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Hello everyone! I'm new to the site (was on years ago for a few weeks) and looking for roleplay partners! I'm inexperienced with 1x1s, having mostly done group roleplays, but I'm looking to get into them. Here's some basic information on my roleplay style:
1. I've done little to no romance, but I'm willing to try
2. I'm okay with moderate gore but not interested in anything overtly sexual
3. I usually write about 1000 words per post. I prefer 400+ from my partner
4. I tend to post about once a week, sometimes more frequently
5. I prefer writing in third-person past-tense (but there's wiggle room)
6. I am 18+
7. I love talking OOC and I'm usually good at worldbuilding
8. I typically play male characters but I can play female
9. I'm willing to play multiple characters if you want to as well
I like to roleplay:
Medieval, fantasy, D&D, modern, slice-of-life, magical realism, historical, some gothic, entertainment, slightly surreal, sci-fi, noir/mystery, dystopian, pirate/sailor, modern fantasy
I'm willing to try other genres! The ones I don't like include:
Western, royalty, anthros (may vary), dragons and humans, extreme gore, smut, fandom
I will typically make an entirely new character for each RP, so if you have an idea that requires or want to play against a certain type of character, we can probably make that happen! Here are some specific ideas, some half-formed and some barely formed, that I have floating around:
1. A space travel plot with an offbeat group of space explorers, some of whom may be aliens
2. Alternatively, a group or a couple of aliens get stranded on Earth and must road trip to fix their spaceship
3. !! Any kind of coming-of-age type road trip plot !!
4. Slice-of-life small town plot - neighbors, slow-burn romance, etc.
5. Circus/entertainment/bandmates in dying careers, or one with a dying career helping the other who's up-and-coming
6. Entertainment industry rivals who are also good friends
7. Nordic gothic - never tried it, but I definitely want to
8. Genre-hopping television characters trying to find somewhere safe to settle after fleeing their own TV shows
9. Straight-up noir murder plot, with either detective/suspect characters or everyday folks accidentally getting involved
10. Character(s) being subtly haunted or follow by the supernatural
If you're not sure if we'll match up, go ahead and contact me anyway! If you have ideas you've been wanting to try out, ask me! Worst case scenario we're not the right fit for each other, but there's no harm in talking.
1. I've done little to no romance, but I'm willing to try
2. I'm okay with moderate gore but not interested in anything overtly sexual
3. I usually write about 1000 words per post. I prefer 400+ from my partner
4. I tend to post about once a week, sometimes more frequently
5. I prefer writing in third-person past-tense (but there's wiggle room)
6. I am 18+
7. I love talking OOC and I'm usually good at worldbuilding
8. I typically play male characters but I can play female
9. I'm willing to play multiple characters if you want to as well
I like to roleplay:
Medieval, fantasy, D&D, modern, slice-of-life, magical realism, historical, some gothic, entertainment, slightly surreal, sci-fi, noir/mystery, dystopian, pirate/sailor, modern fantasy
I'm willing to try other genres! The ones I don't like include:
Western, royalty, anthros (may vary), dragons and humans, extreme gore, smut, fandom
I will typically make an entirely new character for each RP, so if you have an idea that requires or want to play against a certain type of character, we can probably make that happen! Here are some specific ideas, some half-formed and some barely formed, that I have floating around:
1. A space travel plot with an offbeat group of space explorers, some of whom may be aliens
2. Alternatively, a group or a couple of aliens get stranded on Earth and must road trip to fix their spaceship
3. !! Any kind of coming-of-age type road trip plot !!
4. Slice-of-life small town plot - neighbors, slow-burn romance, etc.
5. Circus/entertainment/bandmates in dying careers, or one with a dying career helping the other who's up-and-coming
6. Entertainment industry rivals who are also good friends
7. Nordic gothic - never tried it, but I definitely want to
8. Genre-hopping television characters trying to find somewhere safe to settle after fleeing their own TV shows
9. Straight-up noir murder plot, with either detective/suspect characters or everyday folks accidentally getting involved
10. Character(s) being subtly haunted or follow by the supernatural
If you're not sure if we'll match up, go ahead and contact me anyway! If you have ideas you've been wanting to try out, ask me! Worst case scenario we're not the right fit for each other, but there's no harm in talking.
