or it feels like home, but it's at least a little more removed from town proper. there's a good bit of overly friendly neighbors, but Peter finds those easier to wrap his head around than the obvious dated fixtures and finishes of town.

most of the time, he's motoring around on his skateboard. it feels like years since he properly just rode. tried out tricks just because. did it because it was fun and he liked it, not as means to an end or to get around. honestly back in New York he's more likely to websling around than skateboard anymore, so it feels like a nice return to form.

sadly, though, this return to form is paired with the same amount of slips, fumbles, and catastrophes. his senses might be back but he can't move quite as fast so they don't help him much and he still eats concrete a good part of the time. maybe you caught him straight after a complete wipeout, and he's mildly dazed on the sidewalk and his board spiraling a good few feet away. ) I'm good, ( he informs, though you can practically see the birds spinning around his head. maybe he's not so good.

B. which is not to say he is crashing every attempt. he's determined enough to regain his old skill that he'll eat any injury and bruises to keep on trying. eventually, he'll land his kickflip or grind and his enthusiasm is palapble. he wavers in his balance for a few seconds that seem entirely too long, before he shoots both arms above his head with an excited hoot. ) You see that? Yes!

WORKING HARD.

( A. it took some doing (and some unpaid intern work), but Peter has managed to score a job at the Santa Rosita Report and thusly, is occasionally out aiming a vintage camera at something. usually it's fluff stuff, like new puppies up for adoption or the local diner had a pie eating contest. he's trying to aim the camera and realizes he's being stared at, and pauses. )

Oh. Sorry. I work for the paper. Do you mind? ( he can point it slightly to the left if you do. no big deal.

B. or, perhaps, he's been sent for a purpose. new family to Santa Rosita, or someone doing exemplary at their new job. either way, he's Awkwardly here to Take Your Picture. ) Uh, any spot in particular? ( Peter asks, fussing with the tie he's expected to wear on the clock. it does not take skill in reading people to note he is uncomfortable in it. )

HARDLY WORKING.

( A. of course, Peter has downtime too. most of the time, you can catch him at the library, reading... well, all sorts of things. the only thing in specific is that it all seems to be nonfiction. he manages to look enthralled with dense and dated manuals about mechanics and engineering, even stopping to make chicken scratch notes on occasion.

and yeah you can catch him reading a physics text book on purpose. maybe not for fun, but, clearly for a determined purpose.

perhaps you're sitting next to him and brush something a little too far off the table with your elbow, or maybe it's someone else that does the knocking. the result is the same, Peter seamlessly catches the book before it can clatter loudly to the floor. )

Ah... phew. Good catch, huh? ( don't worry, he's whispering. he knows it's a library.

B. Peter is a curious kid, so of course he snoops around town, too. usually distant, far out and remote places. should he be spooking around the quarry? probably not. frowning distantly at the lake like the wheels in that dumb head are turning? ehhh maybe that one's fine. the old growth? hmm should he really be heading in there on his own? spooking around at a comfortable distance of the police perimeter at the tunnel? probably doesn't belong there.

and it's only the more obvious when the second someone approaches, Peter stiffens like a board and turns in their direction, hands up like he's at gunpoint. ) Whoa, uh — hey. Nice day for a walk, right? ( because that's what he's doing. just... walking around. not a big deal. it's totally innocent. not that anybody asked. )

( prompt: working hard, b. )

[inpersonation]

Anywhere is fine with me! [ she beams at him, doing her best to look cheerful and upbeat about this whole arrangement. ] I don't mind at all.

[ spoilers: noelle minds very much. something about the way people have been addressing her skills in math - how precious! she knows her numbers! a girl who knows her math and is clearly the best in her class? so soon? how amazing! - is irritating her and it'll keep irritating her until this little photoshoot is over.

but she keeps her smile pleasant and sweet, doing her best to keep her discontent from being too obvious. even with the terribly condescending teacher right behind her - new to her class and already she scored perfect in her assignments, her homework, and her quizzes! did you know blossom came to school on the day a quiz was being done? aced that perfectly! this little lady knows her way around equations.

