(un)lucky girls support group

Seymour blinked in surprise. Oh. That explained the distinct burning feeling, as well as the lack of blood. Seymour had never been tazed before, but now he was sure it was an experience he would never want to relive.

That was, of course, if he lived for much longer after this. His heart was pounding, was it ever going to stop? He couldn't imagine that getting shocked with so many volts of electricity wouldn't cause any sort of permanent damage.

He managed a small shake of his head in response to Heather's question, guilt sinking into him at the realization that he had acted foolish enough for her to get the idea that he was some sort of creep. "N-no...! I-I was just lost.... Was gonna ask for directions, that's all..."

Coming up to a girl from behind on a dark street... Smart, Seymour. Very smart.

"Sorry... I-I shouldn't have..." he trailed off, not daring to meet her gaze but hoping she got the idea of his remorse. He brushed a hand against his cheek, wiping away the tears he had only just now realized he had shed somewhere between the initial tasing and the present moment.

Oh good. Now he was crying in front of a stranger. God, if his physical state didn't end up killing him, then his embarrassment certainly would. He had to get out of here. No more asking for directions, either. He'd wander this maze of a city all night if he had to. Surely, Skid Row wasn't too far...

"...I'm just... I-I'm gonna go..." he attempted to pull himself up to his feet and scurry off, but grimaced at the ache the movement caused and quickly fell back down onto his knees, clutching the wound in his side again.

"Hey, hey, don't be sorry, we can get you ho- woah!" she exclaimed as the man fell back down.

She sucked in a breath, sharp. Though she had used this taser before, she didn't stick around long enough to see the after-effects, nor did she particularly care what happened to that creep. This was a different story, and either this dude was unusually conductive or tasers were more powerful than she thought. Maybe she should be more careful with this thing in the future, even if this was a bad part of town.

"Woah there," she repeated in a softer voice. She leaned down and extended a hand to the other man -- keeping close, but not quite touching him. Wouldn't feel right to.

For breaking the ice in the worst possible way, featuring themes including: kidnapping, murder, stalking, injury, monsters, and just general meanness. [Brackets] indicate spaces to include your own words to personalize your ask!

Him, good to meet?? Why, she must have surely been saying such a thing to make him feel better. Most people did not believe a giant at all good to meet.

"Lay them...?"

This practice was to him familiar, but not entirely so, instead only being familiar as though through a thick fog; he knew to have heard of such a thing once, that humans did something with flowers for people for a certain reason, but for whom, why? That was what he could not recall, hence the gesture was for now to him a mystery. And so it was that the answer to his question wasn't truly an answer at all, and in truth raised for the giant many more questions in its place.

Jennifer cringed and sucked in a breath. She tried to suppress it, but she couldn't. Was it because he called them friends, when she was too hesitant to? Was it his naivete of funeral customs, which Jennifer would implicitly have to explain?

"Um..." Jennifer averted her eyes, and shuffled her feet, before mumbling an answer. "To pay respects... to remember them."

For no-one else will.

She lifted her head, and offered a smile like a peace offering. "You're quite welcome to come along, of course."

It was lonely, dreary work, what Jennifer was off to do. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to have a friendly stranger by her side.

some various character analysis questions based off of space &&. the bodies that inhabit it. feel free to edit as you see fit.

[ MERCURY ] is your muse good at communication ? can they hold a proper conversation, or are they always finding an excuse to avoid small talk ?

[ VENUS ] how does your muse handle love ? do they believe themself to be deserving of it, and how capable are they of loving others ?

[ EARTH ] how grounded is your muse ? are they logical and straightforward, or are do they always have their head in the clouds ?

[ MARS ] when your muse gets angry, how does it show ? do they know how to control it, or do they let it consume them ?

[ JUPITER ] how does your muse see morality ? what do the words good and evil mean to them ?

[ SATURN ] is your muse all work and no play ? do they let responsibility consume them, or do they allow themselves breaks from time to time ?

