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@vastiitas
#VASTIITAS ; DISPOSSESSION, DISILLUSIONMENT, & LAUGHTER IN THE FACE OF VIOLENCE. a love letter to humanity: the good, the bad, the ugly. AS PENNED BY TEK.
>> Rules. History & Verses. IC Posts. Headcanons. > Open Starters. RP Prompts. Wishlist. Musings.
NOTE 8/9/2026: Visiting friends, chaotic work week -- Delayed to Lack of DM's. Currently curated a list of folk to get back to on tumblr im and discord, ty for continued patience.
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radio silence time mucho lo siento,
i WILL get back to people, i jus tneed to stop passing out immediately at like 6:40 pm. i will be visiting the city to see friends for the next couple of days and my online presence will be absolutely 0!!
"ah - cole," a young angela shuffles behind him, holding a boxed caked tied neatly with string, "it's your birthday, ja, and i've made you this schwarzwälder kirschtorte!" she says, carefully extending it to him. it's a very common celebration cake back home, so she hopes he likes it - she spent all night baking it. "in english this is black forest cake. so, happy birthday!" ( @mercymedic )
Angela Ziegler has a funny effect on him whenever she talks to him. His spine flattens out, a drooping crop plant discovering sunlight for the first time after weeks of grey weather and rain-drop marathons. If only to seem a little taller in light of her pretty blonde hair and bright-water blues and delicate features, he draws up to his full height, boots softly sidling on linoleum tile as his feet rearrange to turn his entire body, shoulder, hips, to her.
Cole grins as the box comes to sit in his hands, confusion briefly crimping its ends when the German comes slinging his way. He would've had no idea what that was were it not for her specifying, but her presence and delivery is plenty good enough for him to have had received it happily and without question.
It's one thing for it to have been made by her, for him, and it to be a cake on top of that is a pretty little cherry on top of a generous lot of frosting.
"Aw, hell, Angie," Cole beams, no finer than a frog's hair split in four ways, "Thank you." He lifts the box up to chest height, something a touch bashful and boyish tip-toeing into his expression, "Wouldn't hurt t'have some company — reckon th' gardens might be a nice place to enjoy this."
radio silence time mucho lo siento,
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Atacama Desert, Chile by Max Witjes
"Got you something." Emre was in Cole's room when he returned from whatever Blackwatch affairs kept him so late. Truth be told, they hadn't spent much time together lately, the crush of work stealing their attention from each other. But Emre wouldn't miss this, having already special ordered a handcrafted leather belt and a dozen Turkish delights. The package lay nearly wrapped on his bed when Cole gets back, with Emre lounging back on the pillows in a tank top. @godmarkd
The long grind of this most recent mission has stitched the days into one lengthy, perilous grind, and he staggers into his quarters with heavy boots and sluggish shoulders. Had the lights not already been on, he might've bee-lined straight for the bed and toppled onto the sheets without ever having known Emre were there. As it stands now, however, he sees the man and the nicely wrapped present as he shoulders past the door jamb.
Does he connect the dots? No — but Emre will always be a welcome sight and he grins some boyish, tired thing anyway.
"You look comfortable," The bed springs undulate and creak as he drops his weight onto the foot of the bed and sandwiches one of his boots between his palms before shucking it off with a jerk. The footwear clunks off to the floor and he reaches for the present, looks over his shoulder to regard the other as he asks, "What's the occasion?"
ending —> transition —> beginning —> ending —> transition —> beginning —> ending —> transition —> beginning —> ending —> transition —> beginning —>
Has she organized a surprise party with the whole base? Perhaps. Did she keep it a secret? Not really. But everyone's home and safe and chattering along, and that's nothing to scoff at.
Surprise had rounded out his eyes and busted a jump to his shoulders when the room flooded in all at once with lights and the sound of party poppers percolating a crowd's cheer of happy birthday. Last he's had a party like this, or at least one dedicated to him, it'd been from those bygone days of leather jackets and the gasoline hum of hoverbikes. With the years piling on in the line of black ops work, he'd half a mind to think this was an ambush — but he spots familiar faces, wide grins, and he knows that the most dangerous thing in this room is probably Reinhardt's crushing hugs or one too many companionable smacks along the back or shoulder.