... it is so trying, doing her best to not lose her cool. ]

[webdesigned]

( yeah, Peter can hear the oh-so-proud teacher behind them, going on and on how it's remarkable to see a girl with such studious habits, treating the concept of a female intelligence like something quaint and charming, almost unbelievable.

it bothers Peter too. the smartest person he knew was a girl, and she'd also squirmed under the expectation she wasn't as smart as her male cohorts. he frowns under the tie that's a little too tight and the conversation behind them that's a little too sexist. )

Maybe the hallway? Do you have any student work posted out there? ( he glances back at the teacher, who doesn't even seem to be listening. too busy yawning on, and on, about how unusual it was for girls to show academic strength like boys did, and that was about enough. woof. those two weren't listening so Peter nods toward the hall. ) Or the library, maybe.

( aka, not in this room anymore. )

hardly working! (the tunnel)

[grice]

[ oh— well, peter has himself a guest, one that equally goes rigid with his back erect when the older boy turns to him. everything's . . . a little creepy here, so he hardly knows what to expect until it happens. what gets falco to blink a few times and adjust the woolly red cloth wrapped around the bottom half of his face was the reaction. jumpy.

(not that falco was any better) ]

The chill's nice. [ right? it's wonderfully chilly. the blond is packed to his neck in winter clothes, from jacket to scarf, and— oh, make it to his head, he's got one of those peruvian beanies with the little poms on top. after a pause that he's certain was appropriate enough, he gestures (innocently, mostly) to the tunnel with a mitten before it falls back to his side with a muffled clap. ] Do you know what's in there?

[ his eyes are bright and expecting. maybe it's different from the police response. ]

[webdesigned]

( of all things to send alarm bells off in his spider senses. a tiny kid that probably hadn't made it to 6th grade yet. sadly his super senses don't warn him of what is approaching, just that something is — and Peter distinctly gets the impression that he's not supposed to be here, what with the armed police guard and everything. anything approaching could be bad. however, this kid is obviously not a member of law enforcement, so Peter obviously and instantly relaxes a little.

and the fact he's out here also doesn't strike as one of the townie kids, either. Peter is slightly bemused — does that mean someone this young had been taken, too? if so, doesn't he have anyone to look after him? — but shakes it off, for now. )

No. And it sure seems like they don't want us to know, either. ( he stuffs his hands deeper in his pockets and frowns in that direction. it's possibly too obvious, if he were some nefarious villain taking people hostage, he wouldn't broadcast an area of interest with a huge armed presence. but still it's curious and seems to be the only place in Santa Rosita with that kind of open restriction, it's hard not to be curious. ) I wonder if they're here all night, too.

around the neighborhood b

[hoshikiri]

[Does Takame have any idea what a skateboard is? No. In fact it was just an aimless stroll through the neighborhood that had him catch wind of Peter practicing his tricks on it. But just because Takame didn't know what it was Peter was doing, he could still appreciate a good show of acrobatic skill. Major or minor though it may be.

He was watching the entire time, but he looks a bit different from that time at the Christmas party. At least he sounded the same.]

Very impressive. [Said with an arms crossed nod of approval.]

[webdesigned]

( the stunts he can pull are admittedly limited right about now, though perhaps that's because he's comparing himself to himself, but add superhuman powers. Peter is pretty decent at skateboarding, and has plenty of tricks and skills. it's just weird relearning how to do them now that he's not on super powered cruise control. his super senses have returned, but not with the speed or strength or agility he needs to make them particularly helpful. instead he knows he's gonna eat shit shortly before he does, which isn't that helpful.

but he used to practice tricks over and over and over again to master them, and it's just a matter of remembering how that felt. like riding a bicycle, only a lot more time eating the cement. he's still proud of the accomplishment, even though he hadn't necessarily expected anyone to pay attention or congratulate his antics. )

Thanks. ( Peter recognizes the voice but doesn't instantly turn around — he showboats a little more by balancing on one foot at the back of the board, kicking up the front wheels to hover the board in the air, his forward foot barely touching the front. ) I haven't practiced like this in years, so I'm pretty rust— ( it's then he looks and then he notices Takame looks incredibly different. and promptly loses his balance and stumbles off his board, sending it spinning off down the sidewalk. ) Whoa. You look... you look different.