[ URANUS ] can your muse handle change ? do they accept it with open arms, or will they try anything they can to make sure things say the same ?

[ NEPTUNE ] does your muse dream frequently ? if they do, what kind of dreams (or nightmares) do they have ?

[ PLUTO ] what is your muse's relationship with individuality ? do they feel that they need permission to be themself ?

[ CERES ] does your muse take care of themself ? do they neglect their needs to put others first ?

[ PALLAS ] how perceptive is your muse ? can they pick up on things other people don't ?

"Don’t   turn   around."

"Did   you   hear   that?"

"You’re   not   alone   here."

"It’s   already   too   late."

"Something’s   watching   us."

"Stay   quiet.   Stay   still."

"They’re   right   behind   you."

"I   wouldn’t   go   in   there."

"Whatever   you   do,   run."

"Keep   the   lights   on."

"I   saw   it   move."

"Don't   let   it   see   you."

"You’re   shaking."

"It   knows   your   name."

"I   can   smell   the   blood."

"Don’t   breathe.   Not   yet."

"It’s   inside   the   house."

"Close   the   door.   Now."

"You   weren’t   supposed   to   survive."

"They’re   coming   for   you."

"It's   already   inside   you."

"I   told   you   not   to   look."

"You're   not   safe   with   me."

"It’s   feeding   on   us."

"This   place   is   cursed."

"Why   are   you   smiling?"

"I’m   not   alone   in   here."

"You’re   bleeding."

"You're   not   you   anymore."

"Get   away   from   me."

"Don’t   trust   what   you   see."

"I   heard   it   whisper."

"It’s   wearing   your   face."

"You   weren’t   supposed   to   find   this."

"The   walls   are   listening."

"We’re   trapped   with   it."

"You’re   next."

"You’re   too   late."

"Did   you   lock   the   door?"

"It’s   already   in   your   head."

"Stop   smiling.   It’s   not   funny."

"That   wasn’t   me."

"You   brought   it   here."

"It’s   under   the   bed."

"You   should’ve   stayed   dead."

"It’s   not   over   yet."

"They   never   left."

"This   isn’t   real...   is   it?"

One moment, Heather has a gun pointed at her. There's a blur of blue and red, and in the blink of an eye, a dark- curly-haired man, clad in those same colors, stands between her and the gun. If the trigger is pulled, the bullet will bounce off him.

Heather opened her eyes, blinked, and looked up. She was absolutely, one-hundred-per-cent sure a gun just went off, and it was definitely pointed in her direction, but the stranger seemed absolutely no worse for the wear.

The first words out of her mouth: an astonished "How did you-", but she cut herself off.

Normally, she'd be asking a fuckton of questions, nut right now, she wading through basically Hell, low on ammo (and not a great shot), probably would have died if it weren't for the intervention, and generally dealing with too much shit to be anything but warily hopeful at the sight of another friendly face -- a tough one, too.

"Uh- yeah. But-" Out of the corner of her eye, right around the stranger, Heather could see it shuffling...

"Shit. Lemme just-"

... But, of, he did not, could not, tell her that. If he did, she may believe him angry with her or otherwise resentful. And if she believed that, then she may become very afraid again, and scream, or run away, or both. There was no need for such things.

Her implied question pulled him from his thoughts.

"Jennifer..."

It didn't sound correct when he'd said it. The vowels weren't spoken far forward enough on the tongue — it sounded far closer to Jonnufour than Jennifer said by him. This was to say nothing of the inhumanly low pitch to the voice, which put a bass to shame, nor the resonance that came with the voice as a result regardless of how quietly anything were said.

... And it occurred to him (his eyes opened wider with this realization) — Was she asking him for his name, in that strange way humans asked for things without truly asking for them? This meant that she believed him to have one in the first place — another far more generous assumption of him than most human beings he encountered.

The way the giant spoke her name rumbled in the air, the way Jennifer imagined the warning pangs of an earthquake or a landslide might have -- though not quite as violent as that would imply. At the very least, her feet remained flat on the ground, balanced for now.

