#Welcome Back Fishhooks

[yellowocaballero]

“Hands up!” 

Kote slowly raised his hands. He blinked. “What’s -”

Omega dramatically charged her blaster. Next to her, Boba raised his own blaster and aimed it at Kote’s temple. One shot in the gut, one to the head. Dead in seconds. “You have the right to remain silent! What you say can and will be used against you! Where did you stash the cadets, outlaw!”

“We know you took them,” Boba intoned. He charged his blaster too, allowing the tinny speaker to blare with charging sounds and small flashing lightstrips. “Talk and your death will be quick. Don’t talk…and we’ll tear off your fingernails!”

Not having a normal one at all. I have been grinding away at the No Chip rewrite fics so much. Just thinking about how long this doc is going to be embarrasses me. They've been eating up so much of my brain I genuinely do just want to be free of this.

I do feel a little bad that there's been so little Meg content lately. It's because I am sitting on like 300k right now. An extremely big apology to my friends who have been hearing about this shit literally nonstop. The story's changed a lot, the characters have changed a lot (more evil now), there's a lot more going on, it's insane.

As an apology, here is a little bit. I'm working on the More Than Zero rewrite right now ("Wow, MTZ wasn't that good. It honestly needed to be twice as long as this." - Me, before I make it four times as long), but posting any of it would be big spoilers for literally everything. So.

Boba Fett time, feat. Omega: the galaxy's first cisgender transgender.

“Hands up!” 

Kote slowly raised his hands. He blinked. “What’s -”

Omega dramatically charged her blaster. Next to her, Boba raised his own blaster and aimed it at Kote’s temple. One shot in the gut, one to the head. Dead in seconds. “You have the right to remain silent! What you say can and will be used against you! Where did you stash the cadets, outlaw!”

“We know you took them,” Boba intoned. He charged his blaster too, allowing the tinny speaker to blare with charging sounds and small flashing lightstrips. “Talk and your death will be quick. Don’t talk…and we’ll tear off your fingernails!”

Behind the absolutely bamboozled Kote, Bly made his great escape. He rolled expertly into the room, taking cover behind the shoe cubby and expertly slipping past Boba and Omega’s defenses. “You’ll never take me alive, Law Man!”

Boba screeched in outrage, and he ran to tackle Bly. Bly dodged his assault, expertly disarming Boba and sending his weapon flying, but Boba wouldn’t be deterred. Omega still had her own gun pointed  at the frozen Kote. She was helpfully explaining the premise of the game to him. Kote visibly needed the help. 

“Get in here and keep them busy while I’m cooking!” Dad barked from the kitchen. He cursed at the pot on the stove, grabbing another spice container and shaking it vigorously over the curry. “Love of god of mercy, who gave them sugar today…”

“Death to criminals!” Boba yelled, rescuing his blaster from the corner of the room and aiming its muzzle at the fleeing Bly. “Pew! Pew! Pew, pew, pew!”

Bly fell flat to the ground, rolling out of the way of the shots. Boba was stunned by the show of agility, and he was hard-pressed to keep up with the outlaw’s footwork. He popped back up again immediately, taking a slow swipe at the blaster. Boba scrambled back, firing off a few more opportunistic shots. “You’ll need a lot more than that to rescue the cadets, officer! I’ll never tell you which cave I hid them in!”

“And I don’t actually disarm you?” Kote clarified with Omega.

She shook her head. “The law has to win. But you have to put up a good fight, or the story has no suspense. Here, I’ll show you.” Omega turned to Bly and raised her voice, waving her blaster at the quiescent Kote. “Halt, Jedi! Or your master -”

“Padawan,” Bly said, straight faced. Boba nodded. 

“Padawan gets it! Will you choose your freedom - or his life?”

Bly hummed, stroking his chin. “A dirty Jedi would obviously choose his own life over the life of his compatriots.”

“No he won’t,” Boba educated Bly, nose in the air. “Jedi love dying for each other and making dramatic sacrifices. They do it in the animations all the time.”

From the kitchen, Dad called, “The hell kind of animations are you watching?”

Whoops. Omega glared at Boba. 

Kote just looked over at Dad, still seeming a little lost. “What are they watching…?”

“Pocketful of Creds,” Dad said, withdrawing a handful of whole fish from the icebox. This meant nothing to Kote and Bly. Boba and Omega cheered and fired their blasters, the translucent shell at the muzzle flashing yellow and white. “Whole trilogy. Marathon. They’ve been ronin or lawmen for a week straight now.”

“Right.” Kote looked back at his captor. “Do lawmen wear…that?”

‘That’, of course, was the best way for Kote to describe it. He was familiar with the concept of dresses, but he’d never seen one in real life before. Omega stiffened, and Boba opened his mouth, but Dad spoke first. 

“Omega wears it,” Dad said curtly, filleting a fish with a smooth stroke of his knife. “I don’t want to hear a word about it.”

Bly popped up at Omega’s elbow, smiling broadly. Boba hadn’t even realized that Bly had escaped his grasp. The stealthiness of the Jedi! “It’s adorable, Omega! I love the ruffles. That shade of blue really goes with our skin tone, doesn’t it?”

“Are we going to get that formwork filed?” Kote asked. “Or are we just not doing that?”

Omega beamed. It was rare to see her smile like that, but it was rare to see her receive a compliment too. “It has pockets!”

“Whoah, for real!”

Kote frowned. “All articles of clothing have pockets.”

Bly gave him a pitying look. “Girl clothing never has pockets.”

“I - how was I supposed to know that?”

“You’re never gonna get a girlfriend at this rate, mate.” 

“No girlfriends!” Dad called, scraping the flecks of meat into the curry. “Not now, not ever!”

Omega and Boba glanced at each other. Boba shook his head. Omega looked considering. Dad saw Omega’s considering look, and something abruptly seemed to terrify him before he visibly began repressing it. 

“Prime, when are we going to do our work?” Kote asked plantatively, “Our schedules are tight, and -”

“We’ll work when the food’s eaten and the kids are finally tired out, Kote. I barely control this shit.”

Kote nodded, adapting to this new child-based reality quickly. It was as if Dad had given him orders in the field instead of a plea for help. “It’s a mission, then. Boba, Omega, do you accept the mission?” Both Boba and Omega saluted briskly. “Good. In that case…”

Omega’s blaster was out of her hand. Boba had barely even seen him move. Omega cried out in despair, but Kote’s heart was cold: he held the blaster straight at Bly’s temple, stone faced and looking down upon them with malicious eyes. Bly blinked. 

“I’ve sold all of us out,” Kote intoned. “I’m turning in my padawan for the bounty myself. And I bet these two criminals disguised as lawmen…would fetch a hefty price.”

Boba and Omega were horrified. “We were criminals?” Omega cried, crushed. “What an unforeshadowed plot twist!”

“It’s very obvious in retrospect.” In an aside, Kote told Boba, “Never point a blaster at anybody you don’t mean to shoot. Always assume they’re loaded, even if you know they’re not.”

