It all goes so well when people don't see you, so it's easier to hide away. And why wouldn't you want to keep away from the eyes of others? You're hideous to the world at large, despite your own opinions of yourself, no matter if you're human or otherwise. You don't appear to be anything most would want to be around, much less befriend. If you're human, your appearance could be chalked up to mutation, a freak chance at birth, or an an accident later in life; if you're not human, you just happen to exist in a place where those who look like you would never be accepted by the mainstream. Maybe it's not even your whole appearance, though. Your point of contention could be something like an injury or prosthetic that makes you feel not whole, though it may be insignificant in the view of the kind and open-minded. There's more comfort in covering that up and not letting anyone get close.
In any case, you don't expect someone to love you, be attracted to you, or even want to be with you, especially a beautiful someone. Yet somehow, somebody does...or, at least, it seems that way. Will this new development last? Can you put your demons at bay long enough for it to do so?
HOW TO PLAY
- Comment with your character, canon, preferences, and whether or not you want shipping only or smut. Also, information about what side your character fits into best is imperative!
- Reply to others.
- Use the RNG to determine your prompt or choose your own.
PROMPTS
- Meeting | You've never seen anyone who doesn't balk at your appearance, but they don't.
- Growing Close | It starts as a friendship or an alliance, the grows to- more?
- Jealousy | There's no way they could see you as anything special. Surely, they have someone more handsome or beautiful in their sights.
- Realizing Feeling | At first, you didn't realize how your heart was feeling just by them being around, but now it's becoming clear: you're falling for them.
- Can't Tell Them | You'll ruin your bond with them should you tell them how you really feel. They'll be disgusted, so you'll keep mum.
- Touch | They touch you without a hint of distaste, which could be a big plus compared to what you usually deal with.
- No Difference | Actually, they can't tell that you're different, due to lack of vision or something similar. All they can discern is your personality.
- The Way It Used to Be | You didn't use to look this way, and it's hard to come to terms with your new look and how it affects
- Confession | You can't keep in your emotions anymore, or they accidentally get revealed.
- Good | They share your feelings! You never could have imagined this, but you couldn't ask for more.
- Bad | ...oh, you thought they...oh, they're so sorry.
- Scared | "Friendship" nor a "relationship" was never on their mind. In fact, they're scared of you.
- Cruel | All of their supposed kindness was actually just them using you for their benefit. To think, you really believed they cared about you!
- Defense | They step on the line for you, standing up to those who'd consider you a monster or somehow lesser.
- Uncovered | You're exposed and they can see everything you've tried to hide. You want to crawl into a hole and die. They want to keep you from feeling that way.
- Shouldn't Be | People oppose your relationship, and there may be some points to the arguments.
- Intimacy | Even being close, which most take for granted, could be a new and possibly uncomfortable event for you.
- Smut | The obligatory smut option, with all the baggage, angst, and difficulties that may come with it.
- Misunderstanding | You heard them insinuate that you're nothing but the ugly outside, or, at least, that's what you think came out.
- Bad End | The messy breakup option...or worse.
- Good End | The happy ending option...or better.
- WILDCARD
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bakerstreet2019-06-16 03:14 pm
Loki Laufeyson | Marvel 616 | OTA
no prompt; we do what we want
It's always a virgin, sometimes a girl, sometimes--as is the case this year--a boy. This one is not drugged, although he's had a couple glasses of wine and quite a bit of good food as a farewell gift, so he's a little drowsy. Seated in the haycart, he feels a little silly decorated as he is. He's got a white robe and no shoes, flowers in a little wreath on his head and around his wrists. They didn't have to drug him, because he volunteered.
It only made sense. His Aunt just died, so no one needs him. Better him than his best friend or the sweet girl he's about to marry. Better him than one of the teenagers with prospects, or the schoolgirls with hope of marrying or maybe leaving town and making it to college. He's got a couple books with him, which is weirdly optimistic, but without shoes he can't make much use of his leg braces, so there are crutches hung on the side of the cart. No one expects him to need them. He's actually shackled to the cart.
They guide him up to the little cave in the hillside, and he gets a few quick hugs farewell, and the remainder of the bottle of wine he's tasted, and then he's let be.
He hopes the god will come for him before dark. He doesn't fancy getting bitten by mosquitoes while waiting for his fate. It's not that he's not scared, he's just...practical.
/defiant dubstep
He didn't want them. Didn't want the whimpering and crying, the fearful glances and cowering. Some tried to be devout, to be good and pious and brave, but it always seemed to break when they actually saw him. it often hurt worse to see the fear take root there. Needless to say, he wasn't doing much of anything with them. Foisting each sacrifice back out into a different town with enough money to make their own way. He was alone, but he was fine with it.