It was a dusty day. Really, one could say it was a very dusty day. Some chickens even did say this, walking along the dirt path with feathers shielding their faces: “My dear, what a very dusty day it is!” Nobles flapped madly as their servants ran about shutting the windows so that the noble would be untouched by dirt while he was taking his fortnightly dust bath. Mother hens who stood up to stretch found that their pristine white eggs had turned inexplicably pale brown! Here next to the cornfields, the loose-soil path was throwing dust up into the air like celebratory confetti. Along the path now came a wagonfull of peasant chickens - or so they seemed. The oddball collection of small and large, sleek and puffy, fierce and soft, vertical and horizontal (could be, who’s to say?) made it clear they were no family or, if they were, that one of their parents probably needed to get their priorities straight. Perhaps they were taking a pleasant peasant stroll? Were they heading off to market? Maybe they were secretly transferring a prince to safety? Why are you asking me all of these questions? You know what’s happening, and you’re disrupting the flow of the writing. Quit it.
Ahem. But back to our heroes. Standing on the side of the road amongst the cornstalks, the first thing a chicken would notice about the wagon might be the two large white geese pulling it, their feathers ruffled and looking very irritable about the dust blowing into their eyes. Or perhaps the large bright teal blob which, upon closer inspection, would prove to be a surprisingly durable parasol held in the wing of a tall, dark-feathered rooster. His clothing was a bit finer than that of other chickens sitting in the wagon. One might assume that he was a bit wealthier, but more likely he was just bad at appearing peasant-like. In his other wing were the reins of the geese. This rooster was Bantam Orpington, goose-breeder and wagon-driver, who just that morning had set out on what would undoubtedly prove to be an adventure full of danger, insanity, and a dash of life-threatening situations. It was enough to make anyone chicken out.
All the same, that morning as he set out Bantam had had hugs for all the ladies, just delighted to see old friends, and with many tips of the hat for the great Prince Wyan. He had been reunited with his old fledgling peer, William Alaric Brewer (“Alaric, you old so-and-so!”). He had been delighted to find that his fellow goose-breeder’s wife, Colette, would be there as well. He had been quick to inform Jackie and Patch that he was, in fact, single, if they were at all interested. He'd been too nervous to do more than sneak a glance at Wyandotte, but he did manage to talk to Calhoun and so he figured he could chalk that up as a win. He started out the trip by humming the old folk song “Spotted Egg” three times in a row, but eventually fell into conversation with Colette. He had already made friendly chatter with nearly all of the flock and skirted awkwardly around Wyan while mumbling something that sounded like words, so he figured there was a good chance of making new friends on this trip. Well, close acquaintances and short-term girlfriends. Things were looking up! After all, what could go wrong with trying to sneak a teenage prince across barren lands full of angry cannibal chickens?
Bantam had been talking at Colette ever since they had left. They were just out of the town, and Bantam had run out of hens to wink at as he passed by. He had ended it with the hen he was courting just that morning, so there was no reason not to meet some other girls, he told himself. And just in a paragon of good timing, he now had two new hens who might be interested in him. Bantam was definitely not unaware of the difficulties involved in flirting with hens sitting directly behind you without turning your head, but he was giving it a valiant effort. The occasional “Shame you can’t sit up here with us, Jackie”, “How’s the view, Patch? Can’t be as pretty as you”, and "Clawdia, did I ever tell you how lucky I am to have a hen like you sitting right next to me?" were the best he could pull off under the circumstances, so it was really fortunate that he had ol’ Gingerbread sitting right next to him so he had something to do. “Well, most chickens attribute the Whooper Bean Swoose to Shelldon Barbu d’Uccle,” Bantam was saying to her now, half watching her and half watching the road. “I’m sure you know about him: Big V? Died trying to chart the Canadian Goose Migrations by riding on the back of his goose, fell right into the sea. Anyway, after the Cygnus Rift a lot of chickens stopped breeding sweese of any kind. My father was a strictly anti-swoose rooster himself, and as for me, I’m really undecided on swans as a whole. I do find their necks rather vexing. I think I heard your husband talking about sweese, but I’m not sure where he stands on the whole issue. You don’t do any swoose breeding, do you?”