Pained, Boba said, “I know, Kote. They’re toys.” 

“Blaster safety is of paramount importance.”

“I know, Kote.”

“Good.” Kote twirled the blaster in his hand with a great and fanciful flourish. He even dramatically charged it. “To jail with all of you.”

“No!” Bly cried dramatically, one hand pressed to his heart. “Betrayal! You were my brother, CC-2224! I loved you!”

“Your mistake.”

One of the many terrible rules of jail was that you had to be very quiet. Dad loudly prayed in thanks. 

They had dinner together, just the five of them. Boba and Omega bounced in their seats and kicked each other and fought over the last roll on the plate before Kote ripped it neatly in half and gave each half to both of them. Kote attempted to have a serious conversation about their command appointments with Dad, but Bly kept interrupting to loudly ask Boba and Omega about the plot of the newest Sailor Centax episodes. Then they had to explain the premise and purpose of Sailor Centax to the baffled Kote - Omega was better at this, since Boba didn’t know why ‘because it’s fun’ wasn’t a good enough reason to watch animation. The clones could get really stupid sometimes. 

“That’s us,” Bly said cheerfully, when Boba scornfully expressed this. “The galaxy’s stupidest geniuses.” He winked at Omega, who was shoving curry into her mouth at an unprecedented rate. “But Omega’s the galaxy’s genius-est genius, right?” 

“She’s okay,” Boba allowed. Boba had long since resigned himself to the fact that Omega was, in fact, a bit smarter than he was. Dad said that it was meaningless, so don’t worry about it. He wasn’t worried about it. “She’s no warrior, though. She’s a civilian. So I still win.”

Omega did actually know how to shoot and stuff. Boba had bugged Dad until he taught her. Omega hated all of it and Dad was irritable with her the whole time, but Boba didn’t regret digging his heels in. Not knowing how to do some things was just embarrassing. Even Dad had agreed with him on that. 

But Kote had just frowned, sipping his water. “Clones can’t be civilians.” 

“Omega’s a unique case,” Dad said, and changed the subject.

After dinner, Dad and the older brothers sat down around the kitchen table and talked about work. Kote and Bly had recently been chosen as the Batch 2 Marshal Commanders of the army, so they had started coming around more often and having one-on-one time with Dad.

Their batchmates joined them sometimes, popping up at their elbow or towed along by somebody else. Boba didn’t know why. Dad obviously didn’t either, but he let them in anyway. 

Alpha-17 hadn’t come by in a while. Boba asked Dad when Alpha-17 was coming back, and Dad had changed the subject. That was that - they didn’t talk about things Dad didn’t want to talk about. Even if Boba was a little sad that Alpha-17 had become one of those things. But telling Dad that would mean bringing it up, and Boba didn’t like to upset Dad. 

Boba and Omega did a puzzle on the carpet. It was another thousand piece blank one, white as sea foam. Boba thought it showed Kamino during a thunderstorm. Omega thought that it was what the bottom of the sea looked like. Dad gave Boba and Omega spicy hot chocolate. Omega burned her tongue, and Boba laughed at her.

Boba eventually began to nod off, the activity and excitement from the day finally catching up with him. Unusually, Omega managed to stay awake while Boba began falling asleep. Omega was almost always the one to fall asleep first - conking out in Boba’s bed halfway through another episode of a pirated animation on Boba’s datapad and making Dad throw up his hands in defeat. But Boba could hear Bly speaking to Omega, voice as light and cheerful as ever as Boba weaved in and out of consciousness.

“You’re so good at your job, Omega,” Bly praised. “You’re an excellent playmate for Boba.”

It was a great compliment for any clone. It would have made any other clone puff his chest out with pride and given him bragging rights over his batchmates. A senior said he was good at his job, a command track said he was good at his job - Bly probably thought he was being very nice to Omega.

But when Omega spoke, she didn’t sound happy at all. “I’d play with Boba even if nobody asked me to. It’s not exactly my purpose in life. That would be such a lame purpose.”

“Really?” Bly asked, surprised. “What’s your real purpose, then?”

Omega didn’t say anything. It was because she didn’t particularly have one. The Kamino had created her as a prototype for cognitive enhancements, they had continued testing genetic modifications on her throughout her life, and they were currently making use of her as a lab assistant for the Kamino. Her purpose was to exist and be useful. But this was something far too embarrassing to admit to Bly. 

Of course, Bly knew anyway. Bly rarely asked questions he didn’t already know the answer to. “I think you have a great job. You should be proud of it. If you make the right moves, you can get a lot of advantages for yourself.”

“Advantages?” Omega asked skeptically. “Like Prime’s cooking?”

Bly hummed. “For a start. But getting close to the people in power is never a bad idea. You get more privileges the more you’re trusted, which gives you a greater ability to do what you really want to do. You should build up that power while you have the chance.”

“What are you talking about?” Omega asked, thoroughly unimpressed. Maybe a little uncomfortable. “Why do I have to have an ulterior motive for everything?”

“Because we need every advantage we can get if we’re going to succeed in our missions. There’s a reason why we’re getting the jetii’s trust before exterminating them.” Bly laughed, although he wasn’t really saying anything funny. “You think that a few humanoid clones can kill the most powerful beings in the galaxy without a few tricks? Backstabbing people isn’t honorable, but it gets the job done.”

“Speak for yourself,” Kote said wryly. Boba hadn’t even realized he was still in the room. “I’m looking them in the eyes as I kill them. I don’t need tricks. Neither do you.”

Bly just laughed again. “You’re a real Mando, Kote! Unfortunately, I like breathing more than I like honor. I’ll do what keeps me alive, thanks.” 

“If you want to stay alive then train harder.”

“You call that living?!”

“If you’re breathing, you’re living,” Kote said. “Good enough for me.”

“I don’t have a mission,” Omega said, voice rising a little higher. “And I’m definitely not killing anybody. Or betraying them. So I don’t know what any of this has to do with me.”

“It’s about survival, defect.” Bly said the word ‘defect’ exactly the same as he said the word ‘Omega’. “If you need a mission, then that’s your mission. Be whoever you need to be to survive. You can’t do anybody any good if you’re dead. So lose some of that ego and use what you’re lucky enough to have, huh?”

“Ego!” Omega cried, mortally offended. “I don’t have an ego! And I don’t need to use Boba to get what I want! Nobody’s making you pretend that you’re somebody you’re not, you know! Excuse me if I don’t want to be anybody else but me!”

A door slid open, and Dad’s voice cut through the conversation. He sounded groggy and a little stressed. “What are we yelling about?” 

Sweetly, Bly said, “Omega was just telling us about his day with Boba. Looks like everyone had fun!”

“I’ll walk him back to his quarters, Prime,” Kote said. “Goodnight.”

“Yeah, yeah. Damn, Boba’s asleep on the couch again…” A large hand landed on Boba’s shoulder, shaking him a little. “C’mon, cyare, I’ll tuck you into bed.”

Boba screwed his eyes shut, and refused to wake.

