OPEN♔POST

[tinkertank]

❧Dance ❧With ❧Me?




➷ Pick A Muse
➷ Post a prompt, picture prompt, or set the scene.
➷ Label who you're tagging.
➷ NO REGRETS, JUST LOVE. We can dance until we die, bb.
➷ ...Something like that!

Comments

you know damn well who

[shylyintrepid]

it's a good thing we didn't finish all the ice pops!

[laughingandlyric]

[Spending vacation at their grandmother's house was always a treat; especially in the summer. In addition to being large enough to ensure a whole Surma tribe a private room for each of its members (and thus, the dreamy privacy and quiet it afforded Jean was one of his favourite things about it), it also had some amazing rooms. The greenhouse was almost as lovely as the kitchen was homey. He wasn't sure which he preferred.

The master bathroom, however, with its over-large tub with too-many functions, was apparently making a go for the top spot.

With the family out at some dinner they had blissfully gotten out of, Jean couldn't help but laugh a little bit, under his breath, at the sight of what his better half had thrown together.

Lights, candles... action?]

Did you put lavender in the water, too? It smells amazing in here.

[He gave, nudging him a little and giving him an affectionate look, pleased and a little bit red; the effort was so extraordinary that he couldn't keep the smile off his face any more than he could the blush.]

Jolllly! You are totally welcome to say that Apollo is a "spirit healer" or something for lols XD

[kouros]

[fliesonfour]

[He felt just a little bit absurd. To be frank, he was weighing the absurdity he felt against his anxiety of his symptoms for the better half of the last five minutes; and in the end, the larger mass was definitely, definitely his panic. It outshined the silliness of all this in such a way that he barely noticed it, the longer he had sat there.

The idea of a 'Spirit Healer' was, inherently, unscientific. However! There was something to the idea of mind and body being linked somewhat in health, and relaxation being all together never bad for you... and therefore, this (possibly) hokey establishment he had come to, by the reference of a friend, might do well by him yet. And there was water, to be sure, a spring; a good sign.

Water was always best when it was hot and immobile, and worst when it was coming down from the sky like a cold sheet of ill-fate.

Straightening when Apollo entered; as this was the proprietor he had been asked to wait for; he offered a little bow at once.]

My good sir! And not a moment too soon. I am afraid I am quite ill-- [He'd had a soreness in his throat and a heat about his temples, lately. He might as well have tucked himself into his white linens already, if nothing could be done for it.] --but with very merry hopes! You have come highly recommended.

[A doctor visiting a healer to help cure a cold that might be the death of him, through stress alone.

Only in Europe.]

Just kind of want to do something with Blaine leaving Som sob

[spaztastic]

[There was a soft knock coming from Peter's door. Should he open it, he will find one Shiki Misaki looking a little... out of it; cuddling Mr. Mew tight in her arms and her expression not exactly like the usual sunny one she wears most of the time.

She should be used to people being able to wake up and go home. She should be. But it's still hard when it's someone you have really come to care about.]

Blaine :(((

[peterparker]

[Peter put down the cereal bowl he'd been at; it was already soggy, so no big deal; and headed for the door. When he got it open, still chewing a little, his brows raised in some surprise at the sight of Shiki. She still came around, yeah, sure; it was just less, since Bolin had gone.]

Shiki? Hey.

[And... it didn't take Spider Senses to tell that something was obviously wrong.]

Come in?

⇾ bingley!

[sensibles]

[hastheadvantage]

[Well, what should he say or do, really? He was quite happy to have the girls at Neatherfield, as he'd seen Jane's mood improve considerably in the presence of her sisters! Not that she was not a happy soul generally speaking, but there was a light about her that reflected off those other girls. Or so Charles truly felt.

She was off with Lizzy, of course, walking the grounds. Lydia had a rare moment of leisure and leave, and spent it with Kitty in the parlour. It was only Mary who was left off, and as Charles prompted a smile at her, he felt sure he mustn't really be feeling awkward. After all, they were family now!]

I hope that the trip here was no trouble to you! The weather has been uncommon hot lately. Ladies have quite so many layers of skirts to wear... I am impressed by your bravery in the face of the summer months!

dr. leonard mccoy

[vulcanizing]

[ Dancing was - is - interesting to a Vulcan. It is a state of expressing emotion. Once can hit the steps perfectly in time with the music; they can have perfect balance and posture... and it be wrong. It is fascinating that humans would find the way to show their energy and emotions in a way that was considered refined or exotic. It is no wonder that Nyota would like to dance on their anniversary.