( Peter closes his eyes, realizing that definitely came out ruder than intended. okay, try again. ) Not... not a bad different, just — what happened?

around the neighborhood, A

[hxppythxughts]

[All these picturesque houses look too much the same in a way that ensures Sayori spends a lot of time walking down the wrong streets. Still, she doesn't mind a little adventure, and everyone being stuffed into one charming little neighborhood means she's never terribly far from home (if she can even call it that.)

So she's just wandering, as she does, when the distinct commotion of someone completely wiping out across the street catches her attention. She reacts quickly and with some alarm, rushing across the way to approach the boy on the sidewalk.

He says I'm good, but...] Are you sure? That looked like it hurt!

[She bends down to offer him a hand once she's close enough. Only then does she realize that his face is familiar, and her eyes light up with recognition.] Hey, it's you!

[webdesigned]

It did. For sure. Ow. ( Peter feels a little cowed by the fact he's this rattled by falling off a skateboard when he's definitely been thrown through brick walls by supervillains before, but without the super endurance even a normal impact leaves his head spinning. he hadn't thought he'd been abnormal long enough to forget what it was really like, but, apparently superpowers do change how you react to injury and pain. who would have thought.

he's at least managed to prop himself up on elbows, glasses akimbo, as Sayori approaches. if this was a cartoon, there would probably be birds floating around his head in lazy circles. ) Thanks, ( he says to the slightly out of focus hand hovering in his face, accepting it before she recognizes him properly. )

Yeah, it's me... Peter, uh, Winchester? ( the recognition is not shared just yet, between his head spinning and his glasses knocked kitty-whompus. but he does fix them once he's made it to his feet, even if his balance seems a little more wobbly than usual. it's then that he connects the orange-blonde bob and sweet face as one he's maybe seen before. ) Wait, you, we... ( Sayori does look familiar, though in a fuzzy way that doesn't make a lot of sense. sort of like his blurry memories of Lorna that were all in the wrong month. ) Snowball fight. It was a snowball fight. Right?

around the neighborhood | b

[chromiums]

Nicely done.

[ lorna's never been big into skateboarding herself, but she'd hung around the kids who did it when she was a teenager and no one else in her school wanted to talk to the bipolar mutant girl with no parents. they hadn't talked to her a whole lot either, but they'd let her be and wouldn't dismiss her on the rare occasion she did try to engage them in conversation and that had honestly been better.

she smiles as she approaches peter, having witnessed the trick from a distance and nodding towards him as she comes closer. ] What's it called? What you just did.

[webdesigned]

An ollie. I used to be really good at it, but uh... I guess I haven't really practiced in awhile.

( really practiced, as in tried without superpowers pulling his every motion into cruise control. Peter has found that missing all his powers is both a blessing and a curse. he had kinda forgot what being a normal guy was like, even though he's always tried to stay levelheaded about saving the entirety of New York on multiple occasions.

it's both nice to have some of the stress and responsibility and overwhelming expectations relieved... and it's also not nice, when he spends so much time falling off his board because he forgot how hard it was to skate once spider senses kicked in and did all the heavy lifting. )

It wasn't my best, but, landing one again feels good. ( he kicks the back of the board to jut the front of it up, catching it lazily in his fingers. ) Something to do around here is nice, even if I'm eating asphault for most of it. How's things with you?

OPEN PROMPTS. (MAR)

[webdesigned]

CLOSED PROMPTS & WILDCARDS.

[webdesigned]

carmilla karnstein. carmilla webseries.

[vampirella]

OPEN PROMPTS. (FEB)

[vampirella]

NEW IN TOWN.