[pavlovianfuckery]

it was meant to be a joke but it spiralled

A/N: Re-uploading all my fics after having a slight mental breakdown and deleting everything so this is kind of old, but bone apple tea and all that anyway

AO3

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Fandom Masterlist

Summary: Literally just Dream being eaten out, fingered and pegged, that's all there is. I'm welcome and you're sorry

Pairing: Dream/F!Reader

Notes: Pegging, rimming, fingering, no use of y/n

Length: 2900~ words

You rarely see each other in the waking world, and at first, you worry that something might be amiss to warrant him leaving the Dreaming. The restlessness coming off of him in waves doesn't help. Even as he kisses you he seems different from usual, holding on to you like he can't get close enough. 

"What's the matter? Is something wrong?"

His answer is muffled against your skin as he nuzzles your neck, still seeking contact.

"Would you have me?"

"What does that even mean?" You frown, confused, "You don't need to ask every time you want to have sex."

"You misunderstand," he sighs, unwilling to elaborate further.

"Then what do you mean? I'm not a mind reader, you know."

You've never seen him act anything even approaching coy before, but you suppose there's a first time for everything. It's only a second or two, but he still chooses his next words carefully, not meeting your gaze fully as he speaks.

"I want you to possess me, as I have possessed you. I am yours to do with what you will." His expression is more open than you ever recall seeing, vulnerable and wanting. You're not entirely sure how to respond to that, and your hesitance is enough to pull a single word from him, dragging it out of him like a fishhook stuck in his throat; "Please."

The way he says it makes your heart flutter and you sit down on the bed, maybe a bit more heavily than you intended.

"Don't get me wrong, I'd love to!" You assure him, trying to keep your voice steady."But why? What brought this on?"

"Do I need a reason for wanting to give myself to you?" He takes your hand in his and gives it a soft squeeze. "You are my lover, is that not reason enough?"

"That's...fair, I suppose."

He presses his lips to yours, the kiss almost chaste. It soon deepens as he leans into you, unashamedly hungry. Not content with kissing he takes you by surprise by simply climbing onto your lap, straddling your thighs, burgeoning erection obvious as he presses close, almost desperate for contact. The weight of him isn't unpleasant, but he can't exactly stay like that, so when he eventually comes up for air you poke him gently in the ribs to make him move.

"Go on then," It's hard to keep your voice serious because he's just adorable like this, but you try anyway. "Strip for me."

You don't need to tell him twice. The way he undresses is unhurried but to the point, with no teasing or tricks, his gaze fixed on you the entire time. Everything from how he shrugs off his coat to the way he shimmies out of his tight jeans makes him almost seem human. When the last garment hits the floor he wastes no time, ending up back in your lap again. Even more insistent now, he barely gives you time to breathe as he captures your lips with his again, demanding. Struggling to stay still he grinds himself against you, leaving a wet spot on your tank top. Being responsive in bed is nothing new for him, but this is something different, and you intend to enjoy it as much as you can while it lasts.

Gathering his hair in one hand you give it a soft pull, making him gasp and bare his throat, and you can't resist licking one long stripe all the way up his neck, nipping at his jaw.

"You're so beautiful," you sigh, placing a line of kisses from his collarbone back up to his ear, loving the way his breath catches as you bite his earlobe gently. "Have you done this before?"

"I do not see how that matters," he replies, dodging the question.

You try to be patient, but he's not making it easy.

"It matters because I don't want to hurt you."

"What makes you think you could harm me even if you tried?" He scoffs and presses a small kiss at the corner of your mouth, "I'll be quite all right, I assure you."

"But that doesn't mean you'd enjoy it, and I want you to feel good," you retort, resting your hands on his waist, thumbs trailing his hipbones softly. "Let me do this properly, or not at all."

Giving in with a small smirk, it's clear that he's only humoring you.

"Very well," he breathes the words against your lips, voice low. "Show me this "proper" way, then."

Feeling mischievous you simply lay back and drag him down with you, making him let out a startled little huff. He doesn't fight you though, even when you roll over until you're the one straddling him instead, his length rubbing against your still clothed folds. As you pull your tank top over your head, his inhuman eyes follow every move hungrily, glinting in the dim light. Dismounting for a moment you rifle through the bedside table until you find what you're looking for.The harness itself is fairly non-descript, the black leather plain but functional. The dildo itself is less so. It's a smooth, surprisingly non-phallic thing, average in size but with a graceful curve to it and a slightly wider head, fashioned from a brilliant blue silicone with a pearlescent sheen. Retrieving a bottle of lube as well, you place all three items on top of the bedside table, a show of intent. It doesn't seem to phase him though, his eyes soon back on you again as you pull your panties down and get back on the bed, where he grabs greedily at you. His breath catches as you drag your nails lightly down his abdomen, the skin reddening prettily.

"Turn over for me?"

There are a few seconds where you think he might refuse before he rolls over onto his stomach. He really is gorgeous, all whipcord muscle and sharp angles, not a mark or blemish anywhere. Mapping every inch of him with your hands is too hard to resist, and when you trail your teeth and tongue over every notch and dip in his spine, it leaves goosebumps in your wake. Excitement is buzzing in your bones, but it's a bad idea to rush these things. Testing the waters you plant a quick kiss on one soft buttcheek, and when that seems to go over well enough, another, more open-mouthed one. It's only a small shivery intake of breath and you might well have missed it, but it might be one of the most delicious sound you've heard him make, especially considering what he's going to let you do.

Palming his cheeks you knead them gently, dotting another kiss here and there. If his slightly uneven breathing is anything to go by, he seems to be enjoying it so far. Kissing your way up his body, you rest your head on his shoulder.

"Will you get on your hands and knees for me, love?"

That goes over decidedly less well.

"I will not," he bristles, an almost offended look on his face.

"Well, if we're going to do this, you're gonna have to trust me a little bit. I told you I want you to enjoy it, so I'll need to warm you up. Or have you changed your mind?"

"No."

"What's the problem, then?"

"I find the position...undignified."

Lord have mercy. You take a deep breath, trying to be patient.

"If that's the only issue, let's just do it differently? Because I'm not going to fuck you without preparing you first."

"No need to be so crude." He doesn't roll his eyes, but he might as well have. "This 'different way' of yours, then."

Laying down next to him, you tap your chest. "Come here. You've been on top of me before like this, so just...do it the other way around."

His face as realization dawns is truly a sight to see. It might not be a full-on blush, but it's something. There is a moment of hesitation, but in the end, he relents. In a way, he ends up on his hands and knees anyway, though he seems to have no problem with it this way around, funnily enough. Kneading his backside again you gently pull his cheeks apart.

"This okay?"

"...Yes."

Good enough. Keeping your tongue soft and pliant, you give his asshole a few tentative licks, pausing to see how he will react.

"You wicked creature," he gasps, not quite managing to keep his voice steady anymore, "Continue."

