boxofdactyls | the return of the revenge of just rp it.

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the return of the revenge of just rp it.

how to play.

1. Drop a comment with one or more of your muses. It can be empty if you want me to make a scenario, or you can toss one at me. Prompts are boss. (a word, song, lyric, picture, phrase, a meme prompt, anything). Specify if there's something you do or don't want, otherwise I could throw anything at you: AUs, shippiness, awfulness. You've been warned, son.
1b. If you want to continue a verse we started in another thread somewhere, specify it in the comment or subject line. I'd be down for revisiting any of those.

2. In the subject line, you can specify any of my muses you might want to play with (including OCs, who have their own list), or you can ask me to pick someone. No muses are off-limits except for those that have no icon uploaded on the list. Otherwise, I'll pick or randomize someone.
2b. Muses I would really love to play right now, in case you are having a hard time choosing: Hawke, Hannibal Lecter, Selina Kyle, Fox Mulder, Cigarette Smoking Man, Serafina, Pepper Potts, Lois Lane, Jacen Solo.

3. just rp with me. if something jives really well, maybe we can continue it in another one of these later, sort of like a super casual verse. if it doesn't, it doesn't.

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Edited (i'm neurotic about formatting) 2015-06-05 02:09 (UTC)

[Also, I won't be mad if you'd prefer to scrap these and use your own prompts ok.]

[ his jukebox selection announces him before she even sees him. strains of ac/dc float into the back room, breaking the late night peace that usually comes with after hours. the roadhouse is deserted, the lights still mostly out, but there's the clink of bottles as he helps himself to something strong.

it's one of those nights and he needs it. sam's notable absence might have something to do with that. either way, he came unannounced, after months of absence. he takes a big swig straight from the bottle, then presses it to the bruise on his forehead with a groan, not noticing her when she comes out. ]

[ my hawke and fenris have the most strained relationship in her party, if only because of her outspoken pro-mage rights feelings, but they're still more friendly than rivaled ~~and sometimes flirt because she flirts with everything that moves tbh~~. IS THAT COOL OR I CAN DO SOMETHING ELSE omg i'm not used to rping bioware protags life is hard ]

[ it's the sound that would draw skye to coulson's office at some late hour, the scratchy sound of an old record playing a sonata. he's sitting up, the room mostly dark aside from one single desk lamp, an old film canister in one hand, which he rolls idly between his thumb and forefinger, lost in thought. ]

[ it's the day after edward invited claire to go on a trip with him out of nowhere that jessica stanley looks over her shoulder as they purchase their lunch and whispers: "Edward Cullen is staring at you again. I wonder why he's sitting alone today."

following her gaze, she'd see that he is, and that he's smiling crookedly from an empty table across the cafeteria from where he usually sits. as she looks at him, he raises one hand and motions with his index finger at her to come join him.

and then he winks. ]

[ when your entire life up-ends, finding your footing is easier said than done. especially when in spite of what most people would consider a streak of independent fire, you've never really made any decisions that were solely about what you wanted for yourself, in the many long years you can remember.

maybe that's why she accepted the strange invitation that found its way to her while she was leaving los angeles, to meet with a man who had a 'business proposition' for her.

considering that she wasn't sure what her business even was anymore, it was hard to say no without hearing what he had to say.

she waits impatiently in the lobby of the fancy building until she's called in, chin held high as she pushes through the door and into the office, looking around to light her dark gaze on the mysterious man who'd contacted her. ] You must be Mr. Luthor.

I admit, I am not certain what this is about.

[ pietro's memories feel like fragments at this point, his last moments lost in a haze. it's hard to say how he got here, really, or where here might be.

what he does know is he's broken.

his speed seemingly gone. his sister... who knows where. did she make it off that flying death trap? did they accomplish what they set out to do?

the empty roads he wanders down offer no answers. so it feels like a blessed event when he finally takes note of an old-school phone booth off the side of the road. the door creaks upon opening, graffiti etched into the wood of the phone's casing.

he doesn't hear anyone approach, and yet there's suddenly a sharp rap on the glass by his head, a short man with a smug little smile staring through the pane at him.

he cheekily holds up a quarter pinched between two fingers, and pietro would be able to hear him ask, muffled by the booth: ] No one carries change these days.

