#kataramenespsyxes

for any muse of mine

Send “Oops” for your muse to catch mine in just a towel. @kataramenespsyxes

It had been another long shift of grime, fluids and exhaustion, and after a shower that likely skyrocketed his water bill to mammoṭh proportions, Carter wearily dried off his hair, his limbs, and then wrapped a towel around his waist while practically stumbling back into his bedroom. He planned on falling into bed face-first; waiting to dry off wasn’t quite so important in that moment, but just as he approached his bed like a ship to a siren call, he gave a sharp jerk once an impatient rap came at his bedroom window.

The sight of a blonde woman hanging from the sill — floating? — made him cry out and go staggering back toward the wall. His shoulder clipped the doorjamb, and then he caught hold of his dresser, stubbing his toe for good measure before hopping up and down with an animated string of curses.

Growling under his breath, he finally realized it must be one of his impromptu patients — because of course it was — and dreading the worst, Carter ensured that his towel was double-knotted before he moved over to the window and pushed it open.

“Yes?” he asked, giving the woman a skeptical once-over. She was wide-eyed and beautiful, but he knew this wasn’t some Ƥenthouse fantasy come to life. “I assume you’re here for…a check-up?”

It still struck him as odd. He didn’t know who, exactly, had tipped off every Tom, Dick and Jane in the area that he was willing to not only treat ṣuperheroes, but look the other way and ignore their identities, but more and more, he found himself with the strange and unique knocking on his door (or window) at ungodly hours.

Despite the ever-present weight of exhaustion, Carter sighed and stepped back to allow her entry. “Are you bleeding?” he asked. “What happened?”

@kataramenespsyxes

The bar isn’t anything special. Low lights, sticky floors, the kind of place where no one asks questions as long as you pay in cash and don’t bleed on the counter. Neon beer signs buzz overhead, casting everything in a dull red glow that makes it hard to tell what’s real and what’s just shadow. Dean’s posted up at the bar like he belongs there with his leather jacket tossed over the back of his stool and sleeves pushed up just enough to show the edge of old scars. There’s a glass of whiskey in front of him—second, maybe third—and he hasn’t touched it in a minute. Just lets it sit there while his fingers tap idly against the rim. He looks relaxed, but he’s not.

His eyes flick up every so often, scanning the room without making it obvious. Habit. Always habit. Hunters don’t really turn it off—they just get better at pretending. A couple laughs too loud in the corner. Someone drops a glass. A song shifts on the jukebox. Normal. Too normal. Dean exhales through his nose, finally grabbing the whiskey and taking a slow sip, letting it burn on the way down. His shoulders loosen a fraction, like he’s trying to convince himself this is just a night off. It isn’t. It never is.

He sets the glass down with a soft clink, gaze drifting—not searching, not yet—just watching. Waiting for that itch in the back of his head to settle. The one that says something’s off, even when everything looks fine. “Yeah,” he mutters under his breath, almost to himself, thumb dragging along the edge of the glass. “Real quiet. That’s not suspicious at all.” A faint smirk tugs at his mouth, but it doesn’t stick.

Nate was in his truck sleeping, he had gotten too drunk to drive home and instead of causing an accident, he pulled over to the side of the road and had fallen asleep. He hadn’t thought to lock his doors or even to roll his windows up when the woman passed by his truck.

Waking up with a start, the sound of the voice was unfamiliar and it jarred him awake, sobering him up even more. Pushing himself against the driver's side door, to get as much distance from the girl as possible, not entirely awake. “Wow your fucking hot.” The words slipped out before he could think about it, “Sorry.”

“Wait, did you say something? It’s what woke me up, what did you say?”

Cipher merely shrugged as he exited the bathroom with just a towel around his waist, hair slicked back and still damp.

“Would you rather I smell bad? I don’t want that, and I know you don’t want that. Unless you’re complaining about having a half naked man in your house? And here I thought that was every woman’s dream.”

It was a quiet night in National City. The Professor stood on a building roof, looking out over the city. It was a beautiful sight, with the stars above shining and twinkling down on the city below. He smiled softly to himself. He continued to stare ahead at the sky, when he saw something ahead of him. Someone flying.

He stared at her for a while before he watched her get shot. Or at least, what he thought was getting shot. He raced back to his ship - the TARDIS - and ran over to the console. He flicked a few switches and levers, arriving to the spot where the person had been shot and materialised around the being, before he landed the ship on the streets below a few metres away.

@kataramenespsyxes (Patrick) + Smile Like You Mean It

"Save some face, you know you've only got one--"