That's all the permission you need. Alternating between soft licks and gently running the tip of your tongue around his rim, it doesn't take very long before you can feel him relax, opening up to you. The rest of him is doing the opposite though, tense and almost shivering from the intimate touch. His breathing is loud in the small room as you slip the tip of your tongue slightly inside of him, making his thighs tremble. No longer needing to be quite so dainty about it, you redouble your efforts until he grabs onto your hips for support. As you slide your tongue in as far as it will go, the small sound he makes can only be described as a whimper, and you wish you could see his face right now. It's an almost dizzying sense of power, having the King Of Dreams on your tongue, letting you pick him apart like this. 

Once he's as relaxed as you can get him like this you give his asshole one last sloppy kiss before stroking your hands down his sides soothingly.

"You still good?"

"Yes." This time his answer comes out a bit choked, composure crumbling.

"Good. Need you to move for this next bit though."

Reluctantly he gets off of you, and you file the information away for later; the mighty Ruler of the Nightmare Realms enjoys getting his ass kissed, in every sense.

As he lays down next to you there is a hint of a flush to his usually pale face.  When you reach for the bottle of lube, completely ignoring the rest of the equipment, his frustration is tangible.

"You try my patience," he murmurs, nipping at your shoulder lightly. "Further preparation will be wholly unnecessary."

"Bear with me a bit longer, will you?"

He gives you another small smile before pressing his plush lips to yours.

"I suppose I can indulge you for now, if it pleases you."

"It does." Slicking your fingers up you run your eyes over him, taking him in. He really is too pretty for his own good, all disheveled like this. "Spread your legs for me."

He actually does it without complaint, watching on propped elbows as you kneel between his bent legs. There is barely any resistance as you slowly sink a digit into him, and you can feel the faint thrum of his heartbeat around your finger. Working it in and out a few times, you brush the pad of your finger tentatively over his prostate. You weren't sure if he'd even have one since he isn't exactly human, but repeating the motion makes his breathing go ragged, cock heavy and leaking.

"You like that?" Not waiting for an answer you do it again, making his eyes flutter shut as he nods unsteadily, jaw going just a bit slack.

Pulling out, you add a bit more lube, wanting to be thorough. Two fingers are a bit tougher, but not much. There is a definite blush on his face now, spreading down towards his chest. Increasing the pressure just a tiny bit has him gripping the sheets, knuckles nearly white.

"You're so damn lovely like this, you know that? You're fucking gorgeous, Dream."

You half expect some remark about your choice of words again, but the objection never comes. Briefly considering adding a third finger, you decide against it, since you plan to keep this gentle. Enjoying how responsive he is, you work him over a few minutes more until he's almost putty in your hands. Finally satisfied, you tap his knee to get his attention.

"Still with me?"

Meeting your eyes, his gaze has a glazed-over quality to it.

"Are you quite done teasing me?"

That's answer enough, you suppose, withdrawing from him for now.

"You still want me to fuck you?"

"Yes."

Reaching for the harness you assemble it quickly, slipping it on before settling back between his legs again. Leaning forward you pepper his chest with kisses, working your way up to his neck, unable to resist the urge to leave a lovebite there.

"Can I take you like this?"

"If it means that you will get on with it, yes." The words themselves might be teasing, but his voice is soft as he presses close, your faux cock rubbing up against his real one.

"Alright." You sit back again, adding another healthy dollop of lube, this time to the dildo itself. "I need you to put your legs up for me for a bit."

He complies easily enough, without any commentary even. Holding onto one of his legs for a bit of support you line yourself up, resting the smooth head against his entrance. It's very tempting to make him ask for it one last time, but you manage to refrain, instead slowly pressing into him. The way his eyes gleam as he watches you sheath yourself in him is making it very difficult to keep it slow, but you try nonetheless.

A few shallow thrusts has him groaning, precum dribbling from his cock as you fuck into him. Patience wearing thin he wraps his legs around your waist, grabbing at any part of you that he can reach. Not letting him pull you down straight away, you take a moment to drink him in, committing to memory the way his eyes go half-lidded as you slide into him.

He's still trying to rush you, though. Outright stealing a page from his own book you put your free hand against his sternum, gently holding him down the way he's done to you countless times. You half expect him to start fighting you in some way, but he doesn't. In fact, he leans into it, eyes going dark. Feeling bold, you move your hand up to his neck, squeezing ever so slightly.

"You need not treat me like some fragile thing," he rasps, and the way his adam's apple bobs under your grip as he speaks nearly drives you mad.

The way he words it makes it sound almost like a challenge. You won't take him up on it however, not this time. But you don't need to handle him with kid gloves either. Picking up the pace somewhat, it doesn't take very long to find an angle that makes him outright moan, gripping your hips.

"Is that good?" You can't help teasing him, just a little, but it takes every drop of self-control not to point out that he doesn't exactly look very dignified while getting fucked, since that seems to be a bit of a sore point. He really does look delicious like this though, eyes shining as he looks up at you through dark lashes.

"Yes." The word is a drawn out wavering thing, unsteady as it falls from his mouth. 

Curious to see what other noises he might make, you do your best to keep going, your own pleasure entirely forgotten, every shred of attention on him. Even at a fairly leisurely pace, it's quite a workout though, and you don't know how much longer you'll be able to keep it up. Eventually, it feels like every muscle in your body is burning, and even though you don't want it to end yet, you're only human.

"Can you come like this, you think? Or I can touch you, if you want."

He looks on the verge of falling apart, unable to stay still, his grip on you nearing bruising. Overstimulated to the point of tears he doesn't speak, just fumbles for your free hand, placing it on his neglected cock. It doesn't take much to bring him off, just a few gentle tugs. 

His moans have an almost strangled sound to them as he spills all over himself, coating your hand as he strains against you, hips bucking. Your aim had been to wring every possible drop out of him, and it seems like you might not have been far off. Flushed and out of breath he looks so completely and utterly debauched, hair wild and skin in a thin sheen of sweat, covered in come, some running down and gathering in the hollow of his collarbone.

As you slip from him as carefully as you can he pulls you down, and you don't fight him this time, uncaring of the mess as he clings to you. It feels like every fiber of your body is on fire but you can't help feeling a bit proud, all the same. Settling into his embrace you stroke his hair for a few minutes, content just to be close. Tightening his arms around you, he sighs deeply.

"I believe I...might have needed this," he admits, unprompted.

"In that case, haven't you forgotten something?" You ask, fingers tracing his jawline.

"...Thank you." He's clearly humoring you again, but that hardly matters at this point. "Do you wish for my mouth, or perhaps my fingers?"

You start assuring him that it's not really necessary, but he interrupts you.

"What kind of lover would I be if I denied you your release after being brought to my own?"

What kind of lover indeed.

⁂

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[ivormybeloved]

Welcome back to me being sane over this old man- 🌊

1A. What kinds of experiments were done on Delusion!Vos? I figured him being turned part fish was one, but I’m curious if there were others.

1B. Were there any aquatic trials he had to complete during the experimentation? And if so, was that how he developed a fear of water?

