Ruby Rose May Catchall (Open and Closed Prompts)

[onekindsoul]

Who: Ruby Rose onekindsoul
What: Assorted TDM Prompts.
When: Throughout April
Where: Throughout Trench.

Content Warnings: TDM Prompt Warnings, Will update as necessary



Fate Forged in Steel

[Ruby Rose tended to do most of her weapon making out of her own house. But with sun shining and the weather warming up enough that she could feel it in her own cold blood it was enough to pull her out of the house and make her way over to Prufrock to work on her latest project. And let's be real the chance to see any sort of weapon that Hunters or other Sleepers used was enough to get excited.

So she's taken on some work at a local smithy with the promise of having some time to work on her own project at the same time. She can be found smithing and smelting and working on pieces of something that resembles not only a spear but a guitar as well. There's a fair amount of complicated moving parts that cause it to extend out into the spear and revert back into the guitar shape.

If anyone comes by she'll happily stop in her work and look up with a smile.]

Hey, Can I help you?

May Flower.

[Honestly the first time Ruby sees the festival going on at the board walk she feels a little on edge. It reminds her a lot of her first year in the dream when the towns people went more than a little culty. It had been more than a little dangerous between having to fight one of her closest friends and someone attempting to murder her. But she does her best to sort of push those thoughts aside as this certainly feels more peaceful than the last time around.

It doesn't take her long to accept a drink from a passerby and she finds herself with vibrant red roses growing out or her hair. It's cute, alright?

But... Then she sees the cookies and she's done for. Cookies have been her weakness since she was a kid. She manages to snag a whole plate to herself and inhales them with gusto. Only to find that with each cookie she eats the next one she picks up is bigger than the last.

Before she knows it she's about the same size as the cookies on the plate and she still hasn't quite stopped yet. She's using her scythe to try and cut apart one of the massive cookies to get a crumb that she can eat.

...It takes her a moment and then she realizes the situation she's in.]

Uh- Hey! A little help here?

Mirror Mirror

[Ruby hadn't given much thought to the warnings about the mirrors. That is until she fell victim to the curse herself. Now all she could really do is kick herself as she found herself sitting in the passenger seat as her own body moved against her will.

For the most part this Ruby enough like herself. That is until she something happen that endangered someone in front of her. Whether they were injured by a monster, got into a fight on the street, or even as simple as a paper cut it immediately set this Ruby off. In an instant her scythe was out and with a flourish she was standing between the injured and attacking party, a fierce glare in her mismatched eyes.]

Back off. Or I'm going to start taking limbs next.

Mirror Mirror B

[Or maybe it is as simple as a paper cut, or stubbed. In which case Ruby will take aim with Crescent Rose in it's rifle form and shoot the book right off the table. (Or feel free to bring in another minor inconvenience to have Violent Savior Ruby go ham on.)]

Now that should teach that thing not to mess with us again.

Comments

cw: mentions of decapitation, some toxic masculinity in here

[strikefirster]

[Johnny honestly didn't know what to make of Peter. The first time they had met he had been screaming like a little wimp. The second time he had been some sort of rabid dog for the witch. They had been hurting people in town, Johnny had tried to stop them, he had been set aflame and murdered. The last thing he remembered was his head being detached from his body. Then in their last encounter it had been a strange mix of the two that went way beyond something Johnny could wrap his head around.

What he did understand was a threat and then doubling down on it. This kids words and the tongue were a clear declaration of war. And Johnny was going to respond in kind.

He watches as Peter comes to his senses, as he starts screaming and Johnny may feel a tinge bothered by it. He didn't exactly like doing this but he was tougher on his students and if they could handle it so could his new enemy.

Then Paul lands the kicks and Johnny raises a hand to signal him to back down for now. He gives a little nod, but seems more focused on Peter than showing any sort of approval to his student.]

Good. Just be careful to not over extend. It'll leave you open to being attacked.

[Johnny then turns to face Peter and his eyes narrow into a glare.]

I can almost respect you standing up for your girlfriend like that.

You've got the potential to be a real badass, kid.

But a real badass doesn't skulk in the shadows and beat around the bush.

He strikes openly in the light so everyone knows not to mess with him.

[And he steps aside to give Paul a chance to step.

Does he realize he's being a complete hypocrite by tying a guy up, telling him he should attack directly only to have someone else beat him up for him?

Probably not, but here he is.]

Forward strike, jab, cobra strike.

[possessum]

( His dark eyes snap up to the boy's as he speaks, even if it's just that one simple word, the start of an unfinished sentiment; 'Don't'. Peter's desperation locks onto him; the boy's young and it makes him relatable (they could be around the same age, go to the same school, back home), safer, perceived almost like a separate species entirely from the abrasive man Peter remembers from the jungle.