As Bantam was talking, the wind made a sudden and violent attempt to wrench his parasol from his grip, but Bantam held on with a strength that he possessed in no situations except parasol-related ones, his bum levitating off the seat for a moment before the wind rage-quit and went to bother someone else. The geese, Lagle and Bezai, let out angry honks and Bantam pulled back on the reins to keep them under control. They settled, feathers ruffled and coated in a thin layer of brown dust. Bantam gave a light chuckle. “Looks like I have two Tufted American Buff Geese now,” he said out loud to anyone who was listening, and then waited for everyone to laugh at his incredibly funny joke. Sadly, he didn't get quite as enthusiastic a response as he was hoping, and he butted in quickly before anyone could make a comment. "You know, I actually got this feather from an American Buff Goose," he said, gesturing to the feather adorning his hat. "It was no easy feat, but it was certainly worth it. When I finally got it, well, I'll tell you, that really put a feather in my cap."
Ahem. But back to our heroes. Standing on the side of the road amongst the cornstalks, the first thing a chicken would notice about the wagon might be the two large white geese pulling it, their feathers ruffled and looking very irritable about the dust blowing into their eyes. Or perhaps the large bright teal blob which, upon closer inspection, would prove to be a surprisingly durable parasol held in the wing of a tall, dark-feathered rooster. His clothing was a bit finer than that of other chickens sitting in the wagon. One might assume that he was a bit wealthier, but more likely he was just bad at appearing peasant-like. In his other wing were the reins of the geese. This rooster was Bantam Orpington, goose-breeder and wagon-driver, who just that morning had set out on what would undoubtedly prove to be an adventure full of danger, insanity, and a dash of life-threatening situations. It was enough to make anyone chicken out.
All the same, that morning as he set out Bantam had had hugs for all the ladies, just delighted to see old friends, and with many tips of the hat for the great Prince Wyan. He had been reunited with his old fledgling peer, William Alaric Brewer (“Alaric, you old so-and-so!”). He had been delighted to find that his fellow goose-breeder’s wife, Colette, would be there as well. He had been quick to inform Jackie and Patch that he was, in fact, single, if they were at all interested. He'd been too nervous to do more than sneak a glance at Wyandotte, but he did manage to talk to Calhoun and so he figured he could chalk that up as a win. He started out the trip by humming the old folk song “Spotted Egg” three times in a row, but eventually fell into conversation with Colette. He had already made friendly chatter with nearly all of the flock and skirted awkwardly around Wyan while mumbling something that sounded like words, so he figured there was a good chance of making new friends on this trip. Well, close acquaintances and short-term girlfriends. Things were looking up! After all, what could go wrong with trying to sneak a teenage prince across barren lands full of angry cannibal chickens?
Bantam had been talking at Colette ever since they had left. They were just out of the town, and Bantam had run out of hens to wink at as he passed by. He had ended it with the hen he was courting just that morning, so there was no reason not to meet some other girls, he told himself. And just in a paragon of good timing, he now had two new hens who might be interested in him. Bantam was definitely not unaware of the difficulties involved in flirting with hens sitting directly behind you without turning your head, but he was giving it a valiant effort. The occasional “Shame you can’t sit up here with us, Jackie”, “How’s the view, Patch? Can’t be as pretty as you”, and "Clawdia, did I ever tell you how lucky I am to have a hen like you sitting right next to me?" were the best he could pull off under the circumstances, so it was really fortunate that he had ol’ Gingerbread sitting right next to him so he had something to do. “Well, most chickens attribute the Whooper Bean Swoose to Shelldon Barbu d’Uccle,” Bantam was saying to her now, half watching her and half watching the road. “I’m sure you know about him: Big V? Died trying to chart the Canadian Goose Migrations by riding on the back of his goose, fell right into the sea. Anyway, after the Cygnus Rift a lot of chickens stopped breeding sweese of any kind. My father was a strictly anti-swoose rooster himself, and as for me, I’m really undecided on swans as a whole. I do find their necks rather vexing. I think I heard your husband talking about sweese, but I’m not sure where he stands on the whole issue. You don’t do any swoose breeding, do you?”