2. WHO STRUNG HIM UP? And how did he get down? (I figured The Creator was to blame but I also have a sneaking suspicion of Romo)

3. Can he breathe underwater? 🫧 I figured if he was averse to water it hinted that he couldn’t, but he’s also part fish so-

4. Bonus: What is The Creator’s lab like? Or does he just experiment on people in their “natural habitats?”

1A. Well Vos actually got off pretty easy compared to the others. His skin was kinda ripped apart, his organs were replaced. But mostly it was just being ripped apart and becoming part fish lol (The Creator added a small water system inside of Vos's body so that he can breathe outside of water since he was basically now a fish). There wasn't much else done to him ig, at least not much I've thought of

1B. Yes, actually. Pretty much

2. No one really knows. Vos doesn't like talking about it, but Milo has a suspicion that is was either Isa or Hadrian. Heck, even ROMEO doesn't mention it much. The most Romeo will do relating to the fishhooks is to tug on them. He originally would go into a panic attack when it was mentioned, but after a while Vos grew numb. He was cut down.

3. Yes, he can breathe underwater. He has gills and fish organs 👍

4. It's actually pretty messy, which is why Lukas DESPISES that man. He does not clean whatsoever and prefers to be unorganized. It's pretty much where he lives, though no one knows where it's located. Except Romeo, Xara, and Fred, of course.

[mccoysofthemultiverse]

The Death of Curls

(and Poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

There was a little girl,

She knew it was after midnight since the second guard in rotation had made his way across the northern wall, west to east. She could see the glow of his glowing green skin illuminating the path as he followed this route. It was understandable that the man had been placed on the night shift …his mutation was perfect for it.

The girl returned her focus to her notes -- piles of loose paper scattered across the many textbooks safely locked away in Scholar Jenson’s office. Her hand tensed in protest from the excessive cramping of writing with a pencil that had been whittled down to two inches long. Her eyes hurt too from straining to see the text of the chemistry book propped in front of her by the dying light of the candle -- which she had traded two rations for. She knew she needed glasses, but was not privileged enough for those…yet. 

2 C₈H₁₈ + 25 O₂ → 16 CO₂ + 18 H₂O

That looked right. Balanced. But she couldn’t be too confident at the moment because, on top of everything else, she was exhausted.

She didn’t even flinch when she heard the door to the office open.

Who had a little curl,

Right in the middle of her forehead.

 “Curls? What are you doing in my office?”

Instinctively, she ran a hand through her short hair. It had been shaved during another lice outbreak at the orphanage two weeks ago, but her hair had grown back quickly -- it always did. It always curled in tight little ringlets until the weight of its growth pulled it into wavy locks that twisted up like fishhooks at the ends. She didn’t mind her hair, but she detested the nickname -- though it was still better than just being referred to as 22-258994. But she was the sound, patient young lady that her parents raised her to be long ago, so she never once refuted it.

“Be kind. Be polite.”

“I’m studying, as always, Scholar,” Curls replied gently. “You said that I was welcome to at any time.”

“I suppose I did,” he replied with a frown. “But it's quite late and examinations were yesterday.”

“I know,” she replied hastily, jotting down another note onto the bottom corner of the page. “But I wanted to prepare for Sinister’s arrival. I thought if I extrapolated from last cycle’s chemistry rubric, I could preemptively apply it to mutation prediction curves. The sequencing in volume nine hinted a--”

Scholar Jenson sighed. There was weight in it. More than the usual tired exasperation of someone finding a student out of bed.

When she finally looked up, her eyes adjusted to the backlight behind him, and something in his face gave her pause.

Pity.

It was there, written in the furrow of his brow, in the downturn of his mouth. It made her skin crawl.

Scholar Jenson was not a man of soft expressions. He had always been fair -- harsh, yes, and unflinching in his expectations--but he had never belittled her or the other children in his charge. When other scholars took “personal liberties” with their pupils, he did not. He was respectable. 

And he knew talent when he saw it. He had seen it in her. He had once told her she was his most promising student--one of the few minds he respected among the sludge. And she had believed him.

He took a step closer now, hesitating.

“Curls,” he said gently. Too gently. “You don’t need to keep pushing yourself tonight.”

A beat passed. Then another.

She set the pencil down, heart thudding. “Why?”

He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at her with that awful, human expression again, and it told her everything she needed to know.

Her stomach dropped. “I wasn’t chosen,” she whispered.

“No,” he said, and the word felt like a crack through the silence. “The department's selections came in this evening. The top three were announced to the faculty. You weren’t on the list.”

The words didn’t land at first. Her brain scrambled for alternate meanings, miscommunications, and errors in delivery.

“But… I’m top of the class.” Her voice was rising, cracking at the edges. “Or close to it--I’m in the top five at least. I’ve scored higher than Teemer and Belts on every assessment since cytology, and I know I translated the CRISPR formulas correctly during the last exam because the others used the wrong vector ratios--”

“Curls--”

“--and I memorized the diagrams from the codex, the real ones from before the culling--!”

“Curls.” His voice was firmer now, but not unkind. “It doesn’t matter. You weren’t selected.”

She stood abruptly, the chair scraping behind her.

“Who are they? What do they have that I don’t?” she demanded. “Tell me. What was the difference? I’ll fix it.”

He raised both hands in a quieting gesture. “It’s not about fixing. The decision’s done. You’re being considered for assistantship instead. It’s a strong path. One most would kill for--”

“But I don’t want to be an assistant.” Her voice was sharp, unfiltered now. “I want to be a geneticist. A real scientist. I want to shape the future. Not hand scalpels to the ones who get to.”

Something in her face must have made him step back. Maybe it was the fury--or the fire behind it.

There was a pause.

Then he said, softly, “Don’t let this undo you. The world does enough of that already.”

There was silence for a moment. She heard nothing but her own heaving breathing.

“You’re a good lass, Curls.” He continued. “You’re smart…brilliant even… but you need to learn when to fight for the top and when to prepare to fall, so you can adjust and land on your feet. So that you can survive…I can assure you, this isn’t a fight you will win. This is above me. 

When she was good,

            She was very good indeed,

The morning sun was pale and grim through the smog-filtered sky, casting long shadows across the orphanage yard; a patchy expanse of beaten-down dirt and scattered debris known charitably as the playground. Curls rarely came here. She preferred the quiet order of a textbook or the hum of an ancient microscope to the chaos of screaming children and posturing teens. But today wasn’t for leisure.

She was on a mission.

Curls paced slowly, scanning the clusters of children with a calculating eye. She needed something---someone--good. Someone useful. If she weren’t allowed to be among the top three students evaluated by Sinister himself, then she would find another way in. There had to be another way in.

A shriek of laughter caught her attention, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone falling. She turned just in time to see Scabs--small, wiry, forever bruised and peeling from stress eczema--being shoved to the ground by a taller teen.

Teemer.

Of course, it was Teemer. An older boy with an explosive temper and an unfortunate talent: he could breathe fire. His mutation was raw and powerful, unrefined. They were in the same study track, but Curls had bested him in nearly every academic testing thus far, and that fact clearly didn’t sit well with him. But he had presence. Charisma. 

