#dddisgusting

sister stalker alone home

find secret Heart bury secret

touch feel taste eat Heart almost

take back

friends fixing thread stitch soul glue remember draw sing write

Adrift on a soft bed of ketamine and pine needles, Han was aware of the sun's rising glare, but did not care. He was aware of voices in the near distance, a dog being dragged away growling, but did not care. Approaching footsteps? Did not care. Nothing could touch him, wrapped as he was in a whiskey blanket of TV static.

Warm breath on his face (animal and a little bit sour in that dry-mouthed hangover way) suppressed some of the noise, thinned it out enough to feel his environment with more clarity through the edges of it. The smell and the ragged sound accompanying it were both blotted out for a minute, though, by a clumsy caress along his cheek and a finger probing at his lips.

[ The worst part is that Jean sees it all. The innate need to help, the fear that he won’t be able to, the switch into autopilot. Vincent’s just trying to make sure he doesn’t die here. He’s helping. If you hurt him, or kill him, or scare him away - or worse, antagonise him into finishing the job himself - you will die here. ]

[ Rationality tries so hard to win out. It doesn’t. Fear is too persuasive. ]

[ Jean spits some blood instead, and digs his fingertips a little deeper into Vincent’s throat. That hand stays still as stone, but the one holding his wrist still trembles violently along with the rest of his arm. There is a kindness, though, and it sticks around the next time he speaks. ]

« You are here to pick my bones. Or finish what they started. Vulture. »

[ Друг, he thinks, friend, please go. I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want you to hurt me. He’s watching his own movements from somewhere behind his body, no longer in control. He watches as his titanium palm, previously kept loose, presses its heel into Vincent’s trachea. This one’s never done him harm. This one never intended to do him harm. Jean barely knows him, Jean’s so slow to trust, and yet he feels a kinship. ]

[ Down the drain now, with the rest. ]

« Turn and leave. I can forget you ever made this mistake. Don’t make me hurt you. »

drawing your characters as a funky roo day!

another subspecies I havent explored much - bronze necks! which is funny because theyre the most common and even what I imagine as the default day. patterning varies the most of all, but usually imitates dappled lighting.

theyre almost purely arboreal, but target larger forest floor critters. big on using all that momentum to their advantage. because hey, when your bones heal, you can stand a few hard landings. not so much whatever you land on.

vince would be the nicest bronze youd ever meet (which is saying something, because theyre not very nice at all), more human-shy than anything, though occasionally spends time among humanity. prefers nesting in old growth, flowering trees and usually seen with petals or pollen mixed up in his fur. as nervous as he fronts, it’s at least partially an act. it gets others close enough to engage in some scrappy fights.

@d-d-disgusting:

“Is it..”

There’s no emotion in Vincent’s voice, quiet and subdued. He’s not sure how Marion could possibly be worried about him, if it’s worry for him at all. It shouldn’t be. They both know it shouldn’t be. He keeps his pace, but turns to move closer, staring at him-and then around to see if there’s anyone else.

“Then. What are you doing..?”

“I can handle myself, dear.” 

That, and coupled with a lack of self preservation that he does not make known, Marion knew the place inside and out. The things that go bump in the night were not simply fables. Marion cocks his head, observing the taller individual with a quizzical look on his face. He feels bad for startling him, but it was better that he knew lest something happen.