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mimaveil · 4 months ago

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Haze (VIII)

Governing concept: Chatty mpreg political thriller, feat. an arranged marriage between two anointed sociopaths and the grownup hangups of their caretakers.

Summary: Permission to misbehave, with honor? or: sex as chronos <> sex as kairos

prev: the orchid and the wasp, worm moon, haze (i), haze (ii), haze (iii), haze (iv), haze (v), haze (vi), haze (vii)

cw: VERY nsfw, mention of child abuse

Nut on the carpet, and describe the weave.

“Yeah, don’t think your,” leaving the é ambiguous, “fee-on-say’s ready for an industry-grade fuck,” Boyd says, hurling his shirt out the en-suite door while catching his heel against the drawer pull of the vanity.

Off his right, within a pigtail yank, Eweyan flicks on the sonic. The shower’s diverter valve trims actually have factory-style wheel handles, matte black. Same with the sink faucet — Roman numerals etched on the gears.

After docking, the airyacht expedition module is serviced; bugs swapped, 630-gram terry sent for laundering, so 10ccs of Second House come—that’s the civilian term*—might get noticed on the pricey textiles.

Meaning, with all the congenital delays of investiture, they’ve got, say, 21 offline minutes for a tactical quickie plus wipedown before they’re ushered to some dais.

Under frosty incandescents, he licks a line up the curb cut of Eweyan’s torso—nice and crisp, from all those weighted repeaters. Barrel-leg fatigues, briefs, crew socks back-chucked out the door, the clunk of a vape falling out of pocket. Their quarters are hilariously, insultingly small.

“So try romance?” He finishes his thought with an inhale of peaty moss, Eweyan’s cock spring-loaded against his smirk.

Ricochet, the slick gore of Eweyan’s inner thighs: Make it as hard or easy as you like, but I want perfect form. As someone whose bpm crests at 70 during sex— the wearable on his wrist doesn’t even light up—Eweyan has an agenda. “Any idea what happens during this pony show?” he asks, puff of musk, as he saddles up on Boyd’s face.

Lube’s out, so. The blowjob buys him time on penny-round tile. Plus, the meditative sucking gets him hard, natively.

“Any time now,” Eweyan brats, rapping the sink-lip with his knuckles.

With a sigh, Boyd slips cock from mouth to fist. His sole knowledge of investiture protocol comes from shadow-scripts of the porno that the Eighth quashed production on.

“There’s a, tiara and some imperial swag, most likely a sword, jewel and mirror. Which you’d know,” tugging meanly on sponge, “if you read the dossier instead of posting your betrothed’s face-pic on r/am-i-ugly.” His neck creaks.

(The most upvoted comment, which Eweyan had shown him, was “looks like a seahorse but id still glaze it.”)

Toying with the beads of his rosary bracelet—the old-fashioned kind with ground-up rose petals in clay—Eweyan beckons him up. Not for a face-to-face kiss, he doesn’t like that. Obstructs his eyeline, which limits Boyd’s options.

Fine, intercrural’s kiddie league—phrasing—but with the lube jar empty, he’s not going to trust his junk to the travel toiletries of the Eighth. Hoisting himself up on knurled brass pulls (that’ll leave diamond marks on the palm, cute), he swivels Eweyan around to grip the washstand gears and sinks a bite into his ward’s left delt. They’re matched for height.

Huffing, in between pumps, the tassel swing of Eweyan’s braid, fist to cosplay-faucet: “Baby Scion gets on set and ritually informs his ancestors that he’s assuming power,” presumably without rimming, but joke’s on them:

If there’s a dumb idea, the military’s tested it twice.

If there’s a kink, the church holds patent.

“Uh, um, privy seal, state seal, scepter, juice box inna ‘jacent—courtyard to represent the ho,” re-adjusting their join, “ly people. Speech-speech-speech, vạn tuế, vạn tuế, vạn vạn tuế.” Lotta wig glue to keep the tiara on.

Shame about Salt Haze, Haze8 or whatever. He hadn’t been called in for that project, but the set designer Safira (?) had posted sketches: the great acrylic pavilion with good impact resistance, voile curtains on a quiet-glide pole top, the octagonal pedestals hoisting the minimalist throne.

Safira, right? Against Eweyan’s tight squirm, he tots up the names, beads clacking on rods, upper deck and lower deck, the marble slat tumbling on the bright girlish shag: Nera, Norfolk, Nomad, Bria, Kalindi, Weber, Boden, Ford, Corbett, Fairfax, Garner, Holton, Cedro, Roland, Baylor, Tyne, Greenwich, Gavin, Montego-on-Butler, wonder where they are now…

The whine startles them both. Hasty, backreach, Eweyan grabs his dick. In the anti-fog mirror, hexagonal: “Do you want to come in me?” his reflection asks, clumsy. The uncertainty rakes his mouth into softness, Boyd’s well-trained dick pulsing like live bait.

Quick, lie. Soft eject, Boyd drops a kiss to Eweyan’s spine, accent on the L2 and L4, sweat cooling on a rope braid. Sure, he could fuck him raw-to-rosy, drive him to a dirt parking lot of a beach. Pelt of tilapia from a surf shack, grease napkins, stare down the barrel hole of a red sun, a leather clutch cut like a picnic basket for his moon watch and Eweyan’s cherry vape. Every inch he sinks in him is another inch he’s not thinking about Liv, but.

God’s truth, they’re meant to be worn loose to each other.

Boyd’s jizz gutters the diamond knurling, so that drawer handle’s due for a wipe. He lets Eweyan come on some high-micron plating, laps up the evidence. Sex with men, in the wild, is like jazz; it’s just—yeah, swing. Blunt instrument, he briefly wonders how the Eighth Scion’s body plays, yeek.

Safrya! That was her name, he remembers the logo she drew. Y like the legs of the costume-throne lounge seat, likely scouted from an estate sale and re-upholstered in a washable for the money shots, and through it all, probably still more comfortable than every single fucking chair the Eighth has provided on this tour.

