#markhit

"I'm not trying to." That's the crux of the problem. Lance tries to stay in touch with his Chort side, only to be pushed out of supernatural spaces for being a non-violent remnant. He's not a demon in the modern sense, so what business does he have spending time with them? He's a creature of darkness, so no angel wants him around. He's not a shapeshifter. He's not a cryptid. He's also not a human, as hard as he tries to be one.

So where the fuck does that leave him?

He shakes his head and finishes off his Heineken.

"People want me to be something I'm not. Guess they don't take kindly to me setting boundaries. It's hard, not being understood." American born, Slavic soul- not a good combination for mental stability and social success.

Lance's chin is painted with gore. Blood is jammed up beneath his nails. His dark eyes are bloodshot and his teeth are just a bit too sharp still. His face drops into his hands- raw from how hard he's scrubbed at them in an attempt to begin to clean up.

The body's dismembered. It's burning in a brush pile nobody will check on. He was a twenty-something. He did nothing wrong except be born to a bloodline, the same as Chernov. When he agreed to this, he thought doing some good might make the burden lighter. He realizes now that was fucking stupid. He's no fighter. He's no do-gooder. Now he's just a broken wreck covered in viscera and feeling like he needs to puke for the second time in twenty minutes.

His tail, the last remaining part of his fragmented, partial shift, flicks sadly at his side. The tuft of fur at its end isn't grey with age, instead sticky and matted like the rest of him.

"I don't know," he chokes, voice hoarse. "I don't fucking know."

Christmas Memes

Christmas Starters

"It depends on which part of the song you're at," Leslie says as she examines one of the spruce branches she's working on to make into a wreath, "And the version."

       Though he's a stranger to the normalcy of the world before all of this hell was unleashed upon them, the one thing he knows well from the Before Times is love. Therefore, there isn't a moment of hesitation as he saps up the attention, despite not knowing Pat all that well. He's just like a little puppy!

"uhh... your dog is very cute"

Pat has to parse what was said at first, not expecting an accent like that, but she found it to be unique and nice. A smile lights up her face when she finally understands. "Oh, thanks! Her name is Honey, she's real nice." Almost as if she could understand, Honey looks up at Cosette, looking as if she was smiling. "You can pet her if you'd like, she wouldn't hurt a fly." A beat, and then: "I like your accent. I take it you're not from here."

Oh God, did she really just say that? Oh no, that must have sounded so stupid... What was she thinking? At least it got her attention, but this definitely wasn't the smooth first impression Cosette had been aiming for.

She stares at Pat with wide eyes, waiting for the ground to open and swallow her up.

All pent-up tension leaves her when she sees Pat smile, and she's quick to return the gesture, her relief so tremendous she almost passes over how hot she finds her voice.

"Really??" she asks excitedly but doesn't wait for an answer before kneeling right down to offer the dog, who already owns her heart and soul, her hand, too. "Honey, how sweet. Bonjour, Honey. Ah, tu es trop mignon!"