The rain fell in sheets that night. Moving slowly over the city, the storm was reminiscent of some biblical plague.
Raphael was on patrol and the water fell from his body in rivers. Visibility was shit, but that didn’t tamper him down in the slightest. It did make for a slow night though.
Humans of the filth variety he protected the city from were staying indoors on a night like tonight.
The streetlights made the pavement look like a million tiny moons were reflecting in the puddles. It would have been beautiful if it weren’t so fucking cold.
Turning up an alley on the West side, the terrapin stalked forward through the liquid Armageddon. His massive shoulders rolled like a lions and his gait was wide and sure. He wore aggression like a fine cologne and his energy was looking for a target.
He hated the quiet nights. He felt wound too tight and was getting twitchy.
The violence he expelled was one of the few releases he had. He wasn’t much for company, not that many wanted to be around him in the first place. He’d just as soon rip your head off and tell you to go fuck your self for even looking at him funny.
Stalking through the downpour, he passed a garbage bin. One of those huge bitches that the city hoped (in vain) would contain some of the trash that littered the streets like rancid confetti.
As the mutant passed his ears registered the smallest of sounds. A human would have missed it.
But he wasn’t human.
Moving forward towards the mewling, Raph was thinking maybe it was a baby raccoon in the trash. He listened again, the sounds getting softer.
Tiny sporadic cries hit his ears, but didn’t echo like they were inside the metal bin.
Kneeling down, he started shirting through some of the debris looking for the animal the crying was coming from.
Finding nothing surrounding the container, he shoved the few hundred pounds it weighed to the side like it was made of cardboard.
There. Behind the bin, and against the grimy brick wall, lay the body of a dead cat. She’d been gone for a few days judging by the decomp her body was in. She was black and white and must have been beautiful when she was alive.
A sadness hit the mutants heart like a pinprick. He loved cats most of all. He could understand them, and they him. There was a kindred spirit in them he never found with anything or anyone else.
In a macabre way Raph wondered if the ghost of this feline called him over. Where the hell did that sound come from??
Just then his eyes caught a small movement near the mother cats back feet.
Soaking wet and lying on its side, a tiny black mass struggled to take a breath.
The minuscule kitten lay with its fur plastered to its body from the rain. It looked more like a baby bird because every one of its bones were visible. Mouth agape, the infant cat gasped for oxygen.
Without thinking twice, Raphael scooped up the kitten and held him close to his body.
Which was completely fucking useless because the weather had chilled his body to the touch.
Sometimes he hated being a cold blood.
Taking off at a dead run the mutant hurled himself through the darkness.
Heading towards a place he could find with his eyes shut, he arrived a mere ten minutes later.
Kicking in the French doors leading into the apartment from the rooftop, the woodwork shattered as if it were glass.
He’d worry about that later. Right now he had much more important things to worry about than Y/N losing her security deposit.
The female wasn’t home, but it’s not like he needed her permission to be there.
Like a male possessed he tore into the bathroom and ripped off the cabinet doors. The first aid supplies were under there and he wasn’t exactly Mr. Gentleman when he was stressed.
More like Mr. Bull In A China Shop.
Finding the heating pad, he pulled it from underneath. Pulling a towel off the glass shower, he wrapped up the tiny precious feline in his arms.
Jogging into the living room, he plugged in the heating pad and was grateful it was a 60 second heat up variety.
Taking a seat in his recliner, he placed the pad in his lap. Tentatively, he peeked at the kitten to make sure he was still breathing.
Looking into the deep terry cloth, little blue eyes met his own and blinked.
Oh, thank fuck.
Raphael gently laid the kitten still wrapped up in the towel on top of the heating pad. His large fingers stroking up and down to reassure him.
“Aw man little guy, you’re royally fucked up aren’t you? It’s okay furball. I got you now. You ain’t alone anymore. I’m gonna get you better my man. It’s all gonna be good.” The warrior whispered aloud, thankful he was alone as he said it.
Gently and rhythmically, the mutant started to rock in the chair as the kitten was warming. In the rush, it didn’t register that he was still wet.
Well, shit. The chair was gonna be soggy for a hot second.
The soft cloak of darkness covered both the cat and the turtle. Every now and again, Raph checked to make sure the kitten was still breathing.
Nestling down in the chair the warrior decided he wasn’t moving from this spot for the rest of the night. His little buddy needed to get warm and stay that way. Raph didn’t mind. He had no where else to be.
He looked around for something to break the silence. The TV remote was too far away, and he wasn’t moving for no god damn reason.
His eyes settled on a book on Y/N’s side table. Picking it up, he flipped to a page and started reading.
In the soft intimacy of quiet and comfort, a Brooklyn accented voice glided through the dark to reach tiny kitten ears…
“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary…”
the backlash of “this isn’t what gothic is!!” posts are really funny to me honestly. this is not what we need a callout post for today.
yes, the people making these posts are deploying [location] gothic in a way it wasn’t ~intended~. southern gothic is a literary backlash against the fucked-up aspects of the american south. it uses the gothic aesthetic to accomplish this. (i’m sure we all know the a-word.) southern gothic is an incredibly cool and powerful literary archetype, but it’s not the only use of gothic ever. call up mary shelley for me and tell her she’s ‘using gothic wrong’. ultimately gothic is examining a system through its macabre elements. i read a wonderful boston gothic post that mentioned charlie, the man who was trapped on the subway because the rates were so high he couldn’t pay to get off. that story is decades old and that issue is still relevant - to say nothing of delightfully creepy. just because these posts aren’t up to the creepy, noble purpose at the heart of southern gothic doesn’t mean they aren’t examining [location].
if this meme inspired you to do some thinking or writing of your own about gothic aesthetic and archetype, i think that’s wonderful. [location] gothic has been a whole lot of fun for me to read because i’ve learned what people think is creepiest about their hometowns. this meme has been a writing prompt, a lit history lesson, and a fun time for everybody, which is more than most memes do. if you want to learn more about southern gothic, pick up to kill a mockingbird again, or check out some flannery o’connor. ‘everything that rises must converge’ is really great.
please make more [location] gothic posts. i’ve had a blast reading them all. and if you really want to be ~truer~ to gothic, try and examine power systems in your city or town as you write them. the man eternally trapped on the subway is fun, but it’s made me sad that none of the boston gothic posts have addressed the de facto segregation still alive in my city.
anyway i love writing and Aesthetic and if you’re one of the people complaining that this isn’t real southern gothic, try to treat that as an opportunity for a history lesson instead, and try to have some fun along the way.