As Bantam was talking, the wind made a sudden and violent attempt to wrench his parasol from his grip, but Bantam held on with a strength that he possessed in no situations except parasol-related ones, his bum levitating off the seat for a moment before the wind rage-quit and went to bother someone else. The geese, Lagle and Bezai, let out angry honks and Bantam pulled back on the reins to keep them under control. They settled, feathers ruffled and coated in a thin layer of brown dust. Bantam gave a light chuckle. “Looks like I have two Tufted American Buff Geese now,” he said out loud to anyone who was listening, and then waited for everyone to laugh at his incredibly funny joke. Sadly, he didn't get quite as enthusiastic a response as he was hoping, and he butted in quickly before anyone could make a comment. "You know, I actually got this feather from an American Buff Goose," he said, gesturing to the feather adorning his hat. "It was no easy feat, but it was certainly worth it. When I finally got it, well, I'll tell you, that really put a feather in my cap."
It was her fifth time pacing back to her quarters like she had forgotten something, but by the time she got there she had no idea what it was. In the last week and a half, it felt like she hadn’t walked anywhere - she was pacing, always pacing. She, who had stormed the beaches of Rome in search of grand treasure. She, who had gone toe-to-toe with the French militia. She, who had too many achievements to list in a day, waiting like a sitting duck for the royal navy to come pick them off. If they didn’t die before that.
She had gone over the whole ship top to bottom as many times as she could justify, and had been handing out meaningless tasks to the crew to “keep them occupied.” She would check in on them now and then, pointing out that they were doing it wrong no matter how they were doing it. Only Red managed to escape her criticism. Her cutlass was sharper than the tip of a needle, her clothing messily sewn up, her flower collection completely re-categorized. She was going stir-crazy, and that meant that everyone else on the ship had to suffer from her incessant nagging and attempts to help with whatever they were doing. She had even gone so far as to pop into the kitchen, though she disliked Pov and despised cooking even more. Her hair seemed more frazzled than usual, perhaps from the frenetic energy that seemed to be crackling around her.
When she rested for even a few moments, her mind wandered back to the recent deaths and the decline of what had once been a glorious pirate crew. These people had been her friends, colleagues, and what she considered her family. And she had been able to do nothing as they flocked like sheep to the slaughter, ravaged under the razor-sharp claws of the sirens. After the first round of deaths, Aziz had gathered the crew to give her big speech about dying, perseverance, and the strength of the human spirit. And yes, it had been full of an unnecessary amount of pomp and bravado, but she had really meant everything she’d said. She promised her crew she’d be there until the end - and she intended to keep that promise. She was dedicated to this ship, and her dedication, she was sure, would overshadow all other threats or temptations.
Now she was back on the upper deck. Her boots thumped rhythmically against the boards, but she stopped as she noticed a spot of seaweed on the deck. “Somebody clean this up!” she barked at nobody in particular, keeping her voice deep as always to make it seem more masculine. Few of the crew seemed to be moving much, and this only made Aziz more restless. She paced up and down the deck twice. She had been to the captain’s quarters far too many times to count, and she’d told herself to count to two hundred at least between each visit. She was only on a hundred twenty-two now. As she saw Noé bustling across the deck, she had a sudden inclination to go after him and assign him some task so he wouldn’t be lazing around the ship. As she turned to walk after him, though, she caught sight of the captain. She puffed herself up, ready to stride over and tell him with an air of great importance that there was nothing new to report. But Gore had already caught up to him, and the two had started talking. Aziz felt a thrill of indignation. What were they talking about? Was it important? Was it so important that they felt she should be left out of it?
