twolegplace relentless ╱ open

[VEGAS]

❝  A loud, dramatic groan breaks the back-alley silence that plagued half the twolegplace. A few mice scatter from the leftover junk, and Vegas can't even find it in himself to regret that. Hungry as he is, the noise had been threatening to spill out of his mouth for who knows how long. Letting it out's like a drink of cool water when he's been parched. That's the trouble with his life, right? All of his complaints get bottled right up. Can't talk about it, can't think about it. Everything's fine — when it's not, things go sideways. Fast. But as Vegas is starting to figure out: shit fucking goes sideways no matter what he does. Might as well be annoying about it every now and then, when the stakes are low. Still couldn't really share it around the two of them. Angel had more than enough on his paws, and Kerosene's still half a stranger. The sort that has his mind reeling, tongue sticking to the top of his mouth. Not the good sort of half stranger. Not the friendly kind.

Maybe that's part of the reason he's so damn frustrated. Why he needed to get away from them to yell into this dirty back alley as the sun starts to set. Nighttime's where he's most comfortable, the hook-held lights warming patches of unnatural earth; less up-walkers, more fresh air. More time to himself, too. Just what he needs. The sun's still up, but it'll only be there long enough for him to find a new spot to vent his frustrations. Too many pretty box-dens 'round this place. How many of them hold spoiled cats? How many of them have vacant spots from those who'd left for the forest? He wonders if that ginger cat's out and about again, or if Diego'll stop by with more awkward staring. Why's he even care about someone to speak to? It's not like Vegas has anything to fuckin' say.

"Fuck." Well. He's got something.

†  ooc notes information †

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  ooc: —
• full information.
  

  
  VEGAS,  vee  or  v.   accepts others, how happily depends on who it's from.
  ──── uses he - him + masc titles ;  will accept others with bemusement.
  ──── about 26 moons old,  born during early greenleaf or late newleaf.
  ──── gay, singleish. crushes on a broad range of men; doesn't act on it.
  
  a sleek chocolate point tom with some odd irregularities in his spotting, and a soft length of thicker fur from between his ears and down his spine. his eyes are a soft, mellow blue, though they have a more intense glow in certain lighting. deceptively strong, with the build of one accustomed to work.
• "speech"

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[SNAILHEART]

The red-striped tom doesn’t have much to do on long days where he’s allowed outside of his house. His twolegs have been letting the door open for him more often as of late, but the problem is that he can’t get back inside without their help. So once he’s outside for the day, there’s no going back indoors until they get back from wherever they go every day.

He’s wandering the streets once again, because he hasn’t learned from the last time. Street cats are harsh and mean and don’t like him all that much, and don’t like the cats out in the forest either. And the cats of the forest seem more amused or pitying toward Stephen King than truly friendly or welcoming. So he’s really got no one to talk to, nothing to do besides wander the streets and wait for the time of day when his twolegs will open their back door for him.

A long, loud groan catches his attention, and he looks sharply down the alleyway the sound came from. There sits the brown cat he’d met not too long ago, looking kind of like he’s having a rough time. "Hey, it’s you again," he greets, voice low—just in case one of those scary cats happens to be nearby. Not that this guy isn’t scary, though. All the street cats are kind of frightening to Stephen King. The fur around his shoulders bristles, and he ducks his head, trying to make himself appear friendly. He hesitates before taking a step closer, unsure where he stands with the other cat.

"What’s your deal?" He doesn’t mean for it to come out like an accusation, but it somehow does. Geez, he just wants to make friends out here. Can he not screw things up just this once? "Sorry. I mean, like, what’s wrong. Or what are you cursing about. Or- I can just leave you alone if you want." Stupid. He’s never going to make friends.
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[ PENNED BY FOXLORE ]​

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[VINYL.]

NOW LOADING . . .

As the sun begins to set, so do her working hours begin.

Shadows wax n' wane across twolegplace, stretching 'nto inky darkness as vibrant sun dips beneath the horizon, leaving waves of pink and purples in its wake. 'S one of her favorite times of the day. Times where she can operate without suspicion, without the prying eyes of the fleshy beasts that prowled this brick forest. She could lounge as she pleases, be left alone n' unbothered with the junk scattered about, mistaken for little more than a rat under the cover of night. It was awesome.

'Course, she never took issue with detours, she wasn't one to be a stranger, couldn't resist any stray sounds hanging tantalizingly out of earshot, muffled song, vibrations beneath stone, not quite enough for her to make out the words.

She drops onto a nearby roof just in time to hear the murmurings of Red here. they seem to acknowledge the other with some semblance of familiarity. Why speak so lowly then?

* Heyyyyy, Her voice fries with the purposefully annoying greeting. The volume of her voice is raised just a bit higher than the normal relaxed tone— much louder and she'd be making more of an effort than she cared to. Her tail lazily drapes across the upwalker's fencing, an easy signifier that she wasn't tryin' to hide from them or sumthin' else stupid.

* Why're we whispering? There ghosts around (;° ロ°)? she questions, brows perched ever-so-slightly higher upon her face. She turns a half-lidded gaze to the brown one, whatshisface, then. * What's up with mullet here, huh? ​