#canonfoddcr

There’s a lot to be said between the two bodies so closely confined with each other. At the moment, though, Karl wouldn’t say any of it — mind and mouth were already preoccupied, and it’s no doubt that he wasn’t in the correct headspace to be wording himself like a snake charmer ; despite how much he knew Duke loved the efforts.

Karl had been nursing off of the same can of beer for a good while, and in between each lazy sip, his head croons forward in order to find any available nooks and crannies around Duke’s neck.

"Ah - ah - ah ! Let me be so bold as to interject. I heard you the first time. But I am telling you that as the parents' representative on the board, that I would consider it a personal favour were you to reconsider my daughter's grade."

The scent of burning paper hit Miranda's nose and at first, she paid no heed to it as after all, the Duke had his own peculiarities and so long as he didn't meddle with her affairs, she wouldn't be too harsh in turn. It wasn't until she realized just what he was holding and destroying in those grubby mitts that she'd practically burst aflame with her rage.

She had written many reports of her research over the long decades of life but this, this was the one that started it all in her cultivation of the cadou, megamycete, and their applications on living hosts.

In a flurry she was upon him in an instant, batting the burning heart of her very reason of existence to the snow for extinguishing. She'd partially mutated her wings into sharp clawed appendages that caged him in while she got in his face, small hands fisting clothing and flesh to anchor herself to him.

"Ah, but of course." The Duke clasps his hands across his chest. "Though...while of course I am always willing to help a traveler in need, I like to know what I'm getting into. Good business practice, you see. What kind of reward do you have for me, my friend?"

The nervous grin he gets in response has a variable number of teeth, canid and camelid and other, less-named things jostling together in an unsightly mess of ivory. In fact, almost everything about Bête is variable right now - everything except xir right hand, which is palsy-locked into the shape it was wearing when it was impaled. Stupid, stupid—

Really, xe should be grateful that the merchant's going for pre-negotiations rather than owe me one later, but xe can't really focus on the long term right now. All xe can focus on is the throbbing, rotting pain that storms up from the iron bolt. It parts xir palm and juts between tendons like the sacrificial mark of some idiot god, still smoking slightly. Xir arm twitches at an awkward angle, torn between the desire to cradle the wounded hand to xir chest and the desire to keep the iron as far away as possible. Sea foam oozes sluggishly from the wound.

it's her favourite time of year: halloween. and, despite herself, she had to admit that it was nice to visit ciuperca - the festivities were nice. appealing to ambrose, at the least, who fell into heartstruck love with every black-lipsticked goth with a chip on their shoulder and a piercing in their tongue. it delighted her, and lifted her spirits no end, to see him happy. it had been too long. ever since everything that happened with sabrina - well. it doesn't bare thinking of. she's aware that he can hear her thoughts - they had admitted this much - and she'd rather not subject the duke to this sad old tale. "oh -- i know!" she exclaims, her hands gripping tightly to her wicker shopping basket. "i'd invite over vampira, and i'd make... vegetable pie!" the question? which celebrity would you have to dinner, and what would you cook. the duke was the sort of fellow who loved to discuss every break in a loaf in magnificent, smoky detail. get them to tell you a fact or two about themself - now that would be the miracle! the happiness and ease they share has a sort of fragility. hilda thinks briefly of how some spiders repair their webs every day. some spiders eat the old webs as protein sources. spiders are resourceful - she wants to be too. it would be so nice to make something new here from this old web.

"and y'self?" she stares up at him with a grin, gentle and observing. it's been a while. to say the least. she wants to get to know the duke in the middle of this new city, as opposed to in a rickety caravan parked on a mass grave. but even that brings forth a memory of eating soup together in that old shoppe (it felt appropriate to add the extra letters) of his.

𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐑(𝐒): Purple, blue, red, black

𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑(𝐒): Strawberry, chocolate

𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐂: I'm listening to a lot of Heaven's Basement recently

𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐈𝐄(𝐒): This time of year, it would be Home Alone and Rise of the Guardians.

𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒: I'm really enjoying some old horror series at the moment.

𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆: Fairytale of New York - The Pogues and Kirsty MacColl

𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒: God of War 2018 playthrough

𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐈𝐄: Toy Story 2 with my nephew

𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆: Abominable by Dan Simmons

𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆: God of War Ragnarok playthroughs

𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐍: Drafts

tagged by : @redemptioninchaos (thank you :-) )

tagging : @breakbcnes @asoulunbound @wanderingarcherviola @canonfoddcr @myersbprd

For @canonfoddcr

When one threw herself into danger as often as Kit Snicket did, it was inevitable that the danger would win. There was always the chance of the stunt she couldn’t pull off, the enemy getting lucky, the mission failed.

Kit’s work had brought her back to the city, and Dark Avenue. Not 667, but 141- the Veritable French Diner. She’d expected to receive a message from the waiter. But as soon as she’d spoken the code phrase, it had turned into a brawl with the waiter and a disguised chef, and Kit had ended up tied and locked in some kind of pantry while the building was set on fire. It took some effort to escape her bonds and the impromptu cell. She then probably spent too much time trying to fight the fire before realizing it was a lost cause and fleeing. That was bone-deep VFD training. It was nearly impossible to simply let a fire burn.

Kit tried to take stock as she dragged herself, coughing, through the tunnels. There were rope-marks on her arms and legs, and bruises just about everywhere. Her left knee was badly swollen and she couldn’t tell if it was broken or not. She probably shouldn’t have been walking on it, but the celery and tomatoes hadn’t exactly provided suitable materials for fashioning crutches. She had a cut on her back at the right shoulder that was too shallow to be deadly but deep enough to bleed. She felt nauseous and couldn’t be sure if that was smoke inhalation or a head injury. Her swimming vision made the signs hard to read, but she could navigate these tunnels by muscle memory alone. The question was where to go? There were less and less safe places left in the city. The Baudelaire mansion- gone The Quagmire mansion- gone 667 Dark avenue- still standing, but unsafe Cafe Salmonella- controlled by the enemy Veritable French Diner- currently going up in smoke