Aziz strode over them, leaning forward in a fast-walk as she attempted to look like she wasn’t rushing over to intercept them. She just caught Captain Spork saying “at this time of day,” and she hurried over to his side, crossing her arms and giving Gore a slightly condescending smile. “Gore,” she said in a reprimanding tone, like a parent scolding a child. “I thought we weren’t going to bother the captain.” She was a general advocate of talking to her before talking to the captain. She liked to think of herself as the go-between. Of course, she didn’t really think Gore was going to back down now, but this was just her way of inserting herself into the conversation so she could be party to whatever the two had to talk about. There were no conversation on this ship so private that she couldn’t weasel her way in - especially when it involved the captain.
She had gone over the whole ship top to bottom as many times as she could justify, and had been handing out meaningless tasks to the crew to “keep them occupied.” She would check in on them now and then, pointing out that they were doing it wrong no matter how they were doing it. Only Red managed to escape her criticism. Her cutlass was sharper than the tip of a needle, her clothing messily sewn up, her flower collection completely re-categorized. She was going stir-crazy, and that meant that everyone else on the ship had to suffer from her incessant nagging and attempts to help with whatever they were doing. She had even gone so far as to pop into the kitchen, though she disliked Pov and despised cooking even more. Her hair seemed more frazzled than usual, perhaps from the frenetic energy that seemed to be crackling around her.
When she rested for even a few moments, her mind wandered back to the recent deaths and the decline of what had once been a glorious pirate crew. These people had been her friends, colleagues, and what she considered her family. And she had been able to do nothing as they flocked like sheep to the slaughter, ravaged under the razor-sharp claws of the sirens. After the first round of deaths, Aziz had gathered the crew to give her big speech about dying, perseverance, and the strength of the human spirit. And yes, it had been full of an unnecessary amount of pomp and bravado, but she had really meant everything she’d said. She promised her crew she’d be there until the end - and she intended to keep that promise. She was dedicated to this ship, and her dedication, she was sure, would overshadow all other threats or temptations.
Now she was back on the upper deck. Her boots thumped rhythmically against the boards, but she stopped as she noticed a spot of seaweed on the deck. “Somebody clean this up!” she barked at nobody in particular, keeping her voice deep as always to make it seem more masculine. Few of the crew seemed to be moving much, and this only made Aziz more restless. She paced up and down the deck twice. She had been to the captain’s quarters far too many times to count, and she’d told herself to count to two hundred at least between each visit. She was only on a hundred twenty-two now. As she saw Noé bustling across the deck, she had a sudden inclination to go after him and assign him some task so he wouldn’t be lazing around the ship. As she turned to walk after him, though, she caught sight of the captain. She puffed herself up, ready to stride over and tell him with an air of great importance that there was nothing new to report. But Gore had already caught up to him, and the two had started talking. Aziz felt a thrill of indignation. What were they talking about? Was it important? Was it so important that they felt she should be left out of it?
Aziz strode over them, leaning forward in a fast-walk as she attempted to look like she wasn’t rushing over to intercept them. She just caught Captain Spork saying “at this time of day,” and she hurried over to his side, crossing her arms and giving Gore a slightly condescending smile. “Gore,” she said in a reprimanding tone, like a parent scolding a child. “I thought we weren’t going to bother the captain.” She was a general advocate of talking to her before talking to the captain. She liked to think of herself as the go-between. Of course, she didn’t really think Gore was going to back down now, but this was just her way of inserting herself into the conversation so she could be party to whatever the two had to talk about. There were no conversation on this ship so private that she couldn’t weasel her way in - especially when it involved the captain.
When the sun glinted off its golden hues, the light gleamed and danced away in joy. The divinity said to live in each thing must be strongest in this, because it seemed to glow from the inside. No hay-spun gold could match this color. Bastien had seen the sunset of the Serengeti (well, a picture). He had seen the great wheatfields of Kansas (during the winter, but whatever). He had seen the volcanic, honeyed eyes of a predator (his cat Lars). But never in his life had he seen anything this gloriously golden.