( A. it's been a hell of a learning curve, being transplanted in 1961 all over again. honestly, Carmilla doesn't have any strong fondness for the first time she experienced 1961 — a second go around was NOT what she's looking for.

honestly, it feels like it's some strange and ornate new form of torture from mommy dearest. she can't help but narrow her eyes at every helpful neighbor and sneer at any warm greeting to the neighborhood. it doesn't take her long to start poking around and asking questions, either to neighbors or fellow newcomers in one of the few black numbers she found in her closet. it's a safe bet she's either drinking (even if it's barely noon) or smoking. maybe both. )

So, you heard anything about an evil supernatural kabal or an angler fish god? ( she manages to ask the question with a perfectly normal tone, despite the content of the inquiry. it's a talent.

B. of course, eventually she has to leave her lair at some point. begrudgingly. and perhaps surprising, her first stop is to hit a local boutique. ) Please tell me you have something that doesn't scream Julie Andrews in the spring. I'm dying over here. ( the shop girl stares at her blankly, and with a long suffering sigh, she clarifies, ) Black, sweetie. I want something in black.

( a moment of reflection, and then a smile that is somehow both pretty and poisonous. ) My husband Mr. Fowler will take care of the tab. ( the shopgirl scatters like a mouse caught in the pantry, and rushes to prepare a room for her. Carmilla breezes to a rack and picks up a piece with a lip curled in disdain. her company didn't ask, but she still puts the dress against her frame. ) It's like sad granny wallpaper puked on it, right?

HOT LIBRARIAN.

( A. Carmilla hasn't had a job since... well, honestly? she can't remember. maybe being the vampiric slave of her overbearing mother isn't so bad after all, she never had to learn the true suffering of gainful employment.

and she had not arrived at the library meaning to work there, it was more a matter of being bored and needing something to do that she arrived. and she was quickly recognized and ushered behind the desk and it was vaguely explained to her what her job was supposed to be. Carmilla was definitely only half listening.

she figures she'll lose the job sooner or later because truth be told, she's not actively trying to keep it. but for now, she will sit behind the desk and read a huge pile of books that No, You Cannot Have, posture not particularly ladylike, what with her feet on the counter. despite the dress she's wearing. though, lbr, it's too floofy to see much.

and if she's supposed to gently reprimand people for speaking in the library, she must have missed the memo. maybe it was a sneeze, maybe something dropped accidentally, or maybe you really did think you could say something. Carmilla glances around to find the source of the sound, narrows her eyes, and suggests, ) Shut up, or take it outside.

B. of course, there's bound to be some brave individual that wanders up to check out a book. Carmilla is definitely present at the desk and that sort of implies she's supposed to do that, but uh... she distinctly turns a page and does not look up at present company.

perhaps she just doesn't notice??? maybe it's a really good book?? )

AROUND TOWN.

( A. have you ever witnessed someone miserably eat a grilled cheese sandwich?

probably not. because who would ever. they're divine creations. especially in the 60s, when nobody knew what saturated fat was.

so no one on earth or the planes above or below can comprehend why Carmilla has a curled nose, eating bites of a grilled cheese (with a fork and knife, what kind of monster is she) with a nose curled like it's the worst thing that's ever happened to her.

perhaps you notice on your own and have something to say. fear not if you're someone with manners and were silently allowing to eat her delicious treat like it personally wronged her. that's fine, because Carmilla has never been afraid to be a conversation starter. )

How about you stare at your own food, asshole? ( nobody said it would be a kind conversation starter.

B. so, having to eat again sucks, but guess what doesn't? alcohol. hell, it's honestly even better, since she's got a normal human, pint sized tolerance again. she is content to suck down a martini and read, and if the bartender gently inquires she will promise her husband will be joining her soon, and he needn't worry!

frankly, though, she doesn't seem to be looking or waiting for anyone. in fact, it's more that company arrives and she mildly notices it after awhile. ) Feel like buying a girl a drink? ( obviously she's happy to put it on her "husbands" tab, but hey. a stranger could also pay for her. that would be fine. )

around town; a

[demonicmiracle]

[It's one of those days that he's popped into the diner to grab a quick meal, which isn't an entirely rare occurrence. He doesn't even notice Carmilla at first, too focused on the menu (though it rarely changes) and his coffee, but he happens to glance around and spots her.