Just fine.
needless to say he never looked forward to this day. But the newest offering wouldn't be waiting long. Interesting that he was still standing, even if he was somewhat tipsy. Usually they were too drugged to know which way was up. Made things easier. As it was, Cricket would become aware of him, a presence farther back in the cave, a darker patch than the shadows surrounding him, green eyes giving off a strange, acidic sort of glow that reflected off the talons on the hand that lifted, to beckon him along. Time to see if this one would come quietly or not. Luckily there weren't stairs, for all the Eyrie proper was much higher than they were. But then that was one of the benefits of magic.
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He's done a lot of reading in preparation, here. He's read accounts of a fearsome winged being with eyes that can pierce a man's soul at a glance. There's a lot written about how terrifying the bird-god looks, but less about what he wants or what he might do of offended. That seems telling to Cricket.
Enough so that he takes heart. Untethered from the cart and left behind with his books and his crutches, he waits, and not for long.
The first glimmer of green light reminds him of nothing more frightening than fireflies, and Loki might be puzzled or gratified by the expression of curious awe that crosses the boy's face, rather than instant terror. It clouds a little when he realizes what he's actually looking at, but he doesn't run or cry. He just tucks his bottle and books in the bag on his shoulder and tucks the crutches under his arms, hobbling carefully back toward his...host? Master? Fate?
"H'llo?" He calls softly. "I-I'm Cricket, sir. Blessed Midsummer, sir."
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And the storybooks didn't have much on him. Not beyond his fearsome visage, the rumors that flew about him from every corner. But nothing about what he was like, nothing about his actual providence, nothing about an actual name. Titles aplenty, Moon King, Trickster, Magpie, among many others, more fawning and less, some downright ridiculous.
He wasn't sure what to make of the awe. Wasn't sure what it meant for things as talons clicked together reflexively, feathers ruffling uncertainly, black and white alike as he realized with something of a start that this year's sacrifice was rather calmly... greeting him.
What was he to do with that?
A low warble of sound in response, before he gave another, almost uncomfortable gesture. This close, Cricket could see just how tall this creature was, towering easily over any, even stooped as he was. His gait as he moved to lead the way was awkward, and he didn't seem to know what to do with his hands, talons either wringing before him, or dropped at his sides, though this left his flight feathers trailing along practically behind him.
The Eyrie beyond the opening in the back of the cave might have been cheery if better cared for, but it seemed an air of general neglect had settled over the hall, windows shuttered tightly, most doors shut tight, only a brazier here and there offering enough light to keep the place from being pitch dark. Not that it seemed the god had any trouble navigating as he lead the way, tail flicking along behind him.
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He's not sure he's all that shiny. He's here, though, and he can be polite, even if his heart is racing now. The bird-god is huge.
Cricket follows him, either way, making no move to run or to touch anything without being invited. The light is dim, but it gives him a better look at the Magpie's silhouette. He wonders if it's uncomfortable, to be bent over like that. "S-sorry if I'm a little slow," he says after a moment, a little out of breath from following. "I got weak legs and they wouldn't let me keep the braces. I hope you don't mind. I had to argue with 'em that none of the rules said the sacrifice had to be perfect. Don't even say it's got to be a virgin, so I figured you ain't as picky as they think you are."
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But he doesn't seem interested in menacing his guest, beyond what might happen on accident simply through his existing, which couldn't really be helped. He was what he was, after all. He tilted his head slightly, bright gaze skipping down to his legs, a definite sign that he was following what was being said. Talons clicking together again at a more thoughtful sort of pace, the god making a face. A grimace it looked like, at the talk about the specifics of the sacrifice, feathers ruffling in his annoyance. The stupid tradition he didn't know how to make them stop. It was ridiculous is what it was, and he gave his head a shake.
"Not picky." Confirmed in a low rasp, the words little more than a croak of sound.
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"'Cause I'd feel bad if I wasn't good enough or...you know, whatever. I'll do whatever you want me to. Whatever's gotta happen. I just ain't much of a runner."
"I can work, though. If you wanted." Maybe the Magpie doesn't want to kill people after all. He seems more like he's annoyed to be interrupted than bloodthirsty.
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"Wanted sleep." Was that a bit of sass in the quiet rasp of the Magpie's voice? It's entirely possible, though it's hard to read the expression on the inhuman face. Another lift of hands, a beckoning gesture before he was moving again. Not quite as quickly as before, in deference to his guest's legs however. He thinks there's some bedrooms this way. He's fairly certain that's what's behind the doors.