How long had he been staring at this jar of fat? Damn, it’s beautiful, he thought as forcefully as he could, trying to keep himself in his reverie. He wanted to be happy looking at this jar instead of thinking about something else - something worse. His brain was drifting again, though he was trying to bully it back into a state of ignorance. He loved this jar of fat. He could remember every bit of skillet grease, every baked turkey, every batch of bacon that had gone into it. He had spent the last - hour? - reliving every single one of those memories. It seemed he had exhausted that train of thought, though, and as he unwillingly resurfaced, it suddenly occurred to him that this was what losing your mind looked like. He quickly shoved the jar back onto the shelf. Right. He’d been organizing their kitchen. And it was looking spectacular, if he did say so himself. In fact, he had plenty of other household chores lined up. He had bedding to wash, vines to pry off of windows, things to dust, dishes to wash. He’d enjoyed looking at his jar of fat, but he simply didn’t have the time. If he submerged himself in a myriad of household chores, he wouldn’t have to think about . . . that thing he didn’t want to think about. Looking out the window over the kitchen sink, Bastien swore he could see the heatwaves rippling off the pavement of the front driveway. It was hot, it was humid, and he could just imagine how many mosquitoes were out there. The air was thick and lazy, and he could hear the murmur of the others in the next room, making him almost sleepy. Two or three of them he knew well. Two or three he was determined to get to know. A few he’d rather not know at all.
He turned to the cabinet to get a few tall glasses, and from the fridge he took the iced tea he had gone out of his way to get for them. Well, to have somebody else get for them. He spent a few minutes contemplating his iced tea strategy. Who was he going to give tea to? Who was he, under no circumstances, ever going to give anything to? Eventually he settled on six glasses and filled them with iced tea and ice. It was like when Bastien’s relatives used to come to visit, and he filled up their glasses for them. Bastien liked doing things the same as he had his whole life. If you never changed the things you did day after day, how could you say the world had changed? The world was the same. Bastien’s world was the same. So he kept telling himself. The iced tea was the same, and his old jar of fat, and the sweltering Louisiana heat, and the TV playing just a little bit too loud. Bastien drew the curtain further back and peered out the window, looking out towards the garage where he could barely make out a hint of curly white hair. Tiras. He absolutely could not stand them. He despised being confined in close quarters with them. And now they were out there baking their bones, and Bastien had to go out and give that idiot a glass of iced tea so they didn’t melt into a puddle of makeup and tattoo ink. Grumbling nonsense to himself, Bastien plucked one of the glasses off of the counter. He pushed open the screen door from the kitchen to the driveway.
As soon as Bastien stepped outside, he heard the sound of the engine and a laugh that sounded like the Joker on his fifth vodka. Tiras had been working on that RV since - well, since Bastien had shown up there, and probably before that. Bastien had seen very little of them in that time, except when he came out to try and get them to fulfill basic human needs. That had yet to work out. Now, judging by the laughter, Tiras was on the verge of some sort of mental breakdown. Which is why they needed iced tea. Bastien heard the engine turn off, and was about halfway across the lava-hot pavement when Tiras came tearing out of the garage like Godzilla was approaching. “Ti-” was all Bastien got before a ball of white hair and kinetic energy went whizzing past him. Bastien stood still for a minute, then turned slowly on his heel and walked back towards the kitchen door. That’s the thanks I get. As soon as he got in, he could hear Tiras’s voice in the next room, and he moved to look through the doorway into the living room. He was just in time to see Tiras sway on the spot, and he immediately moved towards them. But they were already headed straight for the fridge, where they grabbed a bottle of water. “Tiras-” Bastien started again, hoping to get a sentence out before Tiras zipped off again. And they were getting water all over the floor. Sighing, Bastien grabbed the kitchen towel hanging on the oven door and leaned down to wipe up the water.