Why's this boy here....? And suddenly Peter realises how he knows him. Names are always the hardest; there's too many names in him to separate the threads of individual ones sometimes, but he knows the shape of the boy. His party, the house with the skeletons. There was something wrong with that house. Maybe something wrong with everyone who lived there. But the boy had been— nice.

The recognition clears Peter's hazy vision for a moment, widens his eyes further, and then the boy's kicking him. It's not especially hard, but it mostly frightens him more than anything. He's never been kicked before. Peter's screaming does stop, with an abrupt yelp — frightened into making no sound, mind unable to really process this. He goes so tense that it hurts, that he's barely breathing.

« Luna— »

The instinct, to call out for her with the mental tether they share, thoughts quivering like an insect trapped in the taut vibration of a spider's web.

« Help, please help he's got me the man's got me help— »

His eyes quickly jolt back up to the man as he addresses him, wide as saucers. This... is about what he'd said? When he'd defended Luna from that volatile aggression, from those angry words that felt like weapons? Cutting, dangerous. Peter's known rage like that, and more than anything it's what he'll always fear the most. Mom going from 0 to 100, mouth like something sharp, snarling at him. Aimed at him. She wanted to kill him, Peter had seen that for himself. And this man— so angry at Luna—

Once again, he looks to the boy. The realisation comes, stupidly belatedly, that the man's been giving the boy direction to kick him. And once again— )

No— Don't, don't, please, stop—!

( It's not the first time Peter's begged someone to stop, stop, like a child. His heart's pounding too fast. He's shaking his head quickly, mouth stretched back into a grimace, pleading like he's scared they're going to kill him.

« Luna, help— » )

[terriblepurpose]

[Johnny's praise doesn't fill Paul with the warmth (security) it usually does. It feels like gritty, unpalatable oil he swallows in the place of water, a queasy thrum in his hollow gut as he worries the inner skin of his mouth between his teeth. A strip comes off in a thin, peeling ribbon, minute quantities of metallic blood joining the sourness.

But he squares up for another strike at his prompting, quieting the signals of paradoxical distress from his body's misunderstanding of the situation. He brings his hands up into position and meets Peter's wide, frightened eyes directly, because he isn't a coward. He's capable of doing what needs to be done, and so, self-numbed, he throws a forward strike -

- and he thinks, because he never knows how to stop thinking. He thinks about Gideon, laughing, after knocking him flat again, offering him a hand to bring him back to his feet; he thinks about the hem of Kaworu's shirt rising as he reaches up to a cupboard, revealing pale scars schooling like fish. He thinks of Midoriya's gentle touch as he steadied him, Lazarus' thread-thin voice in the bloody aftermath of Paul's mistakes still trying to bargain for his safety, Palamedes' hand on his shoulder as he offered him trust Paul hadn't earned. He thinks about Epsilon's wide, frightened eyes turned up at him, their awful trembling incomprehension.

Who are you?]

He's done, sensei.

[Paul's knuckles hover close enough to Peter's swaddling to brush against it. His heart hammers in his ears, clots his throat with its pounding, and his voice surprises him. It's quiet but firm, a voice that expects to be listened to, even while Paul feels almost none of the sureness in it. He doesn't know whose voice it is. (He does.)

Paul steps back, shaking his hand out as if flicking something unpleasant from it, and keeps looking at Peter, level and intent.]

That's enough. He understands. Don't you, Peter?

[strikefirster]

What?

[Johnny's anger toward Peter and the message he had been left made him blind to the boy's plight. He didn't care. He was here to get even. To return the message two fold as if that'll finally put an end to it. At least at first that was all there was to it.

The moment the words leave Paul's mouth there's an instant where his anger peaks and he feels his fists clench. He thinks of his training of what he's taught over the last year between here and back at home. "If someone confronts you on the street they are the enemy and the enemy deserves no mercy."

But... Then he thinks of Miguel- And how those lessons started to twist him out of shape. Just like Johnny had been twisted by Kreese.

"What was that? That's not how I taught you to fight."

"It's how Sensei Kreese taught us to fight. This isn't a tournament, this is real life."

"Is that how you want to live your life?"

Johnny feels his anger start to subside. He didn't want to make the same mistake again. There's a long pause before his hands finally relax. His gaze shifts briefly between Paul and Peter before he takes a step to Paul and pats him on the shoulder.]

You're right. He's done.

Hell... Didn't expect to come here and be the one learning a lesson.

[He shifts toward Peter and there's a moment where he wants to sneer. But he holds it back and then shifts to start untying Peter.]

You're fucking lucky I've taught my student so well. If it were just me you'd be eating that tongue you left me.

