#prosected

coffee cake muffins!!!

adorable (:>  

prosected

yyeah mood

[text] no, i’m on the streetcar

oddly specific headcanon asks

21 - When did your muse learn about sex?

He’s known about it as long as he’s known humans.  It’s their basic biology and it’s useful and it’s fascinating in theory, but in practice has remained as unexciting as it first appeared.  Understanding the … nuances that surrounded it, that took longer.  The unnecessary embellishes and preferences and fetishes.  Those came, unfortunately, with experience.

30 - Who was your muse’s first kiss?

Goodness, he’s not one to kiss and tell!  Especially since he does it so frequently, it’d be awfully silly to make a fuss about it.  Alan loves kissing, pecking cheeks and hands and foreheads and noses.  He loves displaying and receiving affection, and his tendencies are entirely chaste.  It’s too frequent and regular to really keep track of – he’s had so many friends!

He doesn’t have the same fondness for the romantic or sexual approach, but he’s done plenty of that, too – his preferred strategy for survival is ever to embody the perfect confidante or the perfect victim.  It happens.  Hardly interesting, hardly worth keeping track of.

It might not count, since neither of their proper forms were exactly designed to give or receive that sort of affection, but there was Haaiah.  Alan was, for a very long time, very close with the angel of ambition.  Bestial shapes might nuzzle or nip, but they were both capable of stretching themselves into something a bit more upright.  Simple exploration, they were curious and close.  Neither cared for it. 

(Nuzzling was much better.)

41 - What is your muse’s favorite holiday?

Rowan’s stressed cry is answered with nothing but a hiss as he hurriedly drags them in further, into the back streets, one long hand grasped tight around a frail wrist..  Aggression isn’t tamed, not in their company, and should the man have been born with fur instead of hair, it would be raised in the manner of a threatened feline.

Where anxiety usually lies in his core, there’s an accompanied rage, and in his company, Rowan is a spectator..

They’re brought to a corner of chipped away plaster and rotted wood- the edge of an abandoned building which Vincent has clearly made into one of his many homes, adorned with no small number of plants and patches of vegetation, with a collection of bones, metal pipes, and piles of what would at first seem to be various trinkets and bits of trash. 

With little empathy he pushes the ghoul back against a wall and pushes them down- a worn, greyed blanket shoved into their arms with a hushed order of “Be small. Be a-as small as you can.”

A small scrape signifies a pipe being lifted from the ground as he crouches next to them, keeping flat as he can against the wood as well.

Both hands tighten around the base of it as he hears movement, and his teeth grit and bare in an expression that only scratches how he feels.

“I-I’ll break their f-ffucking knees if-if they come.” 

 DOGS.

 ANIMALS. 

He doesn’t know why the police are after Rowan, and he doesn’t care. He’ll smash their limbs to splinter and marrow if they even LOOK at either of them, he’ll have their wrists in a hundred pieces and the tendons peeled back so they can never hold a gun again ever. ever. ever.

Ever.

 Rowan’s weak, they’re sick, they’re wrong, but he won’t see them shot down like the others, not while he’s here. NOT WHILE HE’S HERE.

Cat’s Paw:  What is your muse’s reaction to gore?

Well the first one is that he freezes up. It freaks him out, and it brings to mind past experiences that he’d really rather not think on.

He might laugh nervously, or get a bit twitchy. He often feels responsible for it.

Garrote: Your muse must kill someone. How do they do it?

Preferably strangulation, either with his hands, or, fittingly, with a garrote. It feels less violent, and it’s relatively quiet and if done right, doesn’t entail an excessive struggle.

He thinks it would be a nice way to go, though it’s not the way he’d like to go.