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"I didn't ask to be--well, no, that's not true. I kinda did volunteer. Only 'cause it made sense for it to be me and not someone with better prospects." He's quiet for a moment, thinking it all over. It might be a little too early to conclude the Magpie isn't going to hurt or kill him for sure, but it's seeming more and more like that as they cross the hall.
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Yes. That was what that poke of the lip meant, with that light scolding. A wary sort of sound slipped from him, something almost tentatively apologetic in the tone of it. But then most of what he seemed to be doing had that same tentative air to it, like the bird-god simply didn't entirely remember how actually interacting with others worked.
And admittedly getting a bit distracted with frustration as each door he tried opened to a room, and from most of the appointments it looked like some had been bedrooms. If not for the complete lack of beds. When had-?
Oh. Right. One of the terrified little pious ones years and years ago that so stubbornly wanted to stay despite how she cringed every time he came near. He'd removed the beds altogether in an attempt to simply convince her it was better to leave. He'd convinced her finally, and that was that, but he'd never seen any reason to replace them. A night only. His strange sacrifice would keep for an evening, and he could be dropped at the nearest town come morning. It wasn't safe for him to travel at night, even with his trouble with his legs.
A low rumble slipping from him as he just pushed the last door shut with an emphatically annoyed huff, small noises as he paced a few steps, pondering the issue.
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Cricket doesn't think gods get senile, and this one doesn't even look old; more like he was injured a long while back and it didn't heal quite right. Maybe he fought in a war, like Howard Bondurant did, and came out of it hurt.
Maybe Cricket can help somehow? Of course, there's the question of what's happened to all of the other sacrifices. Clearly they're not here, but if the Magpie was going around killing them, he'd have been a lot more aggressive to Cricket.
He hobbles a couple steps closer, within arm's reach. "I'm not sure why you're fussin'. What can I do? You're lookin' for something?"
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That didn't preclude the Magpie killing them elsewhere of course, but he didn't seem like he was much interested in mauling or murdering his current guest. No aggression, no coldness, no calculation to his gaze, no sign that he might be thinking of the best way to carve into him. Just a very confused bird-god, all the more annoyed at his own lost state than anything.
"No-" A grimace- at least it was probably a grimace- crossing his face, talons flexing as if trying to grasp the words he was looking for.
"Bed." A slight relief as he found the right word, the Magpie's annoyance settling slightly. "No bed."
Which would be a problem, especially with his guest already having leg issues. Maybe...
A fluff of feathers as he shook himself, a few downy wisps of dark fluff spinning through the air to flutter to the floor before he nodded, mostly to himself.
"Come," Muttered as he turned again, a bit more sure of himself. "Come come."
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He turns pink and wills himself to display some goddamn common sense. It's far more likely the Magpie is only looking for a guest bedroom. (Or is it?)
Either way, he follows, sheepish and awkward but not exactly timid. He signed up for this, odd or no. "I appreciate the hospitality, sir," he says, rallying just a little bit. "Don't mean to put you to no trouble."
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It was smaller than the hall they'd left, but still large enough for the bird-god to move comfortably, even if there was a distinct sense of clutter. Not enough light to see much of it by, but the nest was within the range of the dim light, a veritable pile of furs, feathers, pillows, cushions, and blankets. Without much overture, the Magpie climbed into it, talons going after a slightly looser edge to tease out a number of the cushioning items, nudging them into a heap just within range on the floor. Nudging them around until it seemed they made up a semi-respectable nest that would fit his guest, before his gaze skipped towards Cricket, visible even in the dim lighting.
"Sleep." An inviting gesture towards the new nest before he was settling himself down a bit more. Or trying to anyways, the awkwardness in his uncertainty of how to let his arms rest when he stood evident here as he shifted to try and figure out how to settle for the evening.
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There's no smell of death or bones or blood. Just clutter and a little smoke and cushions all over. When he realizes it's a giant nest, Cricket almost wants to laugh out loud with relief, but instead he just catches his breath in a gulp of air.
And then the Magpie is digging around the next, pulling out pillows and blankets and...
And he's making Cricket a miniature nest of his own, right next to him.
This is not a terror-god. This is a giant floofy bird that's just trying to get by in a world full of humans that want something from him. Cricket breaks into a smile and sets his bag and crutches down, coming over to settle into the mini-next. "Thank you," he says.
Normally he wouldn't be going to bed at this hour, but it occurs to him the Magpie did say he wanted sleep, and most birds do bed down at dusk. He'll adapt. He sinks onto his side, resting his head on one arm and looking over at his host. "This is actually really soft," he sighs and stretches a little. "I can make you breakfast in the morning, if you want." Assuming he has food to cook.
"What should I call you, sir?"
