gckko › a multimuse , multiship , selective writing blog by eno
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@gckko
gckko › a multimuse , multiship , selective writing blog by eno

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𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫: @gckko ! 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐞: jason ryu. 37. bisexual. he/him. medic.
he kept his eyes on the clock for the past few hours, becoming more concerned as time went by. jason knew they were safe. they always ended up coming back safely. however, there was always a slim chance things could go south and he knew that. it was only when he finally watched them entering the room, a sigh of relief escaped. instantly, he was cleaning up any cuts or wounds the other had before inquiring softly, “are you okay?” his eyes looked up toward them, hands pausing for a moment. “do you want to talk about what happened?”
“ ’m fine. ” he responds, a reflex, the words spoken just a touch too quickly to be believable. jason should be used to it by now — people in camp had a tendency to downplay injuries, and nine did it more often than most. “ could’ve been worse. ” he adds, and it was true, too; losing most of their supply haul to bandits was a heavy blow, but it was a small mercy that the group returned mostly unscathed. they could’ve come across a horde, nine thinks. someone could’ve gotten bit. someone could’ve died. this was one of the better outcomes, and yet — “ they got most of the bandages. good chunk of the meds, too. ” he says, quiet. he can’t find it in himself to meet the other’s gaze, spine tense with something that can only be described as shame. “ sorry we couldn’t bring back more. ”
" just leave me the fuck alone. " dismisses, shrugs away harshly. he needs a second to breathe after the very vocal clash with his father. " whatever you're trying to do right now, i don't want it. "
“ ego could use some work. ’m not here for you. ” it’s stated plainly, and they’re lighting up the pre-roll clutched in their hand by way of explanation, leaning their weight against the double doors to close them. it wouldn’t take much time to move to any of the other balconies on the floor — to find one that didn’t reek of white boy angst — but as with most things, lira simply couldn’t be bothered. “ your old man looked like he was having a blast down there. ” she states, if only to dig into the wound, just a little. “ what’d you do this time? ”
tate didn’t know why chase was still here. what else did he want? “shut the fuck up. shut the fuck up, shut up, what are you doing? what the fuck are you saying?” and it wasn’t even rhetorical at this point. chase was actually still talking, rambling some nonsense about leonardo dicaprio and even turning to the poor customer next to them—which. okay. tate had grown up with people pinching his cheeks and calling him a carbon copy of fuckass leonardo dicaprio, and even he didn’t think that was a compliment. surely he looked better than some freak who exclusively dated models with underdeveloped frontal lobes. tate stared at chase for a long second, completely over it. “and you look like megamind with your big ass head.”
it should’ve been offensive, probably, and for most people it would be — but chase has never really operated in the realm of ‘ most people ’ , much to his friends’ chagrin. as it is, his response comes in the bark of a laugh, hands clapping together in amusement. “ wait, actually. like i see it, man. i see it. ” he leans across the counter, pushing into tate’s space and locking his gaze onto the other at an angle. “ what’s wrong, tate? no bitches? ” he asks, brows furrowing slightly to emulate the meme; and he lingers, just a few beats too long, before rocking back onto the balls of his heels. he whips out his phone then, taking a sip of the drink in his hand that had mostly gone unnoticed up to this point. “ y’know what, i’m renaming your contact. ” and he does just that, oblivious to the grumbling patrons surrounding him.
so we’re kinda back? activity’s still going to be sporadic but hopefully i’ll be able to do more replies this week.