Honestly, it's more the recognition that keeps his attention at first, before he realises just how... unhappy she looks about her meal.

When she snaps at him, he laughs.]

You could order something else, you know.

[vampirella]

( she hadn't initially recognized him, but the ridiculous hair is hard to forget. she's not sure how the townies don't have more to say about a gangly brit in drag — she doesn't remember the 60s being so progressive. or at all progressive. then again at least half the town seemed to be operating on exactly one brain cell, whatever small kernel of cognitive function the hive mind allotted, so maybe they just didn't notice.

she chews another sullen bite and narrows her eyes at Crowley for having the audacity to laugh at her. as if a tiny angry goth girl furiously putting back dainty bites of grilled cheese isn't objectively hilarious.

the reality is it doesn't matter what she orders, after three hundred something years of not having to eat it's a fucking hassle to have to. honestly it's kind of gross. being human is gross. she'd never thought it was possible to miss drinking blood as her sole sustenance, but here she is. grease and cheese and heartburn and feeling overly full because her stomach has maybe held a cookie or two in the last two decades and having to poop blows. she's not going to like eating anything but chocolate, and she knows she can't live on chocolate alone. but that doesn't mean she has to like slumming it and actually needing to eat a sandwich.

but of course she has no interest in discussing the discomforts of newfound humanity. instead, she points out, ) I missed the part where I asked for your opinion. ( that said, since she does recognize him, in a murky sort of magically impaired way, she tilts her head with bland curiosity. )

How's your floor? ( she vaguely remembers going stab happy on her porcelain clone on top of it. did that actually happen or what? )

hot librarian, B

[hxppythxughts]

[One would think that Sayori's self-preservation instincts might have improved after that dream with the mannequins. This would be a foolish assumption. Though maybe it's just that, compared to those things, a standoffish librarian isn't even remotely scary?

That's giving Sayori a lot of credit. Regardless of the reason, she's not put off at all by any of the obvious signs of disinterest from the pretty lady at the front desk. She sets her books down on the counter and waits for a moment, but when no acknowledgment seems forthcoming, she just smiles.] Hey, what are you reading? Is it good?

[She is assuming so, but she can't be sure!]

OPEN PROMPTS. (MAR)

[vampirella]

DEATH BECOMES HER.

prompt a. limit 1 responder. TW: BLOOD, VAMPIRISM
( she feels it sneaking up on her like a bad habit. crawling across her skin like an addict in need of another fix. to start, she wonders if it isn't just growing pains, finding herself human again. actually feeling a hunger, a need. a body requiring sustenance, and no matter how petulant she is she has to silence it.

only more and more, food doesn't do anything. it hasn't been appealing since arrival and now it's even more deplorable to force herself to eat something, as the gnawing hunger only seems to grow brighter. more feral.

she starts to understand as the fangs break through skin again. it's been hundreds of years since she was first turned, when she was a little girl in the baron's dungeon. it makes her skin crawl to be forced back there, even if her mind is better able to comprehend what's happening to her this time around.

it's about when she's maddened with hunger, feels it starting to slow her movements and tighten a body that isn't meant to move, is supposed to be dead and cold and still, when she stumbles outside to milk bottles at her door, lacking enough elegance that she knocks one of them over. blood spills across the sidewalk, and she hates that her first instinct is to try and suck it off the dirty ground like the parasite she is. it doesn't really feel like drinking it from the bottle has much more dignity, honestly, but it has to be at least slightly better.

it's only after it's empty that some of the feral need starts to fade. only after she's smearing blood off her mouth that her thoughts are clear enough that the anger can take over. she hurls the last few bottles away from her, letting them shatter in a macabre splash across the picture-perfect house. she'd rather be angry, but it fades too quickly, and she slumps into the grass like something inside of her broke all over again. a long time ago she refused to cry for herself, it was completely pointless. and yet the tears prick at her eyes anyway.

she's completely in her own head for long enough that she doesn't notice that her whole display was not performed solo. she closes miserable, heavy eyes and notes aloud, ) Fuck. ( there's no suggesting she didn't just drink blood when her face is covered in it and she just splashed it all over the house, after all. ) Just... just leave me alone.