“What complaint against comfort do these freaks have?” Boyd says in the sonic, accidentally. The fennel and grated wasabi (the hell?) face-wash fries his sinuses.

“Right?” Eweyan gurgles around a toothbrush, naked except for his rosary bracelet and chain loafer suede mules. He lifts his braid to spit in the sink; the washcloth barely covers his chin. “I’ve been eating these cassava-root gummies—I think they’re for dogs.”

Nonchalantly, toweling off, “What did the Eighth want to borrow me for?” He’s read up on Ben’s law. Even what little he was offered—made him kinda sick.

Their clothes mingle on the scented, still-broken bed; afterwards, Boyd’s satin jacket lining will smell like juniper berry and red wine. Eweyan steps into his coat-dress with a shrug, hairline oily, rebraiding with his good side to Boyd.

“To feed you to the mountain. She likes bilateral symmetry,” touching his own cheek, scanning Boyd’s expression. Under the rose-clay rosary beads, Eweyan’s formal wearable flares ulcerated orange: Funny, Boyd’s never seen it that color before.

The hamster wheel in Boyd’s head whirls, slurry with come.

“Huh,” he says, holding his socks.

The bathroom door shuts of its own accord; the auto-tuned hornbill splits the silence.

“I told you, I told him no,” Eweyan frowns, suddenly offended. Briskly dressing, sliding his wearable into a welt pocket: “Anyways, what does van-tue mean? When they chant at the end.”

Boyd steps into his padded suede ankle boots, rubs a stain off the split-grain. Lining’s wool; he should have packed a thinner sock. “Variant of a myriad chant. Means 10,000 years,” or a coupla trees. “It’s a big thing in Sinography. Shorthand for ‘forever.’”

The corridor’s dark; on the exposed helipad, south side of the mountain, the docked airyacht peers into perforated mist, hunched granite domes, the chunky pulse of the service machinery, the ancient bee-hive kilns and white-resin weevils and the sticky red needles below.

Back home, the ancients used to mix weird shit into their buildings. Tree bark, volcanic ash, rice, beer, piss. Supposed to heal cracks where they formed.

From behind, Eweyan’s breath curls off his jaw, fennel-minty. “I don’t think I want the earth to have you.”

He looks down dumbly at Eweyan’s arms around his torso, half-expecting a stick poke. “That a poem?”

“It’s a line from your robot-fucking screenplay.” To a tongue-tip, Eweyan’s teasing black jellybean lipgloss into his ear. He can smell the smile against his skin.

Shit, Liv, I’ll give it up.

Fine, he’ll die in exile with dirt in his mouth, just like his brother.

“The dialogue was experimental,” he defends, Eweyan’s rosary beads pressing into his belly. Piss in a mortar.

Before the Second had bricks, they had boys.

And beside, God don’t take a safeword.

—

In much sport, an offensive player challenges a defender to a duel of imaginations:

Can you think the way I do?

Can you taste my pre-cog and mesh your muscle with mine?

Or am I about to rip the binding from your mind?

—

Ben thinks, offensively: Can’t you let me die the way I want.

A myriad or more ago, when this Cathedral of Our Mum with the Good Nails was a dream curled in an ovary, livestock used to be driven around this mountain-foot eight times to ward off disease. Witness the rice villages where all the women wore wigs made of their foremothers’ hair; in this great genetic time-braid, mitochondrial mutations pass intact, an heirloom in a jade claw-clip.

Owen’s an idiot if he thinks this lingerie’s gonna pull. Ben had seen the party dress, strung up, and laughed. Pouty mesh, pearl cuffs, pitiful.

If he really knew what Ben liked, he’d be in a ringer tee, rugby jaw, scraping his bare dick against curved denim. Instead he’s here in this rehabbed confessional, a churchy cuddle-nook of black pitted tile, linear chandelier swinging its bulbs wildly against the dark.

Owen’s meant to get ready. There’s a ceremonial bathing basin right under the chandelier, gobbling up most of the 8’ by 8’ floor plate. Wall hooks for clothes and towels, a hinoki bath bucket atop a matching stool. The steam, satsuma and cypress, is a little much on the sinuses.

“They’re not going to start without me,” Owen says, standing naked by the filled tub, palm skiffing the water. From a nook, a pierced candle-holder casts firebugs over the anointed’s scabbed torso.

Ribs flicking shadow, the anointed-elect’s nervous. Ben’s clothes are wet; Owen presses against him with a full promise, at sea level:

“I’m giving you permission to misbehave, with honor,” he says into Ben’s damp neck.

Above them, a single luna moth is trapped in the chandelier.

There’s a grey quick-dry mat, for grip. This unsupervised rig-up is where Ben’s supposed to finally admit it, dick slack between them, that he would like to, formally, stash in the vault, save it for the wedding night, in for a penny round—

The papal tiara’s gonna be heavy on Owen. The Seventh sent over an 18-pounder, made deliberately too small for his head. Three tiers, the cloisonné moves, he’ll receive the tiara adorned with three crowns and know that thou art mother of princes and kings, holy ruler of the world, earthworms on pavement like uncut pasta, a leather cock keyring on a dog clip,

truth on earth of our Necro-Lord, to whom is honor and glory in the ascent, stained-glass tulle, sequins washed in the river, all well and fine at dinner, the owner setting out gratis pureed melon for the girls and condensed-milk tea for the adults, until Caro tried to order that one fried rice dish and he—almost hit her, the smell alone? the yell rollicking off his tongue, her alarmed eyes bouncing like garlic cloves on the pan, sliced tangerines on broiled duck, the takeout tipping over in the trunk so the car smelled like anise pork broth as he and Emma silently fought all the way

church militant, church suffering, church triumphant in eternal date on the pier and he’d written down the recipes and burned the journals, left ‘em shredded in compost, pisco, falernum, passionfruit, grilled pineapple agave, borghetti, coffee, horchata foam,

order — ma’am, it very much does appear this grown man is fucking your son—

jurisdiction—how did you get clean, Ben? Do you even remember? You checked yourself into Nazareth Terrace because you lost your phone and concocted some wild story about

and magisterium, daddy, is a confessional where you tell the truth?