It did, however, leave him in a position where he had to learn. Which is exactly why he is at the strange club in San Fransisco. Eyebrow up and quietly analyzing the entire situation. ]

[maythrowup]

[Of all the cockamamy things--...

Well, Leonard had nothing against dancing, specifically. It was romantic, it took skill and feeling, it was one of the ways two people could come together; be close and intimate; that was still doable in public spaces. He'd been a little bit of a fan of ballroom dancing, especially, during his college years. Helped to flex out the muscles going soft from the hours sitting and pouring over medical textbooks. Meeting a pretty woman or two, clad in a neat little dress? Not bad, either.

The main event, really.

Which is what makes this so ridiculous. Spock was definitely neither of those things.

Sighing and rolling his eyes, Leonard nods to the floor.]

Well you won't learn through osmosis. You've gotta get out there and try.

james t. kirk (have some adorable)

[oswinforthewin]

yesplz

[fullimpulse]

For the record, Os? This is gross.

[He informs her, imperiously... but doesn't let go of her pinky. It being only the pinky makes it 1/5th gross, instead of the full 5/5ths. As it wasn't pre-meditated, that helped, too.

It wasn't everyday that you saw a shooting star; even him, a Kansas boy, with the wide open sky at his disposal all those nights he'd laid outside in fields just to keep from going home, curfew be damned... even with all that, it had been rare.

So that they'd both seen it, both gasped like kids in a candy shop, and went for each other's hands...?

Hell. It was reactionary.

There was a whole wide world out there, and Jim wouldn't be fooling anyone if he tried to say he didn't have an unbridled passion for it.]

anyone you would like!

[tearings]

[terryfic]

[Getting out around the coast of England is nice, really, especially during that one week of summer where it's warm. As much as Terry likes the booming pace of school and that 'other life', as his Mum called it, there was a kind of slowness to being in the village he'd grown up in, surrounded by men and women who had humdrum jobs that just... was revitalizing?

There was a sort of magic to boring situations that it took a sharp eye and tired person to see. It was like how elderly people could sort of look at things; old photos, old desks, old broken toys; and see something else in them, that made their eyes dance. Like they were viewing a thousand memories, or secrets and the boredom was really all right because life couldn't possibly be boring when every bit of it had so many moments soaked in.

That's why he liked the pier. Imagining the ships, the fishermen, the old seafarer's stories.

He had his legs hanging over the pier, toes just barely brushing the water, trouser legs rolled up.

Just bloody perfect, really.]

Peter Parker~

[iamyourgod]

We can dance until we die, bb.

WOW. Holy Cr*p.

[peterparker]

[After fighting Godzilla, how hard could tailing a mob boss be?

Answer? Really difficult. Like, Vengeance Mode on an FPS game levels of difficult. Mostly 'cause this guy had more security than Air Force One, and Peter's outfit wasn't exactly covert enough to go waltzing through bars, nightclubs and dinner parties in. (In plain clothes? He somehow stuck out worse.)

Still, this guy was bad news, and he employed a lot of bad news. Hence why Peter was in his apartment right now; or, rather, on its ceiling. The guy was out and he figured, if he could just get some dirt on him and deliver it to the cops, that would be enough for an arrest.

He'd already covered the cameras in webbing and gotten in. This was the easy part, right?]

⇾ your choice ;)

[bedside]

Anybody that you want c: Surprise me

[sticktothescript]

BONES (....h-hi? SORT OF AU FOR LESS BODY COUNT?)

[tothelast]

[The Vengeance, once pulled into the Earth's atmosphere, fell towards the ground at a predictable, known rate. Even if he weren't highly intelligent in mathematics, the last digital tones of the ship's computer narrated their altitude in decreasing increments. 600km, 100km, 4km...

But the ship impacts San Francisco Bay, the saucer section chipping into the water like a poorly-thrown frisbee. The massive starship slows immediately, skidding to a stop just shy of the waterfront. A tidal wave surges inwards, but no buildings were destroyed. In a rage, he destroys at least one console with his bare fists before escaping on foot. Spock still runs him down, they still fight atop a garbage transport, and in his fiery vengeance, the Vulcan still beats him unconscious.

He awakens in a medical bay, head throbbing and body aching. Augments heal rapidly, but it's been only a couple of hours. The concussion will take some time to repair. Surprisingly (or perhaps not), the first person he sees is Dr. McCoy, the one person who had reacted with fascination, not fear. He wonders if, given the circumstances of Kirk's health, McCoy will choose to preserve his life or end it.