[possessum]

( The boy's preparing to hit him, and Peter's staring down at those hands, all his terror aimed at them. Despite how little he perhaps should fear such human things when there's been so much terror closing in on him that isn't human at all, there's a part of Peter that does still fear it the most. What goes bump in the night and crawls and scratches and tears is horrifying, but what feels even scarier is being screamed at, being chased, being struck— not by a monster, but by something that looks, sounds, feels human. It was never the match itself that struck him with terror but the fact it was Mom holding it.

He closes his eyes right before the boy will hit him. He doesn't want to see it coming, and there's words flowing into his head from somewhere far away and safe—

« Peter—? » Luna's voice in reply comes back as a gasp, struck by the fear of him. There's a pause in her reply as she reels for a few moments. « What's going on—? Listen to me: I'm here, Peter. I'm right here. » She's almost helpless, something is very, very wrong. But her initial wavering settles into something firm, trying to calm him down.
« Tell me where you are, I'll find you. I promise— I promise I'll find you. »

« I don't know— I don't know— some kind of... garage? Some place, words on the wall, I can't move, they're hurting me, it hurts— »

He draws in a sharp hiss of a breath, features contorted into a sharper wince. Seconds after, another whine bleeds from him, and he's peeling open wet eyes to stare at the boy. He's expecting to be hit again, over and over and over, but.... 'That's enough. He understands. Don't you, Peter?'

Surprise pulls his eyes open very wide and very fast, and he doesn't understand but he's nodding anyway, desperately clinging onto the notion of it being enough. If he was ever capable of things like shame or pride, they were torn out of him long ago. Now, all he can do is tremble like a child, saliva pooling at the corners of his quivering mouth, eyes filling up with hot wet. Flicking quickly back over to the man, watching the exchange between the two with an almost stunned horror. Who are they? What do they do, what do they want?

...His student. The man's beginning to untie him and Peter's flinching violently at the touch, heart pounding. They're letting him go? It seems too easy; he's been here before. Thinking it's over, then it isn't, because it never is. The house you've grown up in your whole life isn't safe. There's someone waiting for you in the closet, waiting to swallow you whole. There has to be more to this.

And then, the man says something that is just that. )

Wh— what? ( Peter's horrified and baffled, voice immediately, sharply, rising again in its upset. ) I don't know what you're talking about! Fuck—!

( He, theoretically, should not antagonise this man — and what he says next isn't meant to, but Peter's panic is frantic and unthinking and starting to be let loose faster than before. He's..... screaming again, body thrashing against the hard thing he's tethered to, like he's trying to get away from the man's hands. )

You're crazy—! What the fuck?! You're fucking crazy!!

[terriblepurpose]

[When Johnny approaches him Paul is as acutely tensed as a metal wire pulled to its limit, uncertain of what he'll do even with the fact of it plain in his expression even before his hand falls on Paul's shoulder. He doesn't relax underneath it so much as he goes slack, tensile strain abruptly let up, and the relief etched into his eyes is as profound as if he's the one Johnny is granting mercy to.

Maybe he is. It doesn't seem to have had the same impact on Peter, whose outburst throws Paul right back to stark readiness, eyes narrowing at the boy's screaming denial. It's - disappointing, he thinks, abbreviating his surge of anger and transmuting what's left of it into a leaden discontent.]

Don't lie.

[There's no velvet layer to his warning, flat and edged. He steps close to hold Peter's shoulders, thumbs pressing in firmly below the threshold of pain, but hard enough to illustrate its proximity.

And yet - is he lying? Paul's eyes widen as he comes closer, flickering over Peter's face in unveiled incisiveness, his head slightly cocked as he replays his tone inside of his mind. There's nothing about this that seems false, and it would be next to impossible for an untrained person to simulate this level of distress. His thumbs ease back as he looks at Johnny, a horrible suspicion opening in the hollows of his ribs.]

Sensei - are you sure it was him? [It's not an accusation, but a curdled uncertainty.] Not someone who looked like him?

[Or wearing him, Paul thinks, the whirlpool lapping at his feet.]

CW: Tongue related violence.

[strikefirster]

[Johnny did his best to keep his anger in check but he felt it starting to rile up again. He didn't care so much about being called crazy, he got that enough around here and back in his home world, that didn't bug him. The fact that Peter was still willing to deny his involvement in what happened made his fists clench though.

He wouldn't lay into him again though, if Paul wasn't willing to keep attacking him than he wouldn't. He wasn't Kreese, he refused to be like Kreese. He steps away from the punching bag with bindings half undone. He wasn't letting this kid go until he at least admitted to the crime. He deserved at least that.

But the next question from Paul got him confused.]