The Emperor conquers! Reigns! Commands! Hear, O Necro-Lord

For the Keeper of the White Glass, everlasting safety! Redeemer of the glass, come to her aid

Holy Mother, Queen of Apostles, come to her aid

Saint Malaga, Khauri, and Pavna, come to her aid

Saint Varsha, come to her aid

Saint Suvali, come to her grubby negotiations in rosy estates

For Supreme Pontiff and universal Father, life!

For the bishops, custodians of the apostolic faith and for the faithful in their care, life!

Saint Striata

Saint Kavala

Saint Matira

Saint Marbella

Saint Vigo

Saint Mesa

Saint Olema

Saint Bahira

Saint Trellica

Saint Trieste

Saint Cassale

First Martyr, First Schist, come to their aid, all ye holy sawed-raw on blond wood, his guts write like a dream, pinky-quartz

Journalistically, would knowing make the hurting less?

No,

Put your cock on the hinoki, he orders. A charred luna moth-wing drifts to his wrist. His blood’s the proper soak of a storm, like he just bellyflopped into a dirt-lot puddle while the gulls work overtime. Unload your pallet, short it out, mate, he saw you bring yourself off, show your dinosaurs, Boyd says in a jolly hand-wave, used to have an ex-girlfriend with a son, handsome kid, kinda, squint-hesitates, retarded, and man he loved those plastic toys, wave ‘em under my nose, we’d race ‘em along the apartment complex fences. They were precious and he wasn’t shy about sharing. Touches his buffed chest, above the rosy nipple. He didn’t know me, didn’t know I’d stay—I didn’t, his mom’s husband was an asshole—but shit was courageous. I try to live like that every day.

In this aromatic steam, every moan burns. He tells Owen, nicely, to put his dick on the hinoki shower stool, as you please. Corners are rounded, that’s good, Owen squeals as he lowers himself and finds the groove that digs right into, ah, the inky glide of Ben’s hands guiding his haunches, squeezing the acoustic fat that starvation won’t fix. Thisclose prey can’t dodge or jam, and Ben’s nearly knocked over on the grippy mat, probably where the previous cavaliers got fried, steam gouging their eyes.

“It won’t hurt me if you come,” he drily informs, but the hot jolt of Owen’s spine against his shirt, lungs tight, the sore throb—

No metaphors. He can finally admit it, his dick hard in quick-dry trousers, that he wants to finish on Owen’s face, pinch his constant-frequency clit to jam the soul-pull signal. Say something mean and then plunge his nose to Owen’s gash, where the pube-moss’s been razed.

If Owen’s willing to offer an apology tour of his cosy cunt&ball quarry, Ben will take those fucking reparations starting now. Gag him, blind him, make the tile rattle. Hit him with the bucket, wipe him clean, see him get wed in some come-mantilla, please him, spoil him, let some—vapid prick—kiss him with hungry scoops, smell the dent in his pillow, flush his pills, feed him jam? Hold his pup wriggling to the light and lick its astonished eyelids clean?

No echo without a call. He’s impaled on these spikes of fantasy everywhere he goes, I come in you pre-installed, the boy says, the high of their grunt-deep call-and-response. The shame and the light. These contradictions breeding in his body the only magic you’ve ever known, we can close this audition, you can wake up to me on the balcony, the wind-cut linens, a moth-wing dress hooked on the wall, almost dry. I’m your arena, your kernel of the universe, the toy, the puzzle, the mystery, the blood, the pollution, end it but not yet, show me the kingdom to come, not that, but a white glass where we get the choreo right, scritching my hair while you remark, “I never had a dog,” and what did those sluts on the Seventh offer you? A new puppy, a new face? A fixed son, a forever-flushing toilet, mirrors all set to child’s height?

“I’m your dream boy,” Owen insists, and knees to the mat, Ben submits, Ben wants this, vạn tuế, vạn tuế, vạn vạn tuế.

FOOTNOTE for civilian terms:

“On-set? Oh yeah, lotta terms!” Boyd grins his hairline into the ruby lighting, all cinnabar. “Depends on consistency, production, and angle/object. You’re gonna wanna high-visc,” stretching his hands, “that means high-viscosity, Monomer A and Monomer B going cootchie-cootchie coo down your principal’s cheek in close-up,” mimicking a pretty linger, “but in group work, you’re gonna amp up the splash, take that dial from 12k cps to bout an 84,” reminiscing, “some directors get hyper-specific with the numbers, just so’s everyone on the same page.” His eyes mist, fond.

Over the Minister of Education’s chagrined shoulder, the Eighth House Scion is still sketching out his bento-uterus.

“It’s all about communication,” he concludes to himself, scratching at his oblique through his kidskin shirting. “Makes the difference between 5cc of gob and a plug of groats drying down on your nutsack.”

#ask for a key when you ride that dick #kaveh akbar said in an interview with anna sale that the high of poetry #(and later drugs) was ~the only magic ive ever known~#let me press my process in the marginalia #then i reread the echolocation chapter of Ed Y's Immense World and it was game oVER #serving puss2god moth style #everyday investiture looks #eweyan's character is built boots-up from JW Anderson fits #owen plans to wear the 2011 givenchy for his big-day. hence the washed sequins #apologies to AHP i bet her keen reportage on fraternity hazing didn't anticipate this runoff on tile #h(viii) was always going to be the freak show

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feroshgirlsims · 7 months ago

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Chapter 8.3 - Flesh of My Flesh

VLAD

Vlad talks over pancakes. He explains the pointy-eared man. He explains the light and the smoke and the way he’s noticed a glimmer popping up in the corner of his eye. He explains his theories, his anxieties, and the worst part of the whole thing—his attraction because it was inconvenient to be turned on by someone who might be imaginary.

They don’t dismiss him. They don’t argue.