It would be poetic, he thinks, removed from life by the very same vocation that created it. Khan blinks owlishly, feeling the tightness of restraints across his body and the cocktail of sedatives in his system. The monitor will beep his vitals and alert McCoy to his sudden return to consciousness.]

[cruelpatience]

[fliesonfour]

[Joly had decided it would be wise to take a short trip to Chartres, to take in the air. It was not very far outside of Paris, but it was going in the right direction towards warmth, and the township had less of the dinge about it and less of the damp. That led him to believe that it was as revitalizing a place as could possibly be (though he made no mistake that the usual dangers for cold and flu still lurked there.)

He had thought it would be good for Musichetta too, and had entreated her to come. Not only good for her, but a good deal romantic, at that! One should always treat their lady, wasn't that the case? He was sure Bossuet agreed, but that he was too cross with carriages after the spokes on the last one he'd entered had broke but to come with them.

Which, decidedly, proved wise. The 'country' road was a little rough on the horses, and rougher on the wheels, and they had had a little break in one and were now awaiting repair. Rather than fretting too immodestly (after all, the sun was still out), Joly put a hand up to help his girl out of the carriage, having some idea of what they could do to pass the time! Indeed.]

A little pause in the journey, is all! Might you be tempted to muddy a shoe with me? Oh, do come!

[Smiled, poking his head in just a little to make sure she was in good enough spirits to take his hand and be led out.]

m. prouvaire

[unaccepted]

Their discussion of politics wanes as night falls, save perhaps in one or two tables of the backroom, but the drinks certainly do not. There is a festive mood in the air that comes with bringing excitable young minds together, and even Grantaire cannot repel it for long. His drinking tonight does not send him into melancholy, and instead he chats excessively with any who will listen to him.

When one partner leaves, he latches on to the next (unknowingly) in line, and this time it is Jean Prouvaire. He places a firm hand on his shoulder and wastes no time on greetings, "My friend, I come to you with this secret as I know you speak too softly to reveal it. Surely in your readings you have come across creatures known as fairies, fae, demons. I will tell you now that they came to me at Parc Monceau and stole my best hat."

[vivelavenir]

Looking upwards as a hand clapped down on his shoulder, he smiled in his brief, fluttering way, as warm from conversation as he was from wine, and as willing to listen as ever. It was the wine that generally baited him to speak, where usually his chords were rusty, and topics of passion gained an especially fond vocal attachment. Who among mankind could not be tempted to passionate words by the introduction of a topic so fanciful as the wee folk?

"You come to me and tell all in the guise of a secret, but you must know me better than that. Poets who enjoy the pagan gods as much as the good god are in the habit of finding fae on their long, rambling walks, and beg an audience. They are demoted deities, you know; they have stooped in holy esteem, and so they will stoop to pick up your purse, or glove, or cane if you drop it." He leaned back in his chair, and posed in return, in a cheerful mood for playing along, "I dropped a glove in Champ de Mars yesterday evening, and sure enough, a fairy wearing your hat dropped to pick it up. It was an ill fit, and it rolled off in the attempted theft; I took the hat hostage, and he with my glove, we were at an impasse. So we talked into the evening, beside where the tree of liberty used to grow, and he told me all about you, Monsieur." Looking pleased with his own account, he finished with a light flourish of fingers, "There are no secrets kept from poets by the muses."

Will you consider it now? <3

[bestofthedevil]

Nobody can give you freedom.



Nobody can give you equality or justice.



If you are a man, you take it. - Malcolm X



Knowledge is free.
We are Anonymous.
We are Legion.
We do not forgive.
We do not forget.
Expect us.

This is quite the way to flirt.

[laughingandlyric]

[Well, so far, so good. With someone doing hospital watch duty, another responsible for the actual logistics of tracking camera feeds and tracing attempted hacks, another responsible for escort detail, and then a few extra for just-in-case, for backup... well. It left Jehan and Ambrose with relatively little to do, actually, what with Ambrose's role being what came first; like a thunderclap, the loud bang that put two and two together, warned of what was forthcoming; and Jehan's role being stationed at the tail end of their justice plan; the strike of lightening, bright and illuminating, surefire and hopefully memorable.

All they had to do now was sit back. Wait. Worry.

And while Jehan was wonderful at fretting, and tremendous at being morose, could think in romantic shade of worst-case scenarios and paint stories across his imagination that were made blacker and bluer by the more brutal realities they had seen match them... well.

Well, that didn't mean he should. If he was alone, he would have fallen into it, but with Ambrose right there, frowning into his hands like that?