[The rapping on the glass succeeds in snapping him out of at least some of the haze that makes up his thoughts following the long, slow trek across ... wherever this was. There were still many things that made no sense to him, or that he couldn't piece together for whatever reason. How he came to be here, for instance. If nothing else, the abrupt appearance of another individual succeeds in silencing his thoughts and placing his focus squarely back in the here and now.

Blue eyes flicker from the unfamiliar man's face to the silver coin that he carries, and Pietro absently begins to search for a similar item within his own pockets to no avail. He was not carrying anything on him, it seems. Lacking the means to make a phone call, he instead places the telephone receiver gently back onto its cradle. His movements appear to be deliberately slow, as though made by someone who is not entirely aware of what they are doing--perhaps due to the fragmentation of his memories and jumbled thoughts.

He pulls it together enough to open the door to the phone booth again, though he is obviously unsure what to make of this man. It didn't help that he no longer seemed to have access to his abilities for whatever reason, leaving him much more vulnerable than he would care to feel at the moment.]

So it would seem.

[THAT'S COOL WITH ME even when Fenris and Hawke are rivaled he's still ridiculously loyal and just finds a different way to show his affection HAWKE IS HIS FAV. Bring it.]

Edited 2015-06-06 03:30 (UTC)

Ugh. [ The usually genuine disgruntlement this time seems to lack the passion that a legitimate, exasperated huff might have. She rolls her eyes as she turns her head to look from him to Jessica, but the bite's just not there. Lowering her voice, she seeks sour solidarity in her comments. ] Has he always been so full of himself?

[ Of course, why wouldn't he be? Everyone around here treats him like a god. It'd be so much worse, she can't help thinking as her eyes track back to him, If they knew what he could really do. There's some modesty in that, and she has to acknowledge it. At least he's not so egotistical to brag about his abilities beyond what's safe. He seemed even more petrified of discovery than she was.

She pushes herself to her feet before she even intends to, as if his pull were something supernaturally magnetizing, and she only realizes that her body has decided to head over once she's already standing, hands on her lunch tray. Committed now, she shakes her head at Jessica. ] I'll explain later.

[ Or not. In all likelihood, Jessica would get distracted talking about herself again later, and forget this had ever happened. That would probably be the better solution for Claire Bennet. Edward hasn't been doing a great job of keeping Claire Butler below the radar. Trudging over, Claire slides her tray onto the table, leveling her gaze on his. ]

You're being creepy.

[ The comment comes matter-of-factly, flat and unbothered, as if she's informing him for his benefit, rather than any personal judgment. She drops her bag onto the bench across from him and slides onto the bench juxtaposed to the one he sits on, folding her arms on the table and hunching forward, as if intently waiting for what this is about. ]

[ hannibal draws the coat off from bedelia's shoulders and folds it over his arm, meeting her eyes once he's done so, expression betraying less than nothing, a contrast to the study of emotion playing across her own features. she's barely holding back tears, her breathing coming in quick, shallow gasps. but he notices the way her eyes keep trailing back to the track of blood that bisects the room, the body now slumped in front of the door, on the very threshold of his futile grasp for freedom.

instead of averting her eyes, he can see how she can't look away.

he crosses the room once more, his back to her, as he steps carefully over that smear of crimson again, letting her have a moment unwatched, to stare all she wants. to indulge herself in looking as he unfolds the coat and hangs it back in the closet.

his words still hang in the air between them.

what have you gotten yourself into, bedelia?

he allows her to mull over her own complicity, her presence here and the choices she made that led her to this moment. he takes his time, before turning back towards her, the click of the closet door closing breaking the moment of silence. he stops on the other side of that line from her once more, looks between her and the body. his voice is full of the usual clinical curiosity when he speaks, but backed with a hint of the forcefulness with which he demanded she examine herself moments before. ] You say you saw this coming, predicted how this evening would unfold.