“The world is a complicated place,” Nikolas says.

“You have systems,” Josef says, “You need to use them. You need to be tethered, or else you’ll float away.”

It’s the same thing he’s been told since he was a child. Vlad finishes his plate and curls up with his father on the couch while Nikolas gets a fire going. “I’m tired.”

“Of course you are,” Josef rustles Vlad’s hair, “Since you was a baby you never slept. You been riding all day and thinking non-stop. You need rest. You get cranky if not, hell, we all do.”

“But it’s not just sleep,” Vlad insists. “I feel on the cusp of something big. Like something is about to shift and I’ve just been waiting my whole life for it. But now I’m tired of prowling and pacing and waiting for it to come.”

“Soon,” Nikolas soothes when he sits down. “You just be patient. World is complicated, but things become clear when they’re meant to. In the meantime, I ever told you about the time I was chasing a target, and they ducked down a mine shaft?”

He has, but Vlad lets his grandfather tell it anyway because it's a good story.

---

It takes a few more days before Vlad feels like he’s back to himself. They’re strange days. He sleeps a lot. He hears his parents argue, not the usual shouting obscenities and making idle threats, but the hushed whispers that tell him it's about something real.

He meets William for that barley bale.

He manages to turn in the bare minimum of his assignments—mostly perfunctory since he intends to cheat his grades, but it’s a good exercise.

And he does catch up with Alice. He wishes he’d done it sooner. Yes, he’s still seeing an attractive pointy-eared man who might possibly be imaginary, but keeping track of her requires his undivided attention.

Like now when she was supposed to meet him at the Commons over an hour ago. Vlad can tell she was here because she’s forgotten her headphones.

It was something other sims noticed, too.

—To their detriment.

He finally locates Alice in the graduate dorm study room. “Greetings, Magpie. I’m sorry I was away for so long. I wasn’t feeling well.”

She whirls around, “Oh shit! What time is it? How late am I? I’m sorry! Are those my headphones?”

“Yes,” Vlad says, handing them over. "And don’t worry; I entertained myself. What are you doing?”

“Nothing!” She groans. “Well, not really nothing. I need to research that secret society I’ve been tracking, but I don’t read or do books. I mean, I can, but it’s hard.“ Her head dips, and she tries to avoid his gaze. “I usually use a voice reader for anything long or listen to audiobooks, but for whatever Watcher-forsaken reason, the research machine doesn’t have a headphone jack or even Bluetooth. So now I’m stuck.”

“Would you like help?”

“I’m not stupid,” she replies fiercely.

“And you like books,” he adds, arching a brow. “You simply use an alternate method to read. I think you need an assistant. And as it turns out, I love traipsing through endless reams of text and boring books.”

Immediately, her eyes light up. “So, I’m the boss of you?”

The delight etched across Alice’s face at the idea of being in charge of him is enough to send Vlad into the stratosphere. It also spawns a fantasy that makes his pulse race. Something inside him unwinds and stretches. It wraps fingers around his rib cage and peers out past his heart, pleased and bound.

“Yes, I do very well with specific instructions. Feel free to demand whatever you want.”

PREV | NEXT

(Part 4 of 4)

#ts4 #simblr #The Save File Chronicles #Season 1 #POV: Vladislaus Straud #Sims 4 Story #Occult Stuff #Vlad needs a boss #thank goodness he finds one #prolly should do an interview #or like ask a question #but that is not his style #good luck alice

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nalyra-dreaming · 11 months ago

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I doubt they’ve talked about it but I’ve been curious if Lestat/Sam’s hair being different in season one versus season two was on purpose or just a byproduct of filming like a new Claudia actress. Because I do think Lestat’s hair being longer, softer and more taken care of in season two could say something the about memories Louis was recalling in season one where Lestat’s hair was shorter and wilder. Or it could just be that Sam learned how to take better care of his longer hair and the showrunners noticed how handsome it made him look and I’m way overthinking. Honestly feels like it could go either way with this show ¯\_(ツ)_/¯.

I think it has less to do with care and more with the length. In s1 Sam had to wear extensions.

Now his (and Assad‘s hair as well) seems to be the length they had wanted it to be and therefore it looks quite differently.

That said, the hair styling was also used to indicate the POVs and alterations in the tale, so that has to be factored in as well.

#anonymous #ask nalyra #interview with the vampire #iwtv #amc iwtv #amc interview with the vampire #lestat de lioncourt #sam reid #hair styles

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track-five · 3 months ago

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you ever consider that larry’s not out yet because louis knows some interviewer will ask about waoyf and he’d have to dance around the fact that the horniest song he has released is about his brat husband: grammy award winning, globally-successful, beloved pop icon harry styles? have we considered this?

“i don’t really know actually, i haven’t really thought about that. ehhhhh yeah, i mean, it’s like…there’s always gonna be highs and lows in life, you know what i mean? when you’re going through and…you know? that’s where that comes from.”

#this is a joke but also what if it wasn’t #god knows h doesn’t do any interviews #so he’d be alright #this is the only time i will Ask to see james corden on purpose #please interrogate him ‘no control’-style #‘what’s this song *about* guys?’

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nullcanary · 9 months ago

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What's the backstory behind those cool OCs?

Thank you so much for asking about them! There's quite a bit of backstory to them, but I'd love to try and paint a decent picture, especially for Kultober. Mérie and Luc are my original characters from a ttrpg called Kult: Divinity Lost. Their story spans over 30 years, so there is what was and what is.

CW: violence, blood and injury, mentions of suicide, cults, death

30 years ago, Mérie was an undergraduate when she met Luc. They found instant companionship within one another, intrigued by each other's ideas on the strange, the grotesque, the taboo, and the undercurrent of those themes within art. What defined and defied the boundaries of *art*. How the evocative power contained within such works, extends beyond the lifetime of the artist, bringing the creator triumph over death, through visceral reaction of the viewer. They found them fascinating concepts in their youth, when loss was still a distant, faceless motif.