And worst of all, he wasn’t stupid.

“You’re strong. Protect those weaker than you, my little star.”

Curls moved in before she had time to second-guess herself.

“Well, if it isn’t the flame-brained brute himself,” she called out smoothly, folding her arms and letting her voice carry.

Teemer turned, a slow smirk spreading over his face when he saw her. “Careful, Curls,” he sneered. “I might just burn that ugly face of yours. Put it out of its misery.”

She rolled her eyes and took a step closer. “You really want to scorch me in broad daylight? Right here, in front of the yard cams? I wonder what Scholar Jenson would have to say about that.”

His nostrils flared, a small puff of smoke curling from them. “He’d say it was overdue.”

Curls didn’t wait. She shifted her weight and ducked as he lunged, using her enhanced reflexes to dodge beneath his arm. She dropped into a low sweep and slammed her shoulder into his knees. Teemer toppled backward with a surprised grunt, landing with a splash into the largest puddle left over from the morning water rations.

The surrounding kids erupted into snickers, and Curls stood over him, calm and collected.

“Next time, use that fire to dry your socks.”

Teemer cursed, but didn’t get up. He knew better than to start a full fight in front of this many witnesses.

Curls turned her attention to Scabs, who was still crouched where he’d landed. His lip was bleeding, and one arm looked scraped raw. “You alright?” she asked.

He nodded quickly, eyes wide. “Y-yeah. Thanks.”

“Good…because I need you to do me a favor.”

Scabs blinked. “A favor--why?”

“Because I need a favor,” she repeated, voice low. “You’ve got that… gift with machines, right? I need names. I need evaluation records. The three students who were chosen to be evaluated by Sinister.“

Scabs stared at her.

“That’s a pretty big favor.”

“Hey, now. I just saved you from earning the name ‘Crispy.’”

The boy looked uncertain.

Curls sighed and slung her small knapsack off her shoulders -- most children at the orphanage knew better than to keep their belongings unattended for any length of time, and she was no exception -- and opened it, withdrawing her shoes that she never wore. They were too small for her, and even if they weren’t, Curls' mutation made shoes feel like foot prisons that inhibited her powers. 

She crouched and handed him her shoes. “Here, yours have holes in ‘em. I never wear mine anyway.”

Scabs stared down at the worn pair of shoes in his lap. He nodded slowly.

“Good,” Curls said. “Then we understand each other.”

She rose and stepped back, brushing dust off her knees. The game had changed. And she was done playing fair.

But when she was bad… 

Curls sat beneath the crumbling wall that separated the “playground” from the northern exercise track, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, fists clenching so hard her knuckles ached. The taste of sour resentment burned at the back of her throat as Scabs rattled off the identification numbers.

“22-77690, 22-334512, 21-99984,” he said in a whisper, his wide eyes flicking about the dirt yard like he was half-afraid the very gravel would report him for treason.

Her lips moved silently as she repeated the numbers in her mind, then matched them to faces. The last one, 21-99984, made her jaw clench so hard she heard her teeth grind.

Teemer.

She’d known it in her bones the second his number left Scabs’ lips, but saying his name out loud confirmed it. That reckless, fire-breathing brute. That arrogant, smug, knuckle-dragging boy who had nearly singed her eyebrows off not an hour ago.

Curls felt like she’d been slapped. Her vision swam with heat, her hands trembling--not with fear, but with a fury so sharp it might have cut her open from the inside out. “It doesn’t make sense,” she hissed, more to herself than Scabs.

“I thought so too,” the younger boy murmured. “So I kept looking. Into the archived exam files.” He sounded proud, but cautious. “You… You scored higher than all of them. You had the top scores, Curls.”

The words didn’t bring satisfaction. They hit her like a second blow to the chest, knocking the wind from her lungs. Her throat went tight. Her eyes burned for reasons that had nothing to do with smoke or dust.

She wasn’t passed over because she lacked skill.

She wasn’t overlooked because she didn’t qualify.

She’d won. And still, they didn’t choose her.

And then it struck her -- simple and cruel. The final answer she hadn’t wanted to believe.

All three of the chosen candidates were male.

Teemer, for all his flaws -- his volatility, his mediocrity, his absolute lack of restraint -- had been selected over her. Not because he was better. Not because he was smarter. But because he wasn’t her.

Curls pressed her forehead to her knees, shaking, her voice low and bitter. “He doesn’t even want it. He just wants to set things on fire and be told he’s important.”

She could imagine it now, vivid and poisonous: Teemer being pulled aside by one of the higher Scholars, puffing up like a peacock when the words “Sinister” and “geneticist” reached his ears. She imagined him laughing -- laughing like he did when he burned beetles for fun -- at the thought of wearing a lab coat, of holding scalpels he’d barely know how to use. Of being handed what she’d bled to earn.

Her heart pounded so hard it felt like it might punch through her ribs.

Curls didn’t cry. Not anymore.

Instead, she giggled.

“That’s the only reason?!” she sputtered, a sharp, incredulous laugh bubbling up from her chest.

It kept going -- gaining force, twisting into something deeper, stranger, until it wasn’t a giggle at all but a full-bodied laugh that echoed across the yard. Wild. Ugly. Honest.

She doubled over as it tore its way out of her, hands clutched to her ribs, not from amusement but from the sheer absurdity of it all. The stupidity. The unfairness. The new regime didn’t care about intelligence or discipline or dedication.

They claimed it was survival of the fittest.

No -- it was survival of the favored.

Survival of the new status quo, cloaked in words that held no meaning.

That’s what they wanted to build their future on?

Somewhere, in the back of her mind, a voice tried to push through-- soft, sweet, familiar. Her mother’s voice, the way it had once whispered to her at night: “Be kind. Be good. Work hard, my little star…” But it was distant now. Dull. Nothing more than a faded hum beneath the scream of everything she'd learned since.

Only one memory rose now, cutting through the noise with terrible clarity: the last time she’d ever seen her parents, the fear in their faces as she was pulled away, and her mother’s trembling voice shouting after her--

“Be strong! Don’t ever stop fighting!”

Her laughter grew sharper, brittle at the edges.

Scabs stood frozen beside her, wide-eyed and pale, quivering in his new, hole-less shoes like he wasn’t sure if he should run or drop to his knees and beg for his life.

Curls wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, still grinning. “Oh, Scabs,” she wheezed. “You’ve just given me the best news I’ve ever heard.”

And oh, how she meant it.

…she was horrid.

Scholar Jenson stood before the obsidian desk, back ramrod straight, sweat collecting beneath his collar despite the cold sterility of the chamber. He chose his next words carefully.

"You were promised three candidates," he said, voice steady but tight. "I regret to inform you that 21-99984 has gone missing. We’ve searched all sanctioned areas of the grounds, but... he cannot be located."

Sinister did not look up from the datapad in his hands. One finger continued scrolling. "Missing?"

"Yes, sir. Vanished sometime last night. There were signs of a struggle, but no remains. We suspect--"

The doors to the chamber slammed open.