Instinctively, he reached over with a hand, to give his knee a light squeeze.]

I think it'll be okay. Everyone is doing their best; they're going to protect him. I really believe that we can.

Peter! /finger steeple (if ya want this elsewhere, let me knooow)

[hemogoblin]

[While Peter went back to Gwen's grave every day for months on end, Harry sat in a cell in Ravencroft and regrouped, comfortable in the knowledge that he'd not only taken away Gwen Stacey from poor Peter--his "friend", heh, what a stupid notion--but that Peter was directly responsible for her death. Too bad he didn't get to see it happen, get to see Peter sobbing and crying and begging her to live. Harry had destroyed Spider-man, he thought, in that moment, and that was only confirmed after Peter didn't don that ridiculous looking spandex suit of his again.

Harry thought about other things during those months, too, though; things like surpassing his father, like gaining some semblance of control over the changes that plagued him since he'd injected himself with the spider venom. Not that he would ever regret that; he'd saved himself, after all, it was the only way, no thanks to Peter. And as he'd told Gwen before, Harry was dead. Or the old Harry was anyway; the old, sad Harry who'd just wished dear old dad would love him, who leaned far too much on Peter Parker as a child and then again the second he returned to New York, the old Harry who had been used and thrown away by pretty much everyone. Never again, he was done being other people's doormat.

Mr. Fiers--one of his father's associates, apparently--had come to see him almost immediately, had let him know that he'd be free to leave Ravencroft whenever he was ready to. But he hadn't been ready to at the time, and he only was when he'd learned to control the changes enough that he was sure he could go out again, could be Harry Osborn, CEO of Oscorp, heir to his father's legacy. The other face, the glider, the suit, those would be his mask, like Peter's mask.

He'd been looking over the other names that Fiers had brought him in his cell, all while the Rhino (old Norman really had had an unhealthy obsession with animal projects) wreaked havoc in Manhattan, when he saw Spider-man show up to stop him. So, Peter hadn't checked out after all. Good, Harry would've been disappointed if he had, and none of this would be nearly as interesting, or as much fun. Months ago, when he'd first been brought to Ravencroft, he'd thought of other ways to take Peter's hope, of how he really wasn't done with him, not yet. He'd been secretly hoping that Spider-man would make an appearance if the right homicidal maniac showed up to cause trouble.

That was why he'd chosen today to leave Ravnecroft, why he'd donned a suit, called a limo and set out for Queens, for the Parker residence. While Spider-man was busy fighting his henchman, Harry payed Aunt May a visit, sat at her kitchen table, and made small talk with her about his and Peter's childhood. She remembered him, and how he'd been there for Peter, and all Harry could think was how Peter wasn't there for him, how he'd denied him what he needed to survive. How selfish.

Thinking of Peter's betrayal always made the anger boil in the pit of his stomach. Harry couldn't help him be tempted to by the thought of just snapping May's neck and leaving her for Peter to find; the thought of doing it in front of him is an exciting one, too. But no, he'd wait. May was the last person Peter loved, after all, and killing her now would make things go too quickly. Better to drag out the threats; Harry very much doubted that she knew Peter's terrible secret, even though he'd probably come home bruised and battered on a regular basis.

It was easy to hide his true intentions, to have a friendly chat, all while taking the occasional glance at the TV in the background, watching New York One's coverage of Spidey's battle with the Rhino. When Peter finally does come home (soon, please let it be soon), he'll find Harry sitting at the kitchen table, talking to Aunt May while he waits for his best "friend".]

Sorry Harry, you aren't wanted anywhere.

[peterparker]

[You know what they don't tell you, in dramatic movies and misleading television shows, where everyone's immortal and they always come back? They don't tell you how gravity changes when someone you love dies. How much harder it is to get out of bed in the morning, when your parents burning up is front-page news. How difficult it is to make your legs take the stairs down, one at a time, when you can hear your aunt crying over your uncle in the living room. How it seems impossible to make your chest rise and fall against all that weight, how futile breathing seems, when you're knelt beside your girlfriend's grave. Time has the audacity to continue, as if it didn't know it shoulda just stopped when she did, or he did, or they did; that it should just be night-time forever, turn off the sun.

And then the questions come. The questions make gravity lighter. It's easy to get out of bed when you wonder 'why did they leave me?' You don't want to stare at the ceiling thinking about it. It's simple to run down the stairs when you think 'why didn't I stop that guy?' And then you plunge out the door, as if you'll get a second chance if you sprint fast enough.