He palms his face, shaking his head, a breathy chuckle popcorning a reverb through his shoulders. The procession is warm, a heartbeat hearth filling color into a home. ( And It's odd to think about too closely, after all this time; This is Home. All these folks here friends, maybe yet another family. But your heart won't settle, too flighty - too used to the sands changing beneath your feet, dunes collapsing away. But you'll let the beaten thing fill, at least, with this warmth. )
There's a birthday cake, some gifts. Folks break way into idle conversations, the younger folks corralling toward party games. It's good for morale for the perpetual train wreck of situations this fledgling Overwatch has been tumbling through.
He settles into a lazy lounge at a corner despite being Birthday boy, back against a wall with the chill and sweat of a beer seeping along the creaselines and calluses of his palm. His eyes hovers on everybody sharing this space, alive, laughing. Cole tips his head minutely, ear tucking for a shoulder nearest Lena. He smiles.
"Organized all this all on your lonesome, flight-risk?"
Siberian cows, 2019 - by Marina Fomina, Russian
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@vastiitas
Finding work was proving to be difficult. It wasn't that she couldn't work or that she didn't have skills - it was just that it was hard to do any sort of honest job when your wanted poster had been plastered up on the bounty board in every single town.
Her English was getting better and she was sure she could explain what had happened if someone just asked. The few bounty hunters or lawmen she had encountered hadn't been keen on listening to her, though.
The money she had stolen from her captor only lasted for a little while. She had purchased clothes, a bag, and a few other necessities. Food, mostly. The place she had ended up was nothing like the island of her childhood. No forests to forage, no bodies of water to fish in. Her usual methods of survival wouldn't work.
Which meant she had to adapt.
As much as she didn't want to steal, there weren't many other options. She just didn't take into account how bad she'd be at pickpocketing. It didn't help that the scars on her hands were still stiff, making her swipe at the man's coin purse clumsy. She'd managed to get it off of his belt but it slipped from her fingers and landed on the ground with a loud clink of coins.
It's dead in the middle of noon. The smell of freshly picked produce bakes in the oven hot air, the buzzing meander of flies texturing the lazy, indolent quiet of a Summer June. Most folks've found shelter from the heat in shade, idling off 'til the day cools again. Fellow stragglers rub shoulders with his and pepper the market when he feels his anorexic pocket pouch lift with a timid tug.
The sticky fingers weren't exactly deft, nor were they particularly sticky, either, as the pouch plummets in a windchime clatter on boot-beat floorboards. He manages to snatch the hand, turning his head idly, chin to shoulder, with a lift of his revolver's nose sliding free from the holster and sitting itself atop it directed at the woman. It's subtle, its eye glinting only just beneath the drape of a serape. Folks don't notice, more eye-balling the click and clatter and gleam of coin scattered on the floor.
Her face is familiar. Some print of it, he recalls, inked on paper on some board a few towns back.
Cole hums, noise ambling out a deep consideration from the base of his chest. He smiles some flat, amused thing, "Mighty kind of you to help me with my poorly-secured coin pouch." He tempers his drawl, familiar enough that folk don't exactly see a pick-pocket, but some startled woman, a man; but between them, the gun stares back at her beneath the serape: Pick up the coin, put it back in the pouch, hand it back to me.
happy bday ol' man, time for some peppering in the beard n hair,
@vastiitas asked:
03. pushes the other away with more force than necessary.
Emre stumbled, boots clacking against the cold tile of the hall. Shock, moreso than hurt, ghosted across his face, with anger nipping tight on its heels. The shock hung in the air for one, short, tight pause before Emre surged forward, forearm planting across Cole's chest as he slammed Cole into the nearby wall.
"Push me again, and I'll drop you." Hot breath ghosted over his forearm, face planted so the ridges of their noses reflected back upon each other, mirror like. "Don't take your mistakes out on me."
The wall blasts into the spread of his back, knocks the grunt right out from the ribcage like a batter striking a homerun. He feels the boney ridge hammed with muscle that's Emre's forearm seatbelt across his chest, oppressive, obnoxious. Cole snarls against it, the force of it erupting volcanic. Emre's warning is stern, dangerous the way of something controlled, but Cole brings thunder, the swell of storms, rolling across the forward jerk of defiance as he jabs a foot forward.
"Peanut gallery don't just get t'talk shit and walk scot-free, Sarioglu. Walk back those words, or you'll be eating them."
i owe everyone everything but I have been walking five miles to work and passed out at work a few days ago from heat exhaustion + went to hospital, so I have been babying myself and literally just laying here in bed with the ac watching tw.in peak.s.