Curls strode into the room.

Covered in blood.

It smeared up her arms, spattered across the oversized lab coat like war paint. Her expression was placid, calm. Confident. She walked with surety between the two trembling boys, whose shoulders hunched instinctively as she passed. The Scholar gasped as she crossed the threshold. She didn’t acknowledge him.

She stopped in front of Sinister and bowed her head a fraction.

"Forgive the interruption, sir," she said, voice even. "But I’ve come to clarify an error."

Sinister raised an eyebrow, finally deigning to glance up from his screen. "An error?"

"Yes," she said. Her eyes were fever-bright. "Were you aware that you were going to be presented with only the second, third, and fourth best candidates for your consideration?"

Scholar Jenson turned ghostly white. "That’s not--she--this isn’t the time--"

Sinister lifted a hand.

Silence fell.

He looked back at Jenson. "Is that true?"

The Scholar’s jaw worked uselessly for a moment before he exhaled, defeated. "It wasn’t my decision. The senior board of Scholars assembled the final roster. I argued against it, but I was overruled."

Sinister regarded him with a glint of interest. "And who, precisely, is the top candidate?"

The words came with quiet weight. "22-258994. The girl standing before you."

Curls gave no reaction to the use of her designation. She only stepped forward and folded her hands behind her back. Her voice, when it came, was clear and cold.

"I’d like to offer proof of my potential as a geneticist."

Sinister tilted his head, intrigued. "Proof?"

"If you're interested, of course," she said with a toothy smile. "I have a preliminary demonstration. Would you care to see it?"

Sinister smirked. He looked amused. "Perhaps. Tell me, child -- what do you have in mind?"

She led them down into the bowels of the orphanage--a place few dared venture outside of inventory days. The stairs creaked and moaned with age, and the flickering wall sconces did little to chase away the shadows. The basement, once a storage room, now resembled an impromptu laboratory. One of the long supply tables had been cleared of crates and cloth, scrubbed clean…or clean enough.

Laid out across its surface was Teemer.

His body was a mess of incisions, ribcage cracked open, throat split, arms flayed back with precision. Every major organ had been labeled with scraps of paper and bits of string pinned into flesh. Several jars sat nearby, each containing tissue samples, preserved glands, and thin slivers of bone. And though death had long since drained the heat from him, the faint smell of scorched flesh still lingered in the air.

Sadie walked beside Sinister, her posture proud despite the blood caked beneath her fingernails and streaked across the side of her face. "Subject was previously identified in medical records as having a pulmonary-based ignition system for his flame generation. That, as it turns out, is incorrect."

She gestured toward a dissected section of Teemer's esophagus. "Combustion occurs not from the lungs, but from a specialized gland embedded high in the esophageal tract--likely mutated salivary tissue. His lungs store the combustible agent, a volatile compound I believe to be hydrocarbon-based, and deliver it up the tract during exhalation. The ignition occurs in the throat itself, triggered by that gland."

Sinister's eyes gleamed with interest.

"Unfortunately," Sadie went on, brushing her fingers along one of her neatly annotated diagrams, "the subject's biology was ill-equipped to sustain prolonged use. His oral tissues exhibited severe thermal scarring, and his pharynx showed signs of repeated microfracturing. The biological system was potent but flawed: ultimately unsustainable. With selective gene reinforcement, the gland could be stabilized, and the compound redirected safely-- perhaps with engineered heat shielding in the oral mucosa.

Scholar Jenson, pale and stiff beside her, stared in horror at the remains of the boy he had assumed merely missing. His voice rasped out, barely audible: "Curls..."

She turned her head toward him slowly, her eyes dark and calm. "No, Scholar Jenson. My name is Sadie."

Sinister had already stepped forward to examine the corpse, his long fingers trailing along her notes. Pages of careful writing, neatly categorized data, side-by-side anatomical comparisons, and speculative improvements were laid out with the meticulous detail of someone born for this.

He gave a quiet, approving hum.

Sadie stood tall, the blood drying on her hands, her heart steady. She didn't flinch as Sinister turned to her with a sharp smile.

"Impressive," he murmured. “How old are you?”

“I’ll be fifteen in August, sir.”

“Hmm…You’re a little young. Only a year older than my eldest son,” He dropped the paper unceremoniously on the table in favor of scrolling through his datapad. “But your intelligence and drive certainly outshine the others. I believe you’ll be of use to me..Miss McCoy.”

Next to her, Scholar Jenson said nothing. Sadie beamed up at him. All smiles and curls and some pathetic boy’s viscera.

She hadn’t just earned her place.

Sadie McCoy had taken it.

[lostinthewalls]

ONESHOT #1

Mynx's Dilemma

Summary: A borrower and their friend go out on a mission. An accident occurs which leads to quite an odd series of events.

Word count: 1,519

TW: Panic attack, slight gore

STORY UNDER THE CUT

“Haven’t gone out in a while, huh?” The overly-cheerful voice called from the next room. Mynx looked up with a sigh, standing up and stretching their legs just as their unwanted roommate, an outtie-turned-innie borrower named Bramble walked into the room.

“Yes, yes. I know that. But are you sure it’s safe to go borrowing with the ah- new human around here? They seem aggressive…” Mynx fretted, tugging on their newly-crafted borrower bag, wrapping their rope up into a ring.

Bramble scoffed, crossing his arms as he leaned against the matchbox table, “I’m sure it’s fine, M! It’s just a new human moving in. Plus, there’s boxes galore that we can hide behind, anyway.”

Bramble was always the overly-confident one. Of course. Mynx heaved a sigh, but forced a nod and smile, tying their hair up with a piece of string. They snatched their patchwork jacket from the fishhook in the wall and swung it over their shoulders as Bramble began getting himself ready as well.

Mynx wouldn’t call the two of them friends. They were far from it. The only reason Bramble was even here in the first place was because of an…accident he never spoke about. It was easier if he didn’t speak about it anyway, though. One, because Mynx didn’t exactly care, and two, whenever they did rack up the courage to ask about it, Bramble’s mood would suddenly turn sour and the man would sulk into another room.

Besides that, however, they were on equal terms. After all, the code said to take in and welcome any stragglers with open arms. They had the same enemy, after all, didn’t they? Mynx shook their head with a sigh, pinching the bridge of their nose and kneeling to search in a lower drawer.

“Say- speaking of the new human here- ever wonder what happened to the old one?” Bramble perked up, boosting himself up to sit on the matchbox, kicking his feet absently,

“I don’t know. Died, or something. He was old…” Mynx replied, barely focusing. They put their hands on their knees and shoved themselves up, zipping up their bag, “But that doesn’t matter. Get ready. Your the one who wanted to do this.”

“Right, right.” Bramble thankfully slid off the table and skittered into the other room, rounding the corner with nothing more than a wave. Mynx was glad he was gone for now. It gave them time to think.

About what? They didn’t know. They stretched one final time, their tail swaying on the ground like a feather duster behind them. They kept staring into space until finally, after what felt like an eternity, Bramble finally showed back up ready to go.