( it's a broken, hollow request. she doesn't even have the heart to try and make it sound intimidating. )

prompt b.
( eventually, she cleans herself up. hides behind dark dated glasses and not just because the sun has started to bother her again. it's rather convenient that half the town is cleaning itself up right about now, a manic spring cleaning and everyone is taking part. because it means she can find a hose pretty easily and grimly douse the morbid splat of plasma off her house.

none of the townies seem to find it weird that her house is wearing a bunch of blood, so the fact someone wanders closer in curiosity does indicate they're not a townie. Carmilla breathes out a heavy lungful of cigarette smoke as she continues to douse the red into her rose bushes. ) These darn kids, huh? Must have been some kinda prank.

( that's her story. and she's sticking to it. )

HAPPY FAMILIES.

prompt a.
( once she's drowned the drama of revamping, she's back to relative normal. except for the fact she disposes of every stitch of food in the house, obviously. why keep it around? she doesn't need it. she's gotten a steady supply of O- since she turned (re-turned?), and she honestly hated having to eat real food anyway. the bottles are nicely lined up in the fridge and that's about all that's in the kitchen (besides any alcohol she prefers chilled, of course), and that's how she likes it.

which makes it all the more alarming to walk in and notice someone else. she should at least get points for how she subtly moves in front of the fridge, body blocking the potential intruder, just in case they might try and open the door.

with that properly hidden, she doesn't beat around the bush. ) What the fuck are you doing in here? ( not the warmest of welcomes, is it? whoops. )

prompt b.
( eventually, she lets down her hackles with the strangers coming in and out of her house (unless they're a husband, god bless the poor bastard that has to be her husband even for 5 minutes). she finds a new place to stash her bloody milk bottles. she goes back to living exactly as she always does with no consideration that someone else has no choice but coexist with her. it means leaving dishes all over, wet towels and dirty clothes scattered in piles, and black hair in the drain.

turns out she's not the only terrible housemate, though, perhaps she's a more visible one. case in point: casually reading on the sofa as literally every piece of furniture eerily floats, including the couch she's sitting on. something floats past her head and she just flips a page. )

I'm not putting this shit back. You can float the whole house for all I care. ( the spirit petulantly tilts the couch a little more, but Carmilla just hunkers down and rebalances herself. petulantly coexisting is something she's well practiced in at this point in her afterlife. she does notice her more corporeal companion sooner or later, and drawls, ) Some PA ghost is fucking with the furniture.

( is she too blaze about a haunting? is that weird? )

TOPSY-TURVY.

( it's been a lot lately, hasn't it? fumbling through families, opening a door and ending up somewhere else. waking up with fingers playing in her hair and when she bolts awake there's nothing but the faint scent of old roses in the air. her intricately crafted black wardrobe finding it's way out of her closet, leaving only swaths of pastel and pink.

it's a lot. it's really rather annoying. but in the odd dusk of spring and winter, snowflakes dusting over flowers that have only begun to open, her breath frosting in the air even though she's dressed like she intended to have a walk in beautiful spring weather when she left her house. )

It's beautiful, isn't it? ( something uncanny and wrong, a painting of contrasting and conflicting extremes. Carmilla's head lulls onto the back of the bench she's reclining on like a cat that hasn't noticed their sunbeam went cold. )

prompt a.

[shalamayne]

[ Anduin isn't sure if he ought to be surprised or not when he wakes up in a bed that isn't his own, staring at an unfamiliar ceiling as consciousness begins to sink it's fingers in. The first glance lets him know it's another house within the town, the layout similar despite subtle differences and the urge to make a swift exit fades a little when he spies a nearby photograph of himself and a woman.