Tell me. What do you believe comes next? [ it's purposefully ambiguous whether he's referring to what she thinks he will do next, or if he's asking what her own next move will be in this macabre dance. ]

[ Skye invites herself silently into the office, following the sound of the record, and he's just distracted enough that he doesn't seem to notice her right away. She lets the door click shut to announce herself, trying to ensure that when she begins to speak, he doesn't startle. ]

You know, I had this one foster home. [ She starts the recollection fondly, breaking the ice with something that isn't "why the fuck are you awake." ] They had a record player, and like boxes of vinyl. I wasn't allowed to touch any of it. [ There's a slight hesitation in the way she even looks at the one playing now, giving the impression that was a well-learned lesson. ] But it wasn't this. [ She gestures. ] It was all hair bands. Russ and Amy loved that thing.

[There's almost always some kind of music going at the roadhouse during business hours, but it's been forty-five minutes since Jo announced last call, Ash doing his part to help her clear out the last of the barflies before disappearing into his room out back. Ellen had left the care of the place to the both of them for the evening, which left Jo handling the last of the cleanup on her own after she'd shooed the boy they'd hired to help out in the kitchen to head on home. Silence has had time to settle over the place-- which makes the music coming from out front that much more noticeable, and she almost drops a glass as it startles her, triggering her to let out a low sigh before she reaches for the revolver her mother keeps by door, just in case.

If someone's in here after hours, she can't be too careful. They've had plenty of unwelcome nighttime visitors in the past. She tucks it into her waistband to keep it out of sight, carefully pushing her way through the swinging door to the bar.

Of course. The song should have tipped her off, but hell, she hadn't seen him in months. She exhales, folding her arms across her chest as she ambles her way over to the bar, propping her weight against the counter by leaning against it with one hand.]

If it isn't Dean Winchester.

[Son of a bitch.]

Don't call, you don't write. Might be enough to make people worry about you, you know. [She's just saying.] We're closed.

[But they both know she's not about to kick him out.]

[ Standing by the fireplace in his office—does Lex ever sit at his actual desk???—Lex turns to her, arching his eyebrows and setting a book up on the mantel. ] Don't you? I had hoped my message was clear. [ He tucks one of his hands into the pocket of his suit jacket, approaching her. ]

Please, Miss Alessandro, have a seat. [ With his free hand, he waves to the chair across from his desk, moving to lean against it on her side rather than sit on his own side. Though he's genial and business-like, there's a casual air laid over it, like he wants to woo her into some geniality. ]

[ she'd weighed this, he said. thought about every potential response and counter-response. there's a part of her that is still frozen and unwilling to move even from where she stands, for fear that the moment she takes a step forward will be her own undoing. she'd lost consciousness only once before, after her patient lay dead on the floor of her home. and while she may not have been the one to snap anthony dimmond's neck - but her actions had led to this moment, without question. it was what she had envisioned would transpire, and now they've reached the point of no return. she can't close her eyes and re-open them to a different world.

her one solace now is that she believes hannibal did not intend this man to experience any unnecessary suffering. in fact, a part of her believes that hannibal actually liked the man. if it had not been for the fact that his secret had been exposed, she's convinced they could have carried on something resembling an acquaintanceship (even if dimmond had been under the impression that he'd been invited in for more than a mere repast).

suddenly she's shivering - but it isn't from the lack of her coat or anything resembling a chill. a tear continues its descent in a slow roll down the curve of one cheek. she reaches up with one hand to flick it away, her gaze unwavering at the trail of blood leading to the door. her first instinct may not necessarily be his own, and she swallows once, trying to get her bearings.

she steels herself. looks to him with her chin lifted and her eyes wet, but clear. ]

Taking care of - the body. [ she'd almost slipped, attached a name to it and thus assigned herself that same degree of personal attachment. ]

It shouldn't stay there, Hannibal.