Is this a safe place to e beg sorry sorry sorry
https://www.gofundme.com/f/help-kal-get-a-reliable-vehicle
“There’s no such thing as fighting dirty. There’s fighting like you want to live, and fighting like you want to die. If you’ve got anything to live for–anything at all–I suggest you try the first way. The people you love will thank you for it.”
— from Discount Armageddon (InCryptid #1), by Seanan McGuire
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The command came easily, an order she was happy to oblige. Trembling digits, blood tacky within the prints, clutched for the cigarette. Lena ignored the way the paper held the bloody prints, evidenced to her murderous crimes from earlier, some corroboration of the sins of the past hours. The silence dragged out as the smoke filled her sinuses, tamping down the adrenaline rush with a ten pound hammer. Hells, she was tired.
Before Lena could blink, the cigarette was gone, some greedy suck lost to the blur of a heartbeat, addiction fulfilled and left wanting for more. Another one appeared between her fingers, courtesy of Cole or of her own pack, she wasn't quite sure. But the world didn't seem to be crashing down around her anymore, and the weight of a dead man on her conscious had faded to a painful thrum compared to the stabbing, abrupt pain.
Cavernous, deep silence stretched, a hundred meters deep and fifty meters wide, voice lost to a rasping echo within the smooth sandstone. Twice she tried again, lips twisting open, but the sound faded each time as emotion capitalized, quicksand sucking her back in again. It was only the third attempted that finally bore language, a hoarse thing against the deadly silence of the alley.
"He pulled a knife. I tried to talk him down, but he wasn't listening, said I was in his space, wanted my money or something." The memory blurred into a disorienting smear of colors. Something sparkled, the dull promise of a blade cutting through the painting, memories clicking back together as if a cogwheel snapping back into place.
Lena withdrew a hand, dragging back the tacky leather of jacket, revealing a bloody slit in the comfortable t-shirt below it. Not life threatening, thankfully, with blood already beginning to coagulate and sealing it closed.
"He swung and I - I guess he got me." Lena pressed two fingers against the wound, grateful for the sluggish ooze that promises a clean cut. Something she could fix in her kitchen, hopefully.
"I tried to run, to just walk away. I didn't want to kill him, Cole, you have to believe me - he followed me, pulled the gun, and -" A blank page sprawled out from there, mind fuzzy over the action of him grabbing her shoulder, wheeling her against the wall, the gun -
Lena pressed the cigarette between her lips, the comforting smoke not quite enough to soak into the problem this time, drift it away, but she'll take the meager bandaid. Her breath leaves her in a smoky huff, shoulders slumping forward. The delicateness of the situation was abandoned, obscured, by the smoke that halo'd her head. Oh Lena Oxton, you fallen angel.
"You should seriously go. They won't ask questions if you're here, and I don't want you taking the heat for a crime you didn't commit."
Her lips part with the start and stop of an engine struggling through its twilight years, each aborted attempt lending itself to a dull, throbbing ache center mass in his chest. Cole tracks the blood on her fingerpads as it transfers lipsick stains onto the cigarette paper. Worry notches his brows, spearheads an arrow and shapes the grimacing twist of his lips as she reveals the travel wake of a knife splitting her clothes, her skin. An exhale presses out the creases of his lungs. Oh, Birdy.
you have to believe me. There's something about her entreating him like this that strikes a chord, has him replying steadfast and without hesitation: "I know." He murmurs, steady, resolute in his repetition like speaking an oath to some undeniable truth of the world. "I know, Lena."
As she urges him to go, his lips purse. His words start slow, drawn out in deliberating, "No offense." His head dips to the speck and splatter scattered across her, a facsimile of freckle spackling, "But between th'two of us, I'm not the one covered in blood. Might be more incriminating for me to try and skitter off." There's already too many eyes directed to the mouth of the alley, phones peeled free from jean pockets and hoisted up looking to capture evidence of their witness, to dial 9-1-1, to entertain the glide of fingers drafting messages to friends, family, and social media. A siren screams in the far distance.
"I ain't the type t'run just 'cos there's some cops on the way." He tries to catch her eye, gingerly places a hand on her shoulder, "You look like you need a friend, so let me stay with you." His head cants once more towards the wound, "You're gonna need some medical attention, and leavin' you waitin' around here like this don't sit right with me."
THE BIKERIDERS — (2023) dir. Jeff Nichols