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Not feeling it quite so keenly at the smile that his companion wore all of the sudden. Just watching him a moment as if the expression was entirely alien to him, head tilting one way, then the other, like any bird presented with a puzzle. But he accepts the nest, and that's good enough for now. The Magpie rummaging once again before coming up with a thin, silky cloak, something he had no idea where he'd gotten it, but it was light enough for the weather and large enough to drape over Cricket. Humans liked being covered when they nested. He remembers that much at least.
"Breakfast." He didn't bother with it much. Ate what he needed and otherwise left it be. But there was a kitchen, and there was food so if his guest needed to eat until the bird-god found a place for him to go, well he wouldn't starve. But it was the question of names that seemed to utterly stymie the Magpie. Letting out a low, uncertain croak as he cast about for some hint, some memory of a name. He knew he'd had one. But what was it?
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The impression is only strengthened when the Magpie picks up a silky cloak and drapes it over Cricket, like he's tucking him in. The young man blushes again, but his grin lingers, and he curls up a little under the material. It's nice. Nicer stuff than he's ever worn.
"Ain't callin' you 'Breakfast'," he teases softly. "What if I call you Pretty-Bird?"
A little presumptuous, really, calling a god the same pet name you might call a companion parrot, but maybe he won't mind?
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A light crackle of noise at the teasing about being called 'Breakfast' the bird-god tilting his head to peer sidelong at his guest in response. But the suggestion after seems more surprising than anything, the Magpie ruffling feathers lightly as he sinks into his nest as if uncertain over the idea of being 'pretty' more than anything.
"Pretty-Bird." Rasped finally, in a tone that seemed accepting, before his gaze was a bit more curious, head nodding slightly towards Cricket. What about him?
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Was that little noise a laugh? Cricket chooses to believe so.
"You're huge," he tells him frankly. "And I reckon you're as powerful as they say. That don't mean you ain't a Pretty-Bird, though."
"You can call me Cricket," he says, interpreting that nod. "Unless there's somethin' else you'd rather call me. I'm supposed to be here for you, you know? I'm just glad you're being kind."
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"Cricket." Croaked out in response, seeming pleased that he insisted on the compliment, but the idea that it was surprising that he might be kind? Well it wasn't surprising anymore, but there was still a low long-suffering grumble of noise from him, because what in the gods names are they teaching everyone about him these days?
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He's quiet a moment, letting his body relax into the nest. The flowers in his hair smell sweet, probably because his head is crushing them. They weren't going to last into the next day anyway. He could take them off, but they're not bothering him. Besides, maybe the god likes them.
"You know," he says at length, softly, "if I hadn't come here, about the only thing I could've done was work on my friend Jack's farm. Might've been okay. I don't like pigs, but chickens are nice."
He rolls his head to the side to look at Pretty-Bird. "My Aunt died, see? A few months ago. Had to sell just about everything we had to pay to bury her. House, too, only I didn't tell anyone that until after they'd accepted me for the sacrifice."
"I'd do just about anything for Jack, but I don't wanna live on his charity. This is better. Especially if I can help you."
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Even less sure what to do with the young man now. He was... alone. Had friends but there was something about the unmooring that came with a lack of family that wasn't quite solved by friends, he'd found. It would mean setting him up in a new town would be easier, less ties to hurt. But also it made the Magpie want to let him go even less. He wasn't entirely sure why. He didn't remember enough to say why, wasn't sure how he felt about that.
Even if one hand snuck out to pluck talontips lightly through Cricket's hair.
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He stays still as the clawed hand reaches toward his head, which is a sign of some kind of real bravery. Even well-meaning and gentle, those are intimidating talons. When they start combing through his hair, he blinks and smiles and relaxes, closing his eyes. That feels nice.
"Y'want the flowers? I think they're just for decoration."
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Talons not going for the flowers, still threading through Cricket's hair, the massive creature just letting out a low, lazy-sounding warble of sound in response.
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"You can touch me. I ain't scared of that. You're bein' awful sweet. Thank you. I wasn't sure what this'd be like, but I think I like you."
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"Like?" Croaked out in a tone that was entirely uncertain, something cautiously soft in the single word question.
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"It's a'ight," he murmurs softly, reassuring. "You've been alone for a long time, haven't you? Don't know why you didn't keep the other ones here, but you ain't gotta be alone now, if you like me okay."
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"Scared," Explained with a huff of noise, for all it didn't clarify who was scared. That offer though, it made him a little scared, especially at how much he wanted it. Wanted Cricket to stay with him. "Like you okay, yes yes."
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There's a difference between respect and fear. It sounds like the Magpie doesn't really want anyone afraid of him, either way.
Cricket sits up and scoots his blankets closer, settling so he can curl his arm around the bird-god's. "That's good," he says. "Let's try an' be friends, then."