Tiras was already back with the others, and Bastien was torn for a moment before he turned back to get his iced teas. He hugged them against his chest like a very delicate baby who could shatter into a million pieces if he dropped them. So just a baby, really. He started to head to the living room, then doubled back and fished a natchitoches meat pie out of the fridge. Barely keeping everything from falling out of his hands, he made his careful way to the living room. He set down all of the iced teas on the coffee table, and paused to listen to what everyone was talking about. He wasn’t sure he was even involved in this conversation, but he did have a few things to say about Texas. But first. Pointing at the iced teas, Bastien waited for a slight pause in the conversation to say, “Blake. Louis. Clovis. Catalina.” It was obviously instructions for who was to have iced tea (and who was not). He gave his voice an extra flash of charm when he mentioned the last two names. He made no mention of anyone who hadn’t been granted a beverage by him, though he did glance at Raiden, apparently surprised that they were out and socializing. He didn’t look at JJ, though he did feel tempted to glance at them just to show he wasn’t totally ignoring his friend. But he was ignoring him. That was the whole point. And Aki? To be frank, he had forgotten Aki existed. Bastien paused, then pointed to the glass he had poured for himself. “Akira.” That would help him get on Cat’s good side. He grabbed the last iced tea and strode over to Tiras with the tea in one hand and the meat pie in another. Looking over their shoulder, he read the text. He had left his own phone in his room, but he assumed - or hoped - he’d gotten a similar text. “You think everything’s sketchy,” he muttered under his breath. Then, out loud, he said, “I think Catalina and Clovis know how to handle this situation best.” Man, it was hard to suck up when he didn’t know which side they were on.
Glancing away from the group, he noticed the amount of sweat on Tiras. They were sweating like a fried monkey. He moved around in front of them and pushed the food and drink towards them. “Eat something.” They had been fighting about this for days, but Bastien had seen that little swoon of fatigue earlier, and he wasn’t backing down this time. Geez, Tiras was sweating a lot. Bastien immediately pressed the cold-beaded glass up against their forehead to cool them down. “It’s iced tea,” he said, like Tiras had never heard of iced tea before. He stayed there for a few moments then, feeling he might be holding the glass against their forehead a little too long, he plonked the glass into their hand. “I can’t believe I have to do this,” he said in utter indignation. Because he hated doing stuff like this for Tiras. He wanted it to be known to everyone in the general vicinity.
How long had he been staring at this jar of fat? Damn, it’s beautiful, he thought as forcefully as he could, trying to keep himself in his reverie. He wanted to be happy looking at this jar instead of thinking about something else - something worse. His brain was drifting again, though he was trying to bully it back into a state of ignorance. He loved this jar of fat. He could remember every bit of skillet grease, every baked turkey, every batch of bacon that had gone into it. He had spent the last - hour? - reliving every single one of those memories. It seemed he had exhausted that train of thought, though, and as he unwillingly resurfaced, it suddenly occurred to him that this was what losing your mind looked like. He quickly shoved the jar back onto the shelf. Right. He’d been organizing their kitchen. And it was looking spectacular, if he did say so himself. In fact, he had plenty of other household chores lined up. He had bedding to wash, vines to pry off of windows, things to dust, dishes to wash. He’d enjoyed looking at his jar of fat, but he simply didn’t have the time. If he submerged himself in a myriad of household chores, he wouldn’t have to think about . . . that thing he didn’t want to think about. Looking out the window over the kitchen sink, Bastien swore he could see the heatwaves rippling off the pavement of the front driveway. It was hot, it was humid, and he could just imagine how many mosquitoes were out there. The air was thick and lazy, and he could hear the murmur of the others in the next room, making him almost sleepy. Two or three of them he knew well. Two or three he was determined to get to know. A few he’d rather not know at all.
He turned to the cabinet to get a few tall glasses, and from the fridge he took the iced tea he had gone out of his way to get for them. Well, to have somebody else get for them. He spent a few minutes contemplating his iced tea strategy. Who was he going to give tea to? Who was he, under no circumstances, ever going to give anything to? Eventually he settled on six glasses and filled them with iced tea and ice. It was like when Bastien’s relatives used to come to visit, and he filled up their glasses for them. Bastien liked doing things the same as he had his whole life. If you never changed the things you did day after day, how could you say the world had changed? The world was the same. Bastien’s world was the same. So he kept telling himself. The iced tea was the same, and his old jar of fat, and the sweltering Louisiana heat, and the TV playing just a little bit too loud. Bastien drew the curtain further back and peered out the window, looking out towards the garage where he could barely make out a hint of curly white hair. Tiras. He absolutely could not stand them. He despised being confined in close quarters with them. And now they were out there baking their bones, and Bastien had to go out and give that idiot a glass of iced tea so they didn’t melt into a puddle of makeup and tattoo ink. Grumbling nonsense to himself, Bastien plucked one of the glasses off of the counter. He pushed open the screen door from the kitchen to the driveway.