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muse: estefanía “stefi” guerrero (she/her), mid 20s, panromantic pansexual, early childhood education student, preschool teacher & nanny
stefi brushed a curl behind her ear, smoothing the chalk dust from her lavender cardigan as twelve energetic four-year-olds in paper-crown 'olympian' headpieces had just emptied into the hallway toward their loved ones. her head lifted toward the door, and she found herself walking toward a particular person, their appearance a pleasant surprise. "you're picking up early," she said, though she didn't mean any harm. she didn't mind the days she stayed behind, reading from the stack of picture books to their little one until they arrived at late pick-up. "again." she raised a brow, mock-accusatory. "are you trying to steal my favorite little chaos goblin before we finish our shape collages?"
“ what can i say? i’m a man on a mission. ” comes the reply, and it was true, too — he’s not exactly used to this, to being early, to being present, but he’s trying. yet another thing he needed to learn now that he’s traded speed for what lies beyond the track. “ lately it’s all been miss guerrero this, miss guerrero that. pretty soon my son’s gonna love you more than he loves me, and i can’t let that happen. ” he adds, but there’s no real heat behind the words, just humor and teasing. his eyes roam past her and into the classroom, locking onto where billy’s focused on his work before turning his attention to the teacher once more. “ but if you’re doing art, i’ll hang back and let you finish up. kid’s an artist, y’know? got it from his dad. ”
muse: nico moreau (he/they), mid 20s, panromantic pansexual, drummer for the grunge-metal band 'ashes of eden'
they were fighting again. this time it was over a towel in the laundry hamper. or maybe an old text. nico couldn’t remember. details got blurry slippery fast, like water over tile. his knuckles went white around the ceramic mug, fingers squeezing until he half-expected it to burst in his hand. the argument had eaten the morning, clawing from bed to hallway to kitchen, and now they were locked in a standoff across the table. nico didn’t remember how long they stood like that, trading glares and venom over cereal boxes and various condiments. maybe ten minutes. maybe a century. "are you sulking or are you actually going to say what’s bothering you?"
what wasn’t bothering her, at this point? it was fine, at first. fun, even. when the drugs stop hitting, she’s been known to chase after the next best thing — and that had been nico, for a while, but that was never meant to last ( not with her ) . she can’t even remember how this all started, trying to grasp at the butterflies and the laughter from those early days only to come up empty; and when she looks at her hands, all she’s left with are the fights they’d picked but never quite finished, waxing and waning as old arguments sparked anew. “ i have no idea what you’re talking about. this is how i always act. ” it’s not exactly a lie, as of late, with good days being outweighed by the bad — and she doesn’t even look up, doesn’t even eat, instead poking at her cereal aimlessly. “ sounds like you’re projecting, honestly. if something’s bothering you, just say so. no point ruining my day off. ”
muse: natasha you, 27 open: anyone!
muse: modern
plot: it’s nearly 1am and your muse is at natasha’s diner. your character can be a regular or there for whatever reason (runaway, traveling, out of jail, studying, etc.)!
stifling a yawn, natasha walks towards the booth in the corner of the diner. there’s only a few patrons at the diner, most of them dozing off into their pancakes. the waitress walks forward and stops in front of the table, taking in her next customer. “welcome to cal’s diner. i’m natasha….blah blah blah…what do you want to order?” tilting her head, she holds up her notepad. “though i wouldn’t order the fruit salad. it’s been out for awhile.”
it takes a beat and then two for the other’s words to register, and jules blinks a little dumbly at the waitress before shifting in their seat, turning their attention to the menu that was handed to them — seeing but not quite comprehending. “ no fruit salad. got it. uh... ” she’s not exactly eloquent past midnight, the last syllable being drawn out in an attempt to stall. “ is there anything you would recommend, or? ” they ask instead, for lack of a better option; truth be told, jules can barely form a coherent thought, much less decide on a meal — they weren’t even hungry, is the thing, only striding in to kill time.
hey there. still alive but i can’t be active just yet because of three things : one, i had a family emergency that took up my entire week and made it impossible to work; two, i still have work that needs to be done because of number one and number three; three, my internet is shitting itself periodically and my isp basically just said “yeah we know there’s problems in your area but we’re slowly working on it”. hoping these will all be resolved soon because i miss writing, man.
" i, um . . . " brows furrow, posture straightened as he examines himself in the mirror. can't explain the way it makes him feel inside. sure, he looks exactly as they predicted. wealthy, prolific, convincing enough to make it into the country club with ease. " i can't explain how, but 'm thinkin' i look more like spongebob than some fancy schmancy. " chuckles out, brows furrowed in closer inspection. " what d'ya think, blondie ? " / @gckko
“ spongebob? what does that even mean? ” she’s laughing around the words, smile evident despite the incredulous little sound. she doesn’t spare a glance just to try and see what he’s talking about, not yet, preoccupied with swapping out her earrings — but she looks over when he asks, moving to stand in front of him. “ it’s... decent. ” she says, taking the outfit in as if she hadn’t been the one to put it together. “ something i’d see in a country club, that’s for sure. ” it’s an important distinction. she doesn’t particularly like this set of clothes — not on beau, not on anyone — but it was pretty much perfect for what they’d be doing today. “ this might be a little too much, though. ” she decides after some consideration, reaching for the sweater that was draped across his shoulders and holding onto it for the time being. “ better. ” she declares, smiling. “ just have to figure out your alias now. any ideas? it has to be something you’d remember to answer to. ”

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I won’t play your psychological games
she laughs , not exactly proud she's known for rage and violence , but , hey , at least she's predictable if nothing else . it feels better now , her anger a moot point , though part of her still worries the next time he's gone will be like he's fallen off the map all over again , forgetting about her existence until he pops back up . one day , he may stop popping back up , settle elsewhere , far away from here and far away from her . then what ? " my toes ? what kind of fights do you think i'm getting into to lose a toe ? " her eyebrows lift , gaze moving from her own shoes back to his face . " is there something i should know ? did you lose a toe ? "
“ listen, i know for a fact that you’re not above playing dirty. ” he says by way of explanation, calling to mind all the times he’s had to bail her out of fights — and it’s not like she needed any protection, never has and probably never will, but he wasn’t going to leave her to fend for herself. sometimes he wonders if that’s what led him to this profession in the first place. “ at this point i’m surprised you haven’t lost a toe. grab two of those for me, yeah? ” he’s nodding to the other side of the chips aisle, indicating one of the higher shelves just to tease.
" now why are you worrying about me ? i'm just having some fun . c'mon , you don't think i am capable of handling myself ? "
“ i mean, of course i know you can take care of yourself. it’s just — ” here she pauses, grappling with the wording. “ do you always have to do stuff that’s kinda risky? what happened to just, i don’t know, staying in every now and then? don’t you get tired? i mean, i was on tour for five months and the band was up to something different practically every night. pretty sure i’m gonna be cooped up for the next two months at this point. ”

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" what i'm hearing is there's a chance . " their grin is playful , eyebrows lifting in a challenging manner . " should i consult my crystal ball ? "
“ i can’t even tell if that’s a metaphor at this point. ” she doesn’t even look up as she speaks, busying herself the joint she’s trying to roll. “ but if you actually have one, knock yourself out. watch as the powers that be take my side and tell you that a nonzero chance barely counts. ”
Mary Oliver, "Blue Iris." Devotions