She nodded once. "Ingvar. Good to meet you."

Jennifer had never heard a name like that before. It wasn't English, certainly, but perhaps it could be from another sort of Germanic tongue? She didn't know enough about languages to say, and she certainly didn't know anything about the language of any giants.

"These?" she asked, glancing back at her flowers. "Ah, these are from-"

Wait! He seemed to be slipping in words from an older form of English, and she did remember one thing about it. In Romeo and Juliet, when Juliet says wherefore art thou Romeo? she was not asking where Romeo is, but why. So really, this fellow was asking why she had the flowers, not where she got them from.

She remembered something about Shakespeare! Hoffman would be proud! ...well, he probably wouldn't be openly proud of her, per se, but it would prevent her from making a very silly mistake in front of him and perhaps spare her from his yelling.

...Hoffman had been dead for a long time. And he certainly didn't live long enough to teach her Shakespeare.

"Well... I'm going to lay them with, um... some of my childhood..."

She trailed off, as if wondering if she should speak the plain truth aloud to this stranger -- but firstly, wondering if she should say friends.

"...companions?"

feel free to combine multiple prompts or add  “ + reverse ”  to switch roles !   for reference, the one sending in the prompt is the one committing the action.

His expression, till now solemn and sullen, lifted slightly. It was not as though he were suddenly bright and cheerful, but, rather, his eyes seemed to droop a little less, and they weren't in such stark shadows now that the head wasn't quite so low. He nevertheless still stood hunched over, broad shoulders with their arms hanging low, like maybe if he stood like that, then maybe he wouldn't look quite so imposing. Whether it worked, however, was questionable.

.... It was, to be fair, some consolation, what she said. Even if he had to assume 'we' referred to human beings. And he was not about to ask and make himself look a fool!

If Jennifer showing basic courtesy after being rude to the giant was more considerate than most, then she was afraid to wonder how most people treated him...

Much of her posture mirrored Ingvar's own, shrinking into herself and clutching the bouquet of flowers to her chest. But slowly, she drew out of herself, as her gaze followed his over the horizons. There wasn't much around but the grassy fields, and ordinary sights in the English countryside -- a wooden fence separating the grass from the forests, a dirt path winding through. An overcast sky.

Jennifer dusted her dress, and checked over her bouquet. At least none of the flowers had been crushed, but they were getting dry. It would be a terrible shame if they all wilted before she reached her destination...

She nodded once. "I... is that so, um... sir...? I didn't catch a name, I'm afraid."

It was only polite to begin, she supposed. "I'm Jennifer."

It took a couple more labored breaths for him to finally remember how to move his lips and tongue in order to speak.

"It's... fine..." he replied simply, though the weak, shaky tone of his voice, still a tad bit hoarse from the scream he had just let out, seemed to suggest otherwise.

He let a few more seconds pass before he began to move to sit up, keeping his movements as slow and careful as possible as he did so, both as a result of the dull burning that remained in his muscles and as a means to lessen his chances of somehow provoking Heather into attacking again.

He winced as he clutched at his side, just below his ribs, where most of the lingering pain was centered, and realized with a jolt that he could feel something sticking out of both fabric and skin there. Oh my god...

...Did she stab me?

He lifted a trembling palm from the wound to quickly observe it in the glow of the streetlamp, and was surprised to not find any blood.

It clearly was not fine. Oh shit, was Heather gonna have to call an ambulance for this guy? She sure hoped not. Hopefully he didn't hit his head too hard on the way down? Ah fuck.

Her eyes widened in incredulity as the guy apologized. No prompting, no idea what he did wrong (probably), just like that! Heather winced. Maybe her first assessment was more right than she knew...

"Dude. I'm the one who tazed you!" she retorted in disbelief, her words fading into a mumbled "Thought you were following me."

A pause, as she glanced over Seymour again. That paranoia nagged again, but it sounded less and less reasonable the more this guy spoke.

"...you... weren't, right?"

Fernando Pessoa, from The Book of Disquiet