As soon as Bastien stepped outside, he heard the sound of the engine and a laugh that sounded like the Joker on his fifth vodka. Tiras had been working on that RV since - well, since Bastien had shown up there, and probably before that. Bastien had seen very little of them in that time, except when he came out to try and get them to fulfill basic human needs. That had yet to work out. Now, judging by the laughter, Tiras was on the verge of some sort of mental breakdown. Which is why they needed iced tea. Bastien heard the engine turn off, and was about halfway across the lava-hot pavement when Tiras came tearing out of the garage like Godzilla was approaching. “Ti-” was all Bastien got before a ball of white hair and kinetic energy went whizzing past him. Bastien stood still for a minute, then turned slowly on his heel and walked back towards the kitchen door. That’s the thanks I get. As soon as he got in, he could hear Tiras’s voice in the next room, and he moved to look through the doorway into the living room. He was just in time to see Tiras sway on the spot, and he immediately moved towards them. But they were already headed straight for the fridge, where they grabbed a bottle of water. “Tiras-” Bastien started again, hoping to get a sentence out before Tiras zipped off again. And they were getting water all over the floor. Sighing, Bastien grabbed the kitchen towel hanging on the oven door and leaned down to wipe up the water.
Tiras was already back with the others, and Bastien was torn for a moment before he turned back to get his iced teas. He hugged them against his chest like a very delicate baby who could shatter into a million pieces if he dropped them. So just a baby, really. He started to head to the living room, then doubled back and fished a natchitoches meat pie out of the fridge. Barely keeping everything from falling out of his hands, he made his careful way to the living room. He set down all of the iced teas on the coffee table, and paused to listen to what everyone was talking about. He wasn’t sure he was even involved in this conversation, but he did have a few things to say about Texas. But first. Pointing at the iced teas, Bastien waited for a slight pause in the conversation to say, “Blake. Louis. Clovis. Catalina.” It was obviously instructions for who was to have iced tea (and who was not). He gave his voice an extra flash of charm when he mentioned the last two names. He made no mention of anyone who hadn’t been granted a beverage by him, though he did glance at Raiden, apparently surprised that they were out and socializing. He didn’t look at JJ, though he did feel tempted to glance at them just to show he wasn’t totally ignoring his friend. But he was ignoring him. That was the whole point. And Aki? To be frank, he had forgotten Aki existed. Bastien paused, then pointed to the glass he had poured for himself. “Akira.” That would help him get on Cat’s good side. He grabbed the last iced tea and strode over to Tiras with the tea in one hand and the meat pie in another. Looking over their shoulder, he read the text. He had left his own phone in his room, but he assumed - or hoped - he’d gotten a similar text. “You think everything’s sketchy,” he muttered under his breath. Then, out loud, he said, “I think Catalina and Clovis know how to handle this situation best.” Man, it was hard to suck up when he didn’t know which side they were on.
Glancing away from the group, he noticed the amount of sweat on Tiras. They were sweating like a fried monkey. He moved around in front of them and pushed the food and drink towards them. “Eat something.” They had been fighting about this for days, but Bastien had seen that little swoon of fatigue earlier, and he wasn’t backing down this time. Geez, Tiras was sweating a lot. Bastien immediately pressed the cold-beaded glass up against their forehead to cool them down. “It’s iced tea,” he said, like Tiras had never heard of iced tea before. He stayed there for a few moments then, feeling he might be holding the glass against their forehead a little too long, he plonked the glass into their hand. “I can’t believe I have to do this,” he said in utter indignation. Because he hated doing stuff like this for Tiras. He wanted it to be known to everyone in the general vicinity.