You sit by her grave and you wonder- Why didn't I just let her get on the plane? What if I hadn't broken my promise? How couldn't I have been faster? Was it all my fault?

Then you see something like Rhino splashed against the news, some crazy guy in a crazy suit, and you forget a little, about your own crazy guy in the crazy suit who had also been at fault. You get up. You walk downstairs. You take responsibility.

Peter had just been decked by about a tonne of steel, and walking in through his front door, rubbing at his jaw with his knuckles, bag slung over his shoulder at a slump... it was the best he'd felt in months.]

Aunt May, I'm back!

[Called, not bothering to kick off his shoes, rubbing a hand through his hair to muss in a more I'm-eighteen-and-don't-care fashion and less of an I'm-a-super-hero-and-just-got-punted-through-a-skyscraper one.

He'd head into the kitchen, feeling real hunger for the first time in months, right there, riding the steady wave of adrenaline. And then, Time did that funny thing that he'd been waiting for it to do. He ducked his head into the kitchen, and Time stood still.

There, next to the wilting daisies in their vase on the table, with a tall glass of the milk he'd remembered to grab on the way home on Monday, fresh-baked cookies sitting on his plate, looking so deceptively, infuriatingly normal... there was Harry Osborn.

At once, his jaw unhinged and his eyes were moving around the room, as if he expected to see- what? A bomb, a henchmen, some nefarious trap set up for just this moment, the your-too-late moment, heart in his throat. When there was nothing, his brow uncreased and his heart clenched up to take its place.

He gripped the siding in the door so hard, he might have dented it. And forced himself to swallow when Aunt May said, 'Look, Peter. Your friend's here.'

With every fiber of his being, he wanted the throttle him into the kitchen cabinets.

Instead...]

Hey, Harry...

[Strained. Grated.]

for peter i hope this is okay~

[nextdoors]

Always the most okay. <3

[peterparker]

A w k w a r d.

So awkward, he'd probably forgotten how to spell the word properly. He'd been dating MJ for- for how long now? (Okay, so remembering dates and times wasn't exactly his strong suit either.) It had been a while. She'd helped him through what had happened with Gwen, become the one place of safety in a storm. It wasn't like Peter really spoke to her about it; that had never been his way of dealing with problems, out loud like that; but she'd been present, and she'd known how to deal with what wasn't being said in a way Peter hadn't known could feel so much like help and even more like home. She didn't keep texting, on nights where he didn't have a lot to say. She insisted on going out for cheeseburgers sometimes, even though it was eleven at night, and even though Peter was in a mood, and she even insisted he was paying for them; and he did, and suddenly, is mood wasn't so black anymore. She didn't ask about the crack in the wall that hadn't been there before, when he'd hit it, on Gwen's birthday. She didn't give him that worried stare that Aunt May did, the one that made him feel guilty to his core for not being stronger, even if she was feeling it.

And as a result, maybe it was the most honest relationship Peter had ever been in. Maybe in just knowing things, just fitting like that, he and MJ worked. A nice, easy, natural lead-in from friends to best friends, from best friends to dating. She'd filled all those gaps in his life, in one fell swoop. Like something he didn't even know he'd been missing out on.

So it felt seriously pretty weird to be standing at her door, and to have dropped his bag just as she'd gone to open it, unzipped, his uh- 'uniform' just. Kinda sitting there.

Okay, so maybe not the most openly honest relationship in the whole wide world, but uh...

"...I do kid's birthday parties?" Tried, looking blankly from the spider-man suite back to her face with the sort of nervous, brief smile that was all teeth and which promised he was lying.

Well, he had been thinking about picking up another part-time job...

Canon!Jehan. Shenanigans. Go.

[daringwaistcoats]

"The story must have a cow in it. The story must involve a treasure chest in it. A character will drink something alchoholic, and the action has far better results than expected. A character becomes contemplative during the story. During the story, a character gets dirty."

(Courtesy of Seventh Sanctum.)

For Obi-Wan >>>

[bringsbalance]

So, Master...

About that speeder you "nicked".

Since it's basically scrap metal now, can we finally agree once and for all that I should do the getaway driving?

(Also, for future reference, you wouldn't need a getaway if you'd just realised the Shistavanen, y'know, don't like the Jedi. Or anyone, basically. Too bad no one advised you to send an envoy...

Oh, wait.)

[hewilllearn]

If I do recall, this "scrap metal" is the perfect souvenir for a man who claims to be one of the best mechanics in our ranks.

(Considering that the Shistavanen needn't have known we were there had it not been for a certain advisement that left was as good as right, I am wont to be skeptical of such advice.)