Summary: Female Reader is a secret sniper, shadowing the FAHC. What happens when they start dating Ryan without either of them knowing the others secret lives? Also reader and the Fake AH Crew are immortal.
Warnings: sex, talk of murder/actual murder (no gore), swearing..
Author’s note: I’ve had this written for a while, I just had to get around to posting it, and figuring how to get the thing that says, ‘keep reading’ because this is a long one. Also Jack is trans in this, and Ray is only in this slightly. Also 10pts. if you catch my Geoff IRL joke, and 14overated pts. if you catch the RVB joke.. :)
Chapters: 7 - Completed.
You were on the roof of a building, staking out the Fake AH. You weren’t there to make any hits, you were just there to cover them. Whether they knew it or not didn’t matter. You were currently following BM Vagabond through your scope, just watching him make a deal with a guy he was talking to. You were too far away from them to get spotted, but your scope had a long enough zoom to be able to see them fine.
You were always intrigued by The Mad King, BM Vagabond, The Mad Mercenary. You’d never seen him without his mask, but you imagined he was handsome. Which if he did take his mask off it would throw people for a loop. Talk on the street was that he wore it to protect his face and shield a scar or some other thing that made his face almost grotesque. But you thought he was handsome, even with the mask on.
By day you were an artist, painting the macabre. It’s a wonder no one ever questioned you. By night you were a sniper. Also side note was that fact that you were immortal, or else you wouldn’t be doing this right now. You would be trying to lead the simplest of lives, but you couldn’t die and it helped when you lived in Los Santos. You listened to your ear piece, having hacked into their frequency. It meant you could hear them but they couldn’t hear you. You silently watched the Vagabond, walk back and forth with the guy. You could see the guy getting impatient and you knew he wasn’t gonna go for it.
You aimed you scope at his head, ready to take him out. You didn’t pull the trigger though, instead you clipped on your red laser beam, and waited for the crew to say something. It was just the Mad King in the room with the guy but you knew Geoff and Jack were somewhere around there, as well as Michael. You still didn’t know Vagabond’s first name, you just knew him by his many street names but you’d always been intrigued with him and the crew.
You figured since you couldn’t see Gavino, he was probably running security and on comms. You slowly exhaled a breath as you heard Vagabond’s voice through your ear piece, “Listen here, you’re gonna take this deal or you’re going down.” He said, his voice icy. You couldn’t hear what the other guy said but then you watched him pull out his gun. He pointed it at the Mad King and you almost felt bad for him. There’s no way he’s gonna live to carry out his action.
You heard Geoff on the ear piece, “You need us to come in?” When you didn’t hear him respond you figured it was a no, as he was currently in a staring match with the guy who held him a gun point. You moved your scope up above Mad King, to see Geoff in the windowed room with his gun drawn, waiting.
You moved back down to focus on the man in front of Mad King when you heard him say, “You really don’t want to do this.” You smirked, that’s what you were waiting for. The guy in front of Mad King tilted his head and cocked his gun. You flicked on your red beam and aimed it at his gun and traveled it slowly down his hand and stopped at his heart. The guy started shaking and looking all around but the Vagabond didn’t move at all. “Damn he’s got a good poker face.” You muttered. The guy dropped his grip on the gun and Vagabond stepped in, taking it from him. He pistol whipped the guy out cold and you shut off your beam. You saw Vagabond turn towards where he thought it came from and he spoke clearly through his ear piece. “Geoff, did you?” “No man, it’s not us.” “Well whoever they are, we should send them a gift basket.” You heard Geoff laugh at this, “Yeah, we should.”
( amber heard ) ☁ your ID reads ( silver loxas ) who is ( twenty-five ) years old. you use ( she/her ) as your pronouns. you’re ( pansexual ) and tend to be ( dominant ). when you’re not relaxing you work as ( the owner ) at ( oh macabre ) have a wonderful day at half moon bay.
So, it’s late at night and I’m sitting here in my room, contemplating my fascination with the macabre…and I remember this wonderful short film I saw several years ago. If you’re not familiar with this, this is “9” by Shane Acker…however, you may recognize it from Tim Burton’s full length film version (which I just re-watched and ADORE. I’ve never been a Burton fan, but this movie is just awesome).
The animation is wonderful, the story is so moving, the characters are adorable, and it possesses just the right amount of sad and creepy. In other words, it’s my kind of movie :)
Standing on the pegs of
Soul’s BMX was a lot more hazardous than Maka had initially thought. She’s
pretty sure there must be finger shaped bruises blooming on his shoulders from
where she’d fiercely gripped him for dear life.
The bike skids to a stop as
they reach her house, grit flying in all directions from the gravelled
path-way. He glances over his shoulder at her, fixing her with a lopsided grin,
clearly pleased with himself that he’d managed to get them here in one piece.
He wore self-assurance well.
It was a rare sight and Soul’s proud expression was doing funny things to her