They fell in love, romantically and intellectually, and eventually eloped. They had a saying between one another, their own form of ‘I love you’. Je respire pour toi = I breathe for you. The lungs a symbol of their love, instead of the heart. Animus: the soul, the intelligence, the inner self in touch with the unconscious, rooted from the word anima, “to breathe”. This is what it meant to breathe for one another. It was to share the deepest parts of their being with each other, through conversation, through passion, through dilemma. They could always listen to the other breath, watch the rise and fall of their chest, and find themselves in tune with the motion.

They moved in with each other as Mérie continued into her graduate program. She decided to base her thesis off of the late Gui Vacquelin, an artist known for his progressively darker and nihilistic works -- his final pieces, a triptych, being completed only moments before he violently gouged his own eyes out with the brush, effectively taking his own life. Mérie was fascinated with the concepts he applied into his work and the effective immortality he granted himself in history through his final act.

Luc was involved with a peculiar group of individuals, which he eventually introduced Mérie into. They were eccentric, lavish, hedonistic, and debaucherous. This society could pluck the strings only the wealthiest had hands for. They shared the common interest in the dark and disturbed, and often hosted opulent, yet secretive parties centered around such themes, with exclusive access to rare collections and performances for the eve. And there was apparently a deeper layer to unpeel, more powerful secrets. Mérie was allowed on the fringes of this odd group and in time, managed to prove herself of similar enough ilk that she was invited to be initiated as a full member of the society. And as a highlight, Gui Vacquelin’s famed final triptych was to be the evening's display.

Mérie was ecstatic at the prospect, the access to the works, the connections, the secrets. It was thrilling to be in the presence of the works, to see them in the flesh. Her initiation would involve receiving a dagger, having it choose her. The excitement of the evening quickly turned to horror, as Mérie and Luc were descended upon by the members of the society, revealed in actuality to be a cult. A multitude of familiar faces turned cruel. The initiation was a ruse for a ritual to Togarini, the god of dark art. In truth, Vacquelin had been a servant of the wretched god, his paintings being used as conduits to summon Togarini. The pair were torn from one another, subjected to witness as the cult attempted to transform Mérie into a herald of Togarini.

What followed would only be stored in fragments within Mérie’s mind, a series of sounds and images in a broken frame rate. She would remember pain, flashes of her own carnage, the secrets of her flesh exposed, the distant sound of screams. But due to unknown circumstances, the ritual “didn’t take” onto Mérie. The cult instead turned upon Luc, to perfect him where she had failed. The sound of his voice breaking broke her as she tried to drag herself to where he was.

In the blink of a moment, all was silent. Time was no longer in fragments. Mérie was standing in the middle of a street, alone in the cool night air, holding onto a dagger. She was utterly disheveled – clothes torn, hair drenched, every muscle aching, covered in dirt and blood and … without any apparent wounds on her body. Luc was nowhere to be seen. Blade in hand, she considered the worst. Something terrible. Something… unspeakable. She would never….hurt him? Confused, terrified, obviously in shock, she returned to their flat to try and gather herself. Returning home was no refuge from the horror. He wasn’t there. But neither were any fragments of him. Any notion of his former presence only formed an absence. Papers were missing, clothing, cigarettes, even coffee mugs. Empty spaces on the walls where pictures should be. Money had not been touched, nothing stolen. None of Mérie’s belongings had been tampered with, though she noted a weight lifted from her left finger. Nothing legally binding could be located and all her identifications were painted with the shadow of her maiden name. Luc wasn’t just missing, he had been erased from the world as a whole.

She would not see any members of the society again. Friends would never question about Luc. Therapy would declare that Mérie had suffered an episode of stress induced psychosis, due to some trauma her mind had chosen to block and that she had created the figment of a man as some representation of comfort and potentially betrayal. She refused to believe the packaged explanation and feigned acceptance, choosing to pick up the fragments left of her former life, and continue on with her life, always holding her breath that some true answers would arrive. Time continued to pass. A month, a year, five, twenty five years. Eventually, she untensed and allowed the past to be a dream. Save for the dagger which she kept, close and secret. It was real and by some sense, made Luc real, though time made it more and more difficult to hold his appearance in her mind, a ghost that would haunt only her.

Until the events of an evening nearly thirty years later. Mérie was working as a curator for the Cecil Thorne Art Centre. Wealthy patrons had chosen to put together a charity event in the form of a midnight showing titled, The Atrocity Exhibition, which for the first time would bring together the complete collection of Gui Vacquelin’s works. Apprehension? Terror? Anger? It would be difficult to describe what Mérie felt when her director announced the project, but she was in no position to express these notions. However, the evening descended into even worse than what she had feared. The museum became a literal hell and Mérie would find herself lost within some of the deepest reaches of that.

But amidst it all, through chaos and fog and fire, a hand grabbed her and ripped Mérie forward through a war torn hellscape. The hand, the figure, the face. All that of Luc. Though his hair and beard had grown long, no age had touched his visage as time has brought to her own, She considered the possibility that she was dead to the world, if he was there. The chemical bursts of death come to bring penance or consequence. She allowed her composure to crack. After years of confusion, years of longing, years of surviving alone, she rushed to his arms, to his lips once they stopped running, in desperation to ground herself to them moment, to feel some sense of warmth, to solidify his existence after so long. As the glow of the reunion waned she recognizes two things: that she was still alive and that this man was not her husband, but an imposter, wearing his skin, twisting her with his voice, employing the couple’s phrase as they shared a cigarette. To what end? How would he know…? An event came to expose this truth, leaving Mérie with a choice: confrontation or continuation of the illusion. A tense pause exchanged between their eyes… and she decided to choose the latter.