Unless this punk has a twin then it was definitely him. He went full psycho on the network. Tried a tough guy act before he go all weird ass tongue ripping out on me.

[That's it. That would do it.]

Maybe he just needs a reminder.

[Johnny stepped away and came back a moment later with the rotting tongue that had been left at his doorstep. He walked right up to Peter and slapped him with the wretched thing before holding it up to his face. It was a light motion not meant to hurt him, but he was making a point.]

You really think it's some sort of coincidence that you threaten to rip out my tongue and then this shows up at my door step?

Does this thing look familiar to you? Jog your memory at all?

Just admit you did it, punk.

And you're free to go.

If not I'd be happy to feed it to you and we can try this again.

cw: late replies, panic attack associations, epilepsy associations, demonic outbursts

[possessum]

( The boy's still perceived as the Safer One — even if he was the one to administer the blows — but then he's close, and his thumbs are against Peter's shoulders, and there's an odd flatness to his tone, something cooler to the touch. 'Don't lie.' Peter's eyes snap back to his face once again, head trying to shake, but he's unraveling faster now, body spasming against the touch. For the first, true time, Peter feels deeply afraid of the boy more than the man. In his head, Luna—

« It's alright, I'm coming to get you— I'll find you— I've got Helga, we'll find you— »

She's trying not to let the waver in her voice show too much, but it's hard: they're hurting him, he can't move and they're hurting him. She's frightened for him. Frightened what they're doing to him, what they might do.

« Just keep talking to me, I'm right here with you. I won't go anywhere. »

« He keeps talking about a tongue, I'm scared, he keeps talking about a tongue, I'm scared, Luna— »

The frenzy of panicked confusion turns into raw horror with what the man returns with, something thick and swollen and wet, something that smells like rot. Crusted with blood, purple and black. Peter's throat is opening and closing and then not opening again enough; he's gasping in short little breaths, can't quite catch them. He's hyperventilating. He can't handle this— it's a nightmare. It's unreal.

The man hits him with it, and even if it's not particularly hard, the horror of the gory wet thing (the tongue) makes his throat convulse. The man's words feel far away; admit you did it, free to go, feed it to you—

Suddenly, the tremours of Peter's body change. In all ways, they change: from panicked quaking to violent, hard snaps that seem to jolt his spine, demanding too much from it, forcing his neck back. He's still halfway restrained, but the loosened wrapping lets his lithe form flail around more, and there's a dull smack as the back of his head hits the bag behind him. Eyes roll back, pupils swelling like oil spills, blossoming black. His throat heaves, gags— he cries out, but the sound is blocked off by a sharp wheeze. He breathes in, something else breathes out.

Something that's clawing out of him, too much, too quick, too powerful. He might split open. It doesn't relent; his tongue lolls like some foreign creature in his mouth, making strange sounds — clicks, chirps, hisses. The vocal chords of a human worked by something that isn't, and it desperately pulls itself out.

Suddenly his head snaps back up and his swollen wet black eyes are locked right onto Johnny and he screams— not the frightened wails from before, but something rooted in fury. He roars. There's a surge of energy, and the lights in the space flicker; the man's sent flying backwards. Fast and relentless, towards the wall.

With it, there's a snapping sound as the boy — not a boy — splits fully from its confines, freed. )

cw: mind control

[terriblepurpose]

[The first time Paul encountered the thing that animates Peter like a furious, twitching parasite inside a helpless host, he hadn't understood what he was looking at. The idea of possession was a whispered nightmare, a story invented to frighten children, and even then, Paul hadn't been a child.

This time, his shield hums to life in a blurring bodily envelope before conscious thought can slow his hands, his eyes flickering pale silver fire as he traces the path Johnny's body has yet to follow in the instant before he's flung. Decisions cascade like flipped switches: intervention is an inefficiency, the collision non-lethal, a delay in threat-termination that leads down paths he barely glances down before they are discarded.

A tiny glass vial appears between his fingers like a conjuration of his own, the dark liquid inside refracting bizarrely under light as he thumbs the stopper loose and floods his mouth with it, the rancid taste unnoticed as his nervous system continues its rapid reorientation towards a different kind of hyperawareness.

Johnny is lifted from the earth. Black slicks Paul's tongue, clots between his teeth, webs into the corners of his mouth like spreading rot.]

Stop.

[This is not the precisely attuned Voice of the boy in the Archives, one who had only wielded it as he had been taught. That Voice had been a clarion call to obedience, a refined harmony passed from mother to daughter across generations. This is an oppression, a syllable slammed down at the body that is not Peter's like a warhammer on armor.

It may still not work. He knows that. That's why he takes another breath, the toxic blend burning in his lungs, and readies himself to do it again.]