#vuulpecula

PT 1

I'm not scared of god, I'm scared he was gone all along. Who will take the fall? Who of us is stronger? You'll just want it more-- If you could, you'd have fought it. (x)

Friday 4:46pm —Cholla Springs — Ridgewood Farm —

Marshal Johnson and the deputies, with Marston's help had saved the small ranch from a gang of bandits. Most the men had been killed, the women getting beaten and threatened, but a boy had managed to escape and warn the Marshal in time so the girls got a chance to survive— two of the poor victims already had their throat slit for fighting back, the corpse of the last husband who fell was still warm, the bandits were about to start having fun, in their own twisted way, when gunshots and horses could be heard.

Before the large house, a familiar face, rope around her neck, up hanged to a wooden pole to die. He knew her, the blonde woman, she was so young back when she was part of the gang. Marston shot the rope to set her free, the fall wouldn't be enough to hurt her, probably she had resisted and they tried to hang her as an exemple to the others.

INBOX PROMPTS ╱ 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑎𝑐𝑐𝑒𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔.

My problem is that I am interested in so many things at all times. I am usually most drawn to aus/verses where the limitations are few and far between. I like exploring putting my muse(s) in situations that they would not have experienced in canon.

Admittedly, I will write with just about anyone. However, there are some defining qualities that make me lean in and show favoritism a lot. I like writing more in-depth threads than one-offs so I am always wanting to write with people who want to do that as well. It doesn’t always require plotting, but most of the time it does. I like feeling like I have an understanding of their character as an extension of mine and vice versa. I think enthusiasm and effort is very much needed for me, otherwise it can be a bit stale and a waste of my limited time. When I feel like I am wanted around, that they're interested in whatever we're exploring and that pushing my muse at them isn’t a burden, I thrive best. :) I have pretty severe rejection sensitivity lmao, so to combat that, when I feel interest waning or not there, I just move on so I do not sit in that feeling. Also, minimal drama is a requirement, lmao, but I haven’t experienced anything particularly traumatic in a very long time.

@vuulpecula asked:

🥘 : my muse to cook dinner for your muse [for Richie, Carmy, or Mikey! ]

Carmy hadn’t been planning to come in. It was his day off, technically, though that word never really meant anything to him. The hours had dragged like chains anyway, mind on fire, body wound tight, every thought circling back to failures, old wounds, and the suffocating weight of family he couldn’t outrun.

He’d paced his apartment, smoked too many cigarettes he didn’t even enjoy, tried to cook, but ended up throwing the pan in the sink when the oil snapped too abrasively.

By the time he found himself pushing open the door to The Bear, he wasn’t even sure what he was looking for. Silence, maybe? Control? Something that didn’t claw at him from the inside out, that much he knew.

But then?

The smell hit him.

Warm, familiar. Not the sharp tang of onions caramelizing or the chaos of a ticket rail screaming orders. Something softer. Something that pulled at the deepest recesses of his memory- the part of him that still longed for comfort instead of excellence. His brows furrowed before he even knew why, gaze catching on the counter, and then on her.

Fox.

And she’d made him dinner.

For a moment, he just stood there, frozen in the doorway like his body had betrayed him, his hand pressed flat against the frame. His forehead dropped against the wood, eyes slipping shut as his mouth pulled into a crooked smile he couldn’t stop.

It felt foreign, too easy, and for that very reason, it hit harder. Because nobody did this. Nobody thought about him outside of what he could do, what he could produce, what he could fix. Not his family, not his coworkers, not anyone.

But she had.

His chest tightened, a mess of gratitude and ache tangled up so tight he almost couldn’t breathe. He dragged his eyes open, voice rough as gravel.

“Y...you, uh… You did all this? For me?”

The words cracked out awkward, shaky, boyish in a way that made him wince. He didn’t do this. Didn’t know how to. Vulnerability was like stepping into a kitchen fire without a pan in hand. But when her eyes lifted to him, soft and unguarded, he swore something split wide open in his chest.

He pushed himself off the doorframe and crossed the room slowly, every step feeling heavier than the last, like he was wading through water. His hand rose before he could second-guess it, hovering, then settling against her cheek.

His fingers were rough, calloused, stained with years of culinary work in kitchens that took more than they ever gave, but the way she leaned into his touch made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he had something left to give.

He dipped down, pressing his lips to hers. Tentative. Careful.

His eyes fluttered shut, and for once it wasn’t about escape or drowning out the noise; it was about grounding. About choosing to feel.

When he pulled back, he didn’t move far. He let his forehead rest against hers, his breath shaky as a laugh slipped out through his nose- quiet, fragile, but real. His smile grew as he shook his head, overwhelmed at the simplicity and enormity of it all.

“Thank you,” he whispered, the word carrying a weight he rarely gave it. He repeated it, firmer this time, his voice breaking on the emphasis. “Thank you.”

And in that moment, with her so close, with the taste of something better still lingering on his lips... he let himself believe that someone could see him.

The crystal chandeliers of the summit’s gala cast a golden glow over the mingling elites. Politicians, scientists, and the obscenely wealthy, all here to discuss the planet’s accelerating collapse. Bruce Wayne stood near a floor-to-ceiling window, a glass of untouched whiskey in hand, watching snowflakes dissolve against the glass.

Ra’s is here. The League’s intel had been clear, though the Demon’s Head had yet to show himself. Worse, whispers of a "Lazarus Vector" - a pathogen capable of rewriting neural pathways - had reached Clark’s ears. Bruce’s fingers tightened around his glass. Ecological salvation or mass enslavement? Ra’s never deals in half-measures.

A server passed by with a tray of canapés, and Bruce seized the distraction to slip toward the exhibit hall, where a display on Arctic ice melt hid a Justice League comms relay. But as he turned, he nearly collided with a woman in the other direction.

@vuulpecula

"Ah. I suppose y' were that sort what was raised on tales o' the sea, were ye? No doubt told o' darin' adventures 'n' treasures beyond yer wildest dreams?" Barbossa begins, a note of amused condescension threaded into his words.

"But the sea—the truth of it—isn't like what land-folk speak of in those stories, Missy. She's fickle, 'n' 'er mood changes with the turnin' o' the tide."