Because the option was somehow less painful. Because she spent so long not even knowing if this person existed at all. That this man still represented some proof, trickery aside. And to give it all up again so soon? To deny herself what she had ached for? Rebuild stone walls that had only just crumbled? If this reflektor was to destroy her, kill her… she resigned herself to the idea. If it’s him, his face, perhaps there would be closure. Comfort in the end of this sorry story. Yet she overlooked that the price didn’t have to be her life. It ends up being other people’s lives that are the toll for the imposter’s freedom. People she had a duty to protect. And she carries that loss moving forward. Knowing she brought this weapon into a space that was supposed to be safe because she let herself want too much. And that “it took”. She builds her walls higher than ever after the events. And yet and YET, if he returned to her again... she's not all sure she wouldn't crumble all over again. She wants to refuse that opportunity should it come.

Through the toil of erecting composure, she will stare at the ceiling every night and sees a familiar face, turned cruel. In her dreams, she sees the full events of what actually occurred the night she lost Luc. And again and again and again, she has to watch as she kills him. It’s the only way to wake up. Bitterness replaces yearning. Defensiveness replaces trust. Paranoia closes around her throat. Even the memory of him bastardized by the swing between the charade and the truth.

What's to come of their story? That's for my DM to decide in our next campaign....

Lokorum’s piece is a representation of Mérie’s loss. Consistently revisiting the space where she last knew him. He’s been gone now for more years than she was alive when she met him. Half her life, defined by before the loss. Another half defined by its aftermath. She’ll come back here again and again trying to piece together what happened. Until she finally learns the truth and can never leave. If only she could forget after one last dance…

Ptr-sqloint’s piece is a representation of the weight of shame that Mérie carries. The mirror offers back a reflection of a reflection. She is confined in its frame. The imposter, a reflection of Mérie’s desires, vices, weakness. He exposes them, points them out, makes her bare witness to them, the secrets that are not physical, twisting love into a vice. What is it that she breathes for? Be honest now, Mérie.

#my ocs #mérie #luc #the imposter #kultober #kult rpg #role playing #thanks for the ask!#sorry that the answer is 1800 words!#i rotate these guys in my head daily #at centrifuge speed #and yes there are disco elysium references in the lungs as well as Mérie and Luc's last name: Vicquemare #though their personalities and dispositions are quite different from the source material reference #lungs are for love #lokorum #ptr-sqloint #i plan to release an interview style story of Mérie recounting the events of her past and the Atrocity Exhibition campaign #I've gotten Part One written out which covers the fragmented memories of the past #And am looking forward to writing Part Two covering the events of the Campaign and the imposter...

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ljubimaya · 1 month ago

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beware

#I am doing interview styled selfship asks #two have been sent already 👀#if you feel perceived: it is me stalking your blog

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michellymy · 3 months ago

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Interview with the Family!

I decided I’ll ask some questions to my OCs and write their answers down, the most honest way, but also following their traits.

Soooo if you want to participate, just write your question here (or in the ask button) and tell with who you are talking to!

I already have Sylris’s interview, but if you want to ask something to him, I can add it too.

Brief review of them:

Ethan: protagonist, kinda naive, miss his mum Kenyan

Maya: helping Ethan, she’s mysterious, flirty and funny

Behati: “my name is Sasuke Uchiha, what I have isn’t a dream, because I’ll turn it in reality”, older sibling, hates Maivtre

Yuno: chaotic child, isolated from world, sick all the time

Kenyan, aka Maivtre: heartless queen, doesn’t know how to take good decisions, “I’m the worst.”

Sylris, aka Odabrani: kind king, ten steps ahead, desires many things

Hiélo: loyal guard, hates cruelty, hard-working, comforting presence

(You can see their posts in their hashtags)

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katsigian · 2 years ago

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── ⁺⭒*˖₊☽ ⁺˖ ᴏ ᴄ ɪ ɴ ᴛ ᴇ ʀ ᴠ ɪ ᴇ ᴡ ˖⁺ ☾₊˖*⭒⁺ ──

I was tagged by the lovely @mercymaker to fill out these questions for an OC, thank you! There will be a blank version and a tag list below the cut ♡

─── ⁺ ɴ ᴀ ᴍ ᴇ: ᴠᴀʟᴇɴ ʟᴇᴇ ᴋɪɴʟᴀᴡ

─── ⁺ ɴ ɪ ᴄ ᴋ ɴ ᴀ ᴍ ᴇ: ꜱᴛᴀʀʟɪɢʜᴛ. ᴀɴᴅ ɪꜰ ᴀʟɪᴀꜱᴇꜱ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ, ᴛʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀɪɴᴛ.

─── ⁺ ɢ ᴇ ɴ ᴅ ᴇ ʀ: ᴄɪꜱ ᴍᴀʟᴇ, ʜᴇ/ʜɪᴍ

─── ⁺ ꜱ ᴛ ᴀ ʀ ꜱ ɪ ɢ ɴ: ᴀʀɪᴇꜱ ꜱᴜɴ, ꜱᴄᴏʀᴘɪᴏ ᴍᴏᴏɴ, ꜱᴀɢɪᴛᴛᴀʀɪᴜꜱ ʀɪꜱɪɴɢ. ɪ ᴘᴜᴛ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʜɪꜱ ꜱᴛᴀʀ ꜱɪɢɴꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴜʀᴘᴏꜱᴇʟʏ ᴘɪᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴀ ᴅᴀᴛᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴍᴀᴛᴄʜ ʜɪꜱ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ ʜᴅʜꜱᴊꜱ

─── ⁺ ʜ ᴇ ɪ ɢ ʜ ᴛ: 6'4" or 193cm. ʜɪᴍ ᴀ ʙɪɢ, ʙɪɢ ʙᴏʏ.

─── ⁺ ᴏ ʀ ɪ ᴇ ɴ ᴛ ᴀ ᴛ ɪ ᴏ ɴ: ᴠᴇʀʏ ɢᴀʏ.

─── ⁺ ɴ ᴀ ᴛ ɪ ᴏ ɴ ᴀ ʟ ɪ ᴛ ʏ/ᴇ ᴛ ʜ ɴ ɪ ᴄ ɪ ᴛ ʏ: ᴀᴍᴇʀɪᴄᴀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ꜱᴄᴏᴛᴛɪꜱʜ, ɴᴏʀᴡᴇɢɪᴀɴ, ꜰʀᴇɴᴄʜ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀʀɢᴇɴᴛɪɴɪᴀɴ ʙᴀᴄᴋɢʀᴏᴜɴᴅ.

