#huntindog

@huntindog asked: ☾ - wrestle/pin my muse to the ground // manhandling symbol starters

MICHAEL ALREADY ANTICIPATED a fight breaking out. It's a recipe for disaster, really: a trigger-happy cop living off of the chase and a desolation avatar hellbent on taking down the past one way or another. Michael even laughs when it does— not the calculated, malicious kind, but a wild noise... as if he's enjoying it when Daisy Tonner abandons the gun she pulled on him to grab him by the shirt and start a physical scuffle. They're a decent match ( he could cite his experience in fights for years, but it mostly has to do with the increased ability given to him through the entity ), wrestling back and forth as each side tries to gain the upper hand.

The heat thrums underneath his skin, building up from his chest to his fingertips ( fueled by every hit she lands on him, even, he learned awhile ago that any kind of destruction applies, especially that of the self ). He grabs her forearm in an attempt to let a burst of heat sear her skin. It seems to work for a moment, but only ends up inciting her rage further ( good! he didn't want it to be over that quickly, anyway ). She comes at him with almost inhuman force, like a wolf attacking its prey, and Michael's back hits the ground with a resounding thud.

@huntindog asked: "This is an active crime scene." // lisa frankenstein starters

"SURE IS." Michael shrugs with the flick of his lighter, the flame that bursts to life small, but with intensity impossible from just regular fuel— it doesn't come from the lighter, after all, the heat emanates from Michael's body, through the air, between the smoke and dust that crackles between them. He tips the edge towards a cigarette, lighting the end and taking a long drag from it: stalling. He knows what she's going to accuse him of, knows just how trigger-happy she'd be, eager to pull out the gun at her holster and point it at him despite the fact that he just did so many others a damn favor, really.

No signs of his father's presence, but the empire he built is large enough to exist without his active hand by now: had the restaurant been left standing... countless victims would be taken by the Stranger. Michael's actions are... in part, out of a remaining sympathy for them ( he isn't all lost, he's like this now because he WAS one of his father's victims after all... ), but the excessive damage, the rage, the REVELING in watching beams and structures collapse to the flames... it brings a glint to his eyes that is entirely inhuman.

@huntindog asked: ❛ what, you're still alive? ❜ gerryy // spirited away sentence starters

"NOPE." The pause hangs in the air, coupled with a deliberate stare to make the greeting all the more confusing. Residing in the Archives for years now, with nothing but a painful existence tied to the pages of a haunted book and the ability to eavesdrop where he pleases... well, it just gets plain boring. Most Institute employees steer clear, so naturally, the archival staff and... well, their friends ( he picked up on the two frequently visiting cops... Gertrude would've hated that, he isn't all that keen on it either, but no one asks the book ) are the main subjects of whatever he chooses to do with his ghostly appearances.

In simple terms, he's fucking with her.

Gerard Keay looks just as he did in death: just shy of thirty, long dyed black hair with outgrown reddish blond roots, smudged eyeliner ( they were traveling, he hadn't brought or cared much ), faint burn scars and eye tattoos... a sunken paleness in his face, drained enough to expose veins... the kind of look that only a sickly person on their deathbed would have, and he's stuck with it. His appearance must match the descriptions in whatever statements he has had the misfortune of appearing in, but he didn't expect this one to recognize him.

@huntindog asked: ❛ trembling, aren't you? still, i'm impressed you made it this far. ❜ hi jonny // spirited away sentence starters

"YES, WELL, it's not as if there was any other choice—" Jonathan retorts back with a clipped glare, though the projected offense does hardly anything to hide the fact that yes, he is trembling. Shaking quite noticeably, in fact, expression flat yet a steady tremor persistent in his scarred hands. He has grown all too familiar with the feeling: helplessness. It wasn't as if he ever had astounding physical capabilities but this... well, it's been worse, for lack of a better word, and he despises the way that weakness makes him feel ( when was the last time he read a statement, again...? ).

' you only feel it when it's lost. ' her job and more importantly, her friends, had seemed so simple and easy that she hadn't been prepared for when it had all become ripped away so fast. it was hard to remember a life before she was constantly wrestling with things that didn't make sense and enjoyed trying to kill her.