Lucky for you I was passing through, hmm? [ he steps in front of the open door, tosses the coin to him with a flick of his wrist ] Only enough for one phone call. Best use it wisely.

[ it's been a helluva long day. after the mess with merrill and the keeper, after cutting down that entire clan in cold blood - no, not the right turn of phrase, there'd been nothing cold about it, hawke should have gone home for the night. to wash the stains of the fallen off her armor, if nothing else. but something in the act disquieted her, though she was loathe to admit as much out loud. this wasn't something she wanted to wash her hands clean of. she might have entreated merrill to let it go, to forgive herself and realize that they'd made their own choices, but her own words are rang rather hollow in her heart.

deciding who to talk to about it wasn't easy, either. she was closest to isabela, but that didn't mean that they often unburdened feelings of intense personal guilt to one another. not to mention isabela had expressed her approval for standing up to the dalish for merrill's sake. she doubted she'd understand, and at worst, she might laugh off hawke's sense of conflict.

merrill was still grieving, and anders-- well, she had a hard time imagining he could divorce himself from his political ire at the moment to really engage the conversation. no offense to him. aveline's straightforward morality ruled her out, and varric, while no doubt able to offer a willing ear, couldn't really relate, she was certain.

that was how she found herself wandering in the direction of hightown, curving her way towards fenris' home.

part of her was concerned about taking this to him, certain that it would set him off railing about blood magic and how no good ever came from it and how this was the inevitable conclusion of messing with such a thing--

but part of her wanted to hear it. felt like what she really needed was for someone to blame her in part for those deaths. the masochistic impulse wasn't like her, but then again, she couldn't remember ever taking so many lives that really tore her up before.

she was counting on his anger. it was something she could rely on, in a way, a part of who he was that she never blamed him for.

they sit in front of the fireplace as she relates the whole story, staring into the flames with a cup clutched between her hands, the liquid in it untouched. she doesn't look at him until she's told it to the last, finally glancing over to register his expression. ] Well? Let's hear it.

[ ♬ her comment doesn't seem to bother him either. he's a vampire, for gods sake, and already thinks of himself as a horrible monster. the rules of human creepiness don't apply to him, right?????

anyway. he feels a surge of pleasure rise in his chest when she comes over, takes a seat without much real coaxing on his behalf. it's such a visceral sensation that the smile he offers her is purely beatific, void of any of the usual frustration or irritation that grace his countenance when she's around. it has the effect of rendering him all the more rudely attractive, his features lit up with a strangely confident joy. there's a rush in this reckless decision of his, the oddly liberating sense of eschewing all reason and logic and giving himself over to what he wants, even for a few moments. ]

Am I? [ the words seems weighted, and he lets them sit on his tongue for a moment, before he casually breathes out the rest in a rush, the words tossed off cavalierly. ] I decided as long as I was going to hell, I might as well do it thoroughly.

[ Her eyebrows arch, torn somewhere between disbelief and amusement as she cracks the obvious joke, ] I didn't know you felt so strongly about Seattle.

[ Meanwhile, in her head she's like jfc what a drama queen. Honestly, though. Claire is the only one allowed to act like a teenage girl. Everyone else is just being a baby. She pulls a fry off her tray, wary in how she waits for him to get around whatever he asked her over for. Whiplash is starting to hurt her neck—he's up, he's down, he's open, he's closed. ]

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Page 1 of 8

the return of the revenge of just rp it.

let me know if this is okay here

Dean. :c

Hawke!

COULSON

ISABELLA | "I understand you're in need of a new business partner."

EDWARD /uses this as an excuse to bring twilight psl back

surprise me

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largely ignores prompts to just pick up where we left off deal with it MAYBE WE CAN WORK THEM IN

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THAT'S OK I WAS MOSTLY LIKE THIS LOOKS TWILIGHT-Y

but of course.

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whoops wrote a novella

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CLOSE ENOUGH

WE TRIED .JPEG