─── ⁺ ꜰ ᴀ ᴠ ᴏ ᴜ ʀ ɪ ᴛ ᴇ ꜰ ʀ ᴜ ɪ ᴛ: ᴏʀᴀɴɢᴇꜱ! ᴛʜᴇʏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴɪɴɢ.

─── ⁺ ꜰ ᴀ ᴠ ᴏ ᴜ ʀ ɪ ᴛ ᴇ ꜱ ᴇ ᴀ ꜱ ᴏ ɴ: ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴇʀ. ᴠᴀʟᴇɴ ɪꜱ ᴀ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴇʀ ʙᴏʏ, ʟᴏᴠᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴏɴɢ ᴇᴠᴇɴɪɴɢꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡᴀʀᴍᴛʜ. ʟᴏᴠᴇꜱ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴀɴ ɪᴄᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴅ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴅʀɪɴᴋ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ʜᴇ ꜱɪᴛꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜɴ. ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴡʜʏ ʜɪꜱ ꜰʀᴇᴄᴋʟᴇꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ꜱᴏ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴛᴀɴɴᴇᴅ. ꜱᴘᴇɴᴅꜱ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴏᴜᴛᴅᴏᴏʀꜱ.

─── ⁺ ꜰ ᴀ ᴠ ᴏ ᴜ ʀ ɪ ᴛ ᴇ ꜰ ʟ ᴏ ᴡ ᴇ ʀ: ᴠᴀʟᴇɴ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ʟɪᴋᴇꜱ ᴀɴʏ ꜱᴏʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ʟɪʟɪᴇꜱ. ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇ ᴀʟꜱᴏ ʜᴀꜱ ᴀ ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ꜱᴘᴏᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴜɴꜰʟᴏᴡᴇʀꜱ.

─── ⁺ ꜰ ᴀ ᴠ ᴏ ᴜ ʀ ɪ ᴛ ᴇ ꜱ ᴄ ᴇ ɴ ᴛ: ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʏ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴜꜱʙᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴍᴇʟʟꜱ ᴀᴛ ᴀɴʏ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴀʏ ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛ. ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴍᴇᴀɴ ᴀɴʏ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛ ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

─── ⁺ ᴄ ᴏ ꜰ ꜰ ᴇ ᴇ, ᴛ ᴇ ᴀ, ʜ ᴏ ᴛ ᴄ ʜ ᴏ ᴄ ᴏ ʟ ᴀ ᴛ ᴇ: ᴠᴀʟᴇɴ ᴅʀɪɴᴋꜱ ᴇꜱᴘʀᴇꜱꜱᴏ/ʟᴀᴛᴛᴇꜱ 80% ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡɪʟʟ ɢᴇᴛ ᴀ ᴄᴏꜰꜰᴇᴇ ɪꜰ ᴇꜱᴘʀᴇꜱꜱᴏ ɪꜱɴ'ᴛ ᴀᴠᴀɪʟᴀʙʟᴇ. ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴋɴᴏᴡɴ ᴛᴏ ɢᴇᴛ ʜɪᴍꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ʜᴏᴛ ᴄʜᴏᴄᴏʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴏɴ ᴏᴄᴄᴀꜱɪᴏɴ, ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴡʜɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴍ ᴏɴ ɪᴛ. ᴍᴏꜱᴛʟʏ ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴄᴏʟᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴅᴜʀɪɴɢ ᴡɪɴᴛᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇ ꜱᴇᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ᴀᴅꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴇᴀꜱᴏɴᴀʟ ᴘᴇᴘᴘᴇʀᴍɪɴᴛ/ᴇɢɢɴᴏɢ/ɴᴜᴛᴍᴇɢ ᴅʀɪɴᴋꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴇᴛꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ɪᴛᴄʜ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ꜱᴡᴇᴇᴛ.

─── ⁺ ᴀ ᴠ ᴇ ʀ ᴀ ɢ ᴇ ʜ ᴏ ᴜ ʀ ꜱ ᴏ ꜰ ꜱ ʟ ᴇ ᴇ ᴘ: ᴀɴʏᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ 3-8 ʜᴏᴜʀꜱ. ɪᴛ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴅᴇᴘᴇɴᴅꜱ ᴏɴ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴇʟꜱᴇ ʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ. ꜰᴏʀ ᴇxᴀᴍᴘʟᴇ, ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴏᴜᴛ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴏɴ ᴀ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴀᴄᴛ, ꜱᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇxᴛ ᴅᴀʏ ʜᴇ ꜱʟᴇᴇᴘꜱ ɪɴ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴀᴛᴄʜ ᴜᴘ ᴏɴ ʀᴇꜱᴛ. ᴏʀ ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ʜᴇ'ꜱ ɢᴏᴛ ᴀ ʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ɪɴꜱᴏᴍɴɪᴀ (ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴏɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜɪꜱ ᴘᴛꜱᴅ) ᴀɴᴅ ᴏɴʟʏ ꜱʟᴇᴇᴘꜱ ᴀ ᴄᴏᴜᴘʟᴇ ʜᴏᴜʀꜱ.

─── ⁺ ᴅ ᴏ ɢ ᴏ ʀ ᴄ ᴀ ᴛ ᴘ ᴇ ʀ ꜱ ᴏ ɴ: ᴠᴀʟᴇɴ ʟᴇᴀɴꜱ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛᴏᴡᴀʀᴅꜱ ᴅᴏɢꜱ ꜱɪᴍᴘʟʏ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ʜᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡꜱ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴄᴀᴛꜱ. ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴀ ᴅᴏɢ ɢʀᴏᴡɪɴɢ ᴜᴘ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ɢᴇᴛꜱ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ʜᴇ ꜱᴇᴛᴛʟᴇꜱ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ. ʜᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇꜱ ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ɢᴏ ᴏᴜᴛꜱɪᴅᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ʜɪᴍꜱᴇʟꜰ ʙᴜꜱʏ.