What was going on here? A quick inspection of the room shows his clothes already there, almost as if something had simply moved all of his gear from one place to the other. Had the town done this? Had he been taken somewhere once again without knowing about it? That has his blood running cold and Anduin quickly changes into his clothes before leaving the room, short blond hair still somewhat tousled.

Everything looks quiet for now and Anduin is loathe to admit he's a little curious. There doesn't seem to be any of the hostility from the last event and he relaxes a little as the young King heads towards the kitchen. If no-one is there he'll just get a glass of water and then contact Wrathion to let him know what was —

Anduin jumps when someone comes out of nowhere, demanding to know what was going on and Anduin certainly can't blame them for that question, sighing and rubbing his chest. One day this place will actually kill him.]

I woke up here. I take it this is your home?

happy families (b)!

[grice]

[ falco comes in from the front door when he'd honestly just gone through his bedroom door ripe and ready for school, messenger bag hanging from his side and dressed appropriately for a boy stuck in 1961, right when she talks about floating the whole house. ah— he recognizes the voice, and the dark hair hidden halfway behind the couch's inside back. everything is— floaty, yes, and for the time being, that's all his eyes could really follow. especially the glass that hovers right in front of him and straight into the kitchen.

until she said fucking, ah yes, that's all he needed to hear. well, not falco. his beeping little friend that wails harshly to censor the vampire's mouth! the boy winces and squeaks when the sound only eases off by a pinch, and by then carmilla might just know who it is without needing to turn her head. ]

Ack—! [ the single glass that was enjoying a flight in circles before him falls with a sharp crack as glass scatters. of course, he's just missing the jaw extensions, good as new and looking as normal as a boy should. he doesn't even have the scars to prove it happened. ] O-oh, no—

CLOSED PROMPTS & WILDCARDS.

[vampirella]

HUAISANG.

[vampirella]

( so, that party was a total bust. trying to pry information out of Rosemary Craven had gotten her literally nowhere. maybe you get more flies with sugar than vinegar, but Carmilla has a lot more vinegar to offer than she does sugar. after some heated accusations and passive aggressive comments about husbands, she'd been more than happy to find Huaisang and make an excuse to get out of dodge.

especially for the promise of alcohol. )

Do they have any decent vintages here? ( she asks, tone skeptical. she hated pretty much everything about existing under her mother's thumb, and she'd never admit it, but having access to an extensive wine cellar with wine practically as old as she is was a perk of indentured service that she definitely took advantage of. hopefully in 1961 people still understood that proper aging meant something.

and, since she's still pissed at the fake husband who definitely deserves better and especially spiteful because Rosemary had the audacity to mention his existence, she pats Huaisang's arm. ) Get whatever you want, cutie. My husband will take care of it. ( 1961 is terrible overall, but the fact everyone was so happily sexist did make it easy to foist fiscal responsibility to her fake husband. )

Making my own prompt because Dragons Don't Follow Rules.

[blackscales]

[ The amount of complication in Wrathion's life is quickly becoming...

Frustrating.

The kidnapping of Anduin Wrynn had been a problem.

The briefly public distress he'd experienced had been a problem.

The... experimental surgery involved had certainly been, and still is, a problem. Anduin being down one arm is something Wrathion tries constantly not to think about. They'd had the discussion about limiting their association in public, something Anduin had not taken well, and then Anduin had been moved to a new home. He's trying not to be seen lingering outside it regularly, beyond the brief initial alarm, but his visits to Anduin under cover of darkness do happen.

This visit is not to Anduin himself.

Wrathion has waited until Anduin is out, on some goodwill errand no doubt, and let himself in through the back door. He's sat arms folded at the kitchen table, red eyes roaming the surroundings as he waits for Carmilla to discover him. His long, dark curls are tied back and his dress is all business -- smartly tailored dark coat and pants. The local fashion is diabolical, but he's at least making himself clothing that is less... detailed than his usual fair to blend in.

He waits until he hears her approaching, lifts his eyes expectantly to the doorway and lofts an eyebrow. ]

I felt it was time we spoke.

[ So here he is, having let himself in without asking. To do that. Naturally. ]