#ourcharade

  the  addams  family  sentence  prompts  —  i.

" yes, and can you not sound so excited about it? " a huff, torso leaning forward as elbows rest on the study's desk. effie considers not throwing a tantrum about the absolute disaster that fine evening turned out to be, but then again, never has that battle ever been won. voice cracks as she begins, " i mean, of course, i see mr. boddy's vision, this whole night is about murder! but truly, you tell me, did the cook have to die on top of me? out of all people? " one fingertip pats lightly at the corner of her own eye, weary of smearing her eyeliner. " how am i supposed to clean blood out of satin ? "

far be it for amora to deny a petulant beast it's moment for theatrics. in truth, she adores the extravagance and melodrama that strife and suffering often bring but the enchantress marks it rather rude when thori's dramatics turn from precious to inconvenient.

" fine - if you refuse to help. "

amora suffers little in the form of annoyance and dismisses the hound with a disregarding wave, a slight of magic that envelopes the animal in green mist and sends it to realms unknown - or perhaps one realm, the one that serves as both rose and thorn for the goddess that had once believed it to be untenable.

" my gods ... " a sigh caressed by a curse. amora does not care what chaos may reign, she so truly does not, but now is not the time to draw scrutiny.

the enchantress embarks reluctantly for midgard to follow a trail of magic and hellish sulfur - perhaps she only need listen to the screams ... and then the gunfire that rather impressively finds a target in the space between thori's eyes and banishes it back to hel for a time. turning a hot gaze towards the attacker, the goddess seethes and slices a sharp inhale between gritted teeth.

" it was a hellhound, obviously - one that was particularly difficult to summon considering present conditions and one that you banished back from whence it came with your - "

amora stalls, looks down at the weapon held in the man's hand, and then back up at him with a wicked smirk.

ourcharade asked: "suppose it falls into the wrong hands." –  superman TO CATCH A THIEF PROMPTS

" son of a bitch- " she hisses & it's the strongest feeling of deja vu she's ever had – a cut along the palm of her hand, him coming to the rescue with his flask. the sting isn't as bad this time, but even if it was, she'd welcome the distraction. neverland is all kinds of disturbing as is, but dark hollow is either something pan took straight out of a nightmare or a place perfectly designed to haunt one. either way, she feels the strong need to snatch the flask out of hook's hand & drink away the image of his shadow almost getting ripped away from him. & neal's. but they have a way home now – pan's shadow is trapped. in a goddamn coconut, but trapped, nonetheless. now, all they need is henry.

" maybe you should take it easy. " she mumbles, the concerned undertone not as subtle as she might've wanted it to be. eyes shift back to her hand now, rotating it to speed the wrapping process along – all she did was accidentally graze her palm against her sword while they were getting cornered by the shadows. not really the coolest of battle wounds. she'd rather forget about it altogether. " that whole shadow snatching thing... it didn't look like it tickled. "

it is not friendship that sticks the two together. it is not exactly fate, either. it is a combination of sam lane, his sadistic daughter, and the one kryptonian among them that believes in peace. tal would rather endure another lifetime of zeta-rho's training.

well. he would have, if zod weren't so clearly perplexed by his presence. instead of sharing in his suffering, tal delights in it ⸺ so much so that this confinement has become less of a prison sentence, and more his reason for living. after all, he's spent half his life in captivity. books get boring. destroying zod's peace? more entertaining than he could ever have dreamed. he stalks the general around their confines, leaving him not a moment to himself. he chatters. rambles. makes sure that every thought inside his head makes it out of his mouth.

why? he's not really sure. it's just that he's had something to do all his life, and now all he has is this.

the only peace zod has is after sundown ; tal retreats without warning, barring himself in his room. he doesn't emerge until the sun comes up. the army has figured out how to bind their powers, but haven't bothered to twist his dna back into shape. zod had the luxury of arriving on this planet fully formed, prepared to take on its sun's radiation ; kal arrived younger than he, allowing him time to adapt. tal has had neither of these luxuries. and so every night his body twists and it breaks until he comes something unrecognizable ⸺ something more alien than he ought to be. every bone in his body snaps until he is less bipedal creature and more thing that oozes.

⸺ garden of earthly bodies.

there's something effortless about the high heels and the leopard print that carrie dons, even if lois knows just how much effort goes into it. she plucks a cigarette from carrie's pack, settling in the window frame as she lights it. lois maybe, maybe will throw on a pair of high-heeled boots for a date; she much prefers a flat that she can move in. and it's not that she judges carrie for it, not that she'd dream of it ⸺ she wishes she could feel as comfortable and chic and feminine in a tulle skirt as carrie does, but every time she tries to borrow something from her friend, she feels utterly ridiculous. it's just the same as it was growing up with lucy. she's let carrie dress her up, curl her hair, do her makeup, just as she's always let her sister do ⸺ but she never recognizes herself in the mirror, always forgets she's wearing foundation until her hands come away stained with it.

lois doesn't think about this, not often, not unless she's watching carrie dance around her room getting ready for a date. she wonders why none of this has ever clicked for her. what the fuck is girlhood, anyways? it's more leaning out a window with a cigarette hanging out your mouth bitching about your friend's new boyfriend than it is matching your purse to your shoes, that she knows. but there's still this tiny part of her that feels like she's missing out, sometimes. a part of her that longs to be a part of things.