─── ⁺ ᴅ ʀ ᴇ ᴀ ᴍ ᴛ ʀ ɪ ᴘ: ɪ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴠᴀʟᴇɴ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴍᴏᴜɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ. ʜᴇ'ꜱ ꜱᴇᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪᴇʀʀᴀ ɴᴇᴠᴀᴅᴀ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴋʟᴀᴍᴀᴛʜ ᴍᴏᴜɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ, ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇ ᴡᴀɴᴛꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴡɪʟᴅᴇʀ. ᴍᴏʀᴇ ɴᴏʀᴛʜ, ᴜᴘ ɪɴ ᴄᴀɴᴀᴅᴀ. ᴠᴀʟᴇɴ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴀ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴏᴜᴛᴅᴏᴏʀꜱʏ ᴛʀɪᴘ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ. ᴠᴀʟᴇɴ ʜᴀꜱ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴄᴀᴍᴘɪɴɢ, ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇ ᴛʜɪɴᴋꜱ ʜᴇ'ᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɪᴛ. ᴄᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴀ ꜰɪʀᴇ, ꜱᴛᴀʀɢᴀᴢɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴀʙʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʟʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴘᴏʟʟᴜᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ, ʜɪᴋɪɴɢ, ꜱʟᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴏᴘ ᴏᴘᴇɴ ꜱᴏ ʜᴇ ᴄᴀɴ ꜱᴇᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴋʏ. ꜱᴏᴜɴᴅꜱ ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜɪᴍ.

─── ⁺ ꜰ ᴀ ᴠ ᴏ ᴜ ʀ ɪ ᴛ ᴇ ꜰ ɪ ᴄ ᴛ ɪ ᴏ ɴ ᴀ ʟ ᴄ ʜ ᴀ ʀ ᴀ ᴄ ᴛ ᴇ ʀ: ɪ'ᴍ ɴᴏᴛ 100% ꜱᴜʀᴇ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ꜰɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴇxɪꜱᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʏʙᴇʀᴘᴜɴᴋ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ʏᴇᴛ, ꜱᴏ ɪ'ᴍ ᴀꜰʀᴀɪᴅ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴏɴᴇ!

─── ⁺ ɴ ᴜ ᴍ ʙ ᴇ ʀ ᴏ ꜰ ʙ ʟ ᴀ ɴ ᴋ ᴇ ᴛ ꜱ: ᴜꜱᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴏɴᴇ ᴠᴇʀʏ ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰʏ ᴅᴜᴠᴇᴛ. ᴠᴀʟᴇɴ ʟɪᴋᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʙɪɢ ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰʏ ꜰᴇᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ꜰɪʟʟᴇᴅ ᴏɴᴇꜱ, ɴᴏʀᴍᴀʟʟʏ ɪɴ ᴀ ɴᴇᴜᴛʀᴀʟ ᴄᴏʟᴏᴜʀ. ᴛʜᴀᴛ, ᴘʟᴜꜱ ᴀ ꜰɪᴛᴛᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰʟᴀᴛ ꜱʜᴇᴇᴛ ᴀʀᴇ ᴜꜱᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴀʟʟ ʜᴇ ꜱʟᴇᴇᴘꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴄᴏᴠᴇʀꜱ-ᴡɪꜱᴇ. ᴘɪʟʟᴏᴡꜱ-ᴡɪꜱᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ, ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ.

─── ⁺ ʀ ᴀ ɴ ᴅ ᴏ ᴍ ꜰ ᴀ ᴄ ᴛ: ᴠᴀʟᴇɴ ɪꜱ ꜱᴜʀᴘʀɪꜱɪɴɢʟʏ ᴀɢɪʟᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ʜɪꜱ ꜱɪᴢᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇ ᴄᴀɴ ᴅᴏ ᴄᴀʀᴛᴡʜᴇᴇʟꜱ! ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ-ʜᴀɴᴅᴇᴅ ᴋɪɴᴅ. ʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴀʟꜱᴏ ꜱᴜʀᴘʀɪꜱɪɴɢʟʏ ᴠᴇʀʏ ꜰʟᴇxɪʙʟᴇ. ᴠᴀʟᴇɴ ᴅᴏᴇꜱɴ'ᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ᴘʀᴏʙʟᴇᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴄʜɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴜᴘᴘᴇʀ ᴄᴇɴᴛᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴏʀ ʙʀɪɴɢɪɴɢ ʜɪꜱ ʟᴇɢ ᴜᴘ ʜɪɢʜ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ᴋɪᴄᴋ. ɢᴏᴏᴅ ʜɪᴘ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅᴇʀ ꜰʟᴇxɪʙɪʟɪᴛʏ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ. ᴍᴀᴋᴇꜱ ꜱᴇɴꜱᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ᴋɪᴄᴋʙᴏxɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴊᴊ ʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴇꜱ.

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@rindemption @noirapocalypto @spicyraeman @swanfey @skyllianverge @elenaril @kharonion @peaches-n-screem @quickhacked @mrdekarios @dameayliins @elvenbeard @westealtoys @f001onthehill @balverine2077 @thedeadthree @ravensgard @duskfey @strafethesesinners @aggravateddurian @opaleyedprince @envergothash @timaeusterrored @wilxfyre @vincentmatthews @seluned @yharnams @cove-holdens @skaterboisims @alphanight-vp @cyberneutral @aceghosts @florbelles @feykiller @minastirithe @leota-nexus @baldurians @aelyosos @gortash @hibernationsuit @ncytiri @cetra @nightcxty @vanoefucks @enverflymm @estevnys @cybertokyodog @dreadfulsanity @cloudofbutterflies92 (hi new mutuals♡)

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