“Well? Are you going to stand there sulking all day or are we going to get going??” Bramble called. Mynx did a double take and found him halfway out the door. They ran to catch up, shutting the door just as the two crossed the threshold into the walls. 

Bramble obviously took the lead, ever-confident as he was, while Mynx stayed back and took in the ‘amusing’ scenery. It wasn’t much. Just scaffolding, nails, the usual. They trailed their hand along the wall as Bramble led the way, both of their lamps lighting the path forwards.

They kept walking for a while before something caught on their hand. They winced, stopping suddenly as a sharp scent of blood filled the small corrider. Bramble turned, looking puzzled himself.

“What the hell?” Mynx mumbled, bringing their hand close to their face and squinting. Bramble walked over and held up his lamp, providing a decent amount of light. They both cringed when they saw it.

A fresh, rather deep cut on Mynx’s palm. It trickled blood down the borrower’s wrist, staining the sleeve of their jacket. It was blood mixed with something…else. 

Something strange. A black, gooey substance, a lot like tar, actually. Mynx had heard of what tar was. They knew it could be dangerous but- they’d worry about it later.

“Yeesh…thats a pretty nasty cut, M..” Bramble mumbled, already grabbing some scraps of gauze from his backpack.

“No- no, Bram, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it.” Mynx huffed, but took the gauze anyways and wrapped their hand up, “It’s probably nothing, anyway.”

Bramble wisel didn’t say anything and continued on. Mynx followed after him, although oddly a tad lethargic since the cut made them feel…odd. Like their limbs were locked up or something. That wasn’t good at all.

They shook the feeling off as just plain old exhaustion- as it always was- and eventually, the two emerged from the walls and into a livingroom, where unpacked boxes lined every single open wall.

There was a TV left on the ground, along with a punching bag set up in a corner near the entrance to another room. Mynx and Bramble exchanged cautious looks before starting their mission.

“Don’t do anything risky this time, Bram- it’s not- not worth it.” Mynx was alarmed at how hard it was to speak all of a sudden, but thankfully, Bramble gave a nod and helped them jump across a pile of blankets left on the floor. They stumbled a bit, their tail straightening like a ruler as they struggled to stay on their feet.

“Should be saying the same to you, M. What’s with this whole act all of a sudden? Your not being dramatic, are you?”

Mynx could only shake their head with a small groan. The whole room was spinning but- they couldn’t go back. They had a job to do, after all. Both them and Bramble.

There was walking in the next room and Bramble paused. Mynx however, did not. They kept walking…they couldn’t stop now. The throbbing in their legs would certainly grow worse if they did. Their vision began darkening along the edges. They shoved through it. This couldn’t be happening. It was just some stupid cut, right!?

Right. They kept going even when the muffled voice of Bramble called for them to stop. They keot going even when they stumbled and fell to their knees. They kept going even when that strange, black tar substance eagerly snaked up their arm and caressed their cheek. Why did they feel like they were stretching?

“MYNX-” The final shout of Bramble finally got through to them just as their head slammed against something hard. They looked up, startled. The…ceiling fan!? What?

They stumbled backwards, trying to determine what was happening. They looked around. Everything was..smaller. Too small. They cringed and crashed into the punching bag in the corner of the room.

“BRAMBLE!? WHAT’S HAPPENING TO ME?” They cried desperately, their voice gargled from panic. This- they felt horrid. They felt…human. This…this was a dream. They had to wake up any minute now, right!?

They crashed to their knees, clawing desprately at the carpet with nails that had turned into pitch-black claws. Blood pulsed in their ears as they heard someone moving in the next room. They felt behind them, reaching behind to pin their lashing tail against the ground, using their other hand to claw at their face, struggling to get the substance off.

“BRAMBLE!!” They screamed again. No response. They looked up as a stranger burst into the room.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN MY HOUSE!?” A woman screeched. She had balled fists and an angry expression as she stormed in, grabbing Mynx by the collar faster than they could react and slamming the suddenly much taller borrower into the wall. They winced at the contact, eyes going wide with instinctive fear.

“I- I UHM- ER-” Mynx stumbled for a response as the short, burly woman took in their appearance and took a step back, releasing them as they coughed, sucking in some much needed air.

“Actually- what the hell are you?” She scowled, standing in front of them with a scrutinizing gaze. They reached up to their face again, pulling at the substance which had now hardened. It peeled off easily, like dried glue, and fell in deep, ashen piles on the carpet.

“I- please ma’am I don’t intend you any harm it’s just- I never expected this to happen-” Mynx managed. Clearly talking to a human can’t be that hardnow that he was a few heads taller than her, right?

“Riiight. Like breaking and entering wasn’t ‘intentional’.” She scoffed, watching as the stranger continued to pull off that odd black stuff covering them.

Eventually, it was mostly off after a while of sitting in awkward silence. They breathed a heavy sigh of relief, suddenlt falling backwards, being caught before they could hit the ground.

They glanced up drowsily to be met with Bramble, then stared up at the ceiling fan that was once again, far above their head. They felt faint, now, staring at the human woman who was now quite literally looming over them both.

The womans expression shifted from anger, to confusion, to utter shock like a carasoul before managing a response that didn’t make her sound like a phsycopath.

“I’ll ah- I’ll ask this again, I guess. What the hell are you. Both of you.”

—————

ENDING NOTES: sizeshifting curse my beloved....Mynx is having quite a TIME TODAY. FYI there WILL be another part. And yes this totally serves as a intro peice to my new oc(Mynx I love you such a goober).

But anyway I BEG YOU to ignore the wonderous plot holes and lore gaps. Not much DIRECT G/T interaction in this part, oopsie. But more will come!! (Bramble will be fighting for his life now that his roomie is like a monster now)

[sophieswundergarten]

Sophie's really bad and also currently incomplete "Summary" of The Sofa Book

@nobody33333333 Here you go

I'm putting this under the cut because Moth said he might want to read it at some point. Everyone else is welcome to my insanity.

Also, fair warning, because I'm really bad at summarizing things so there's going to be a lot of touch and go with how detailed this is

I found this book in a bargain book bin several years ago in a local grocery store and my mother bought it for me because I thought it looked interesting.

I was right.

But it is also so many other things.

And it has an unprecedented number of references to other media, namely The Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, and A Wrinkle in Time, by my count

So, there's these three kids: River, Freak, and Fiona. River's parents died in a car crash, when he was little, and that also gave him a limp. River arrives at the bus stop one day to find a sofa just. Sitting there. (It is worth noting that the sofa is coloured similarly to Mr. Benedict's green suit. And that there is a possible bloodstain on one of the cushions)

River's friend Freak is sitting on the sofa, and soon their other friend Fiona shows up. Fiona is the only one of the trio to have a phone, but she also refuses to be seen with the boys in public because "girls mature faster than boys and [she] really [needs] to be with people [her] own age" and she tells the boys not to take it personally, it's just that emotionally the boys are both six.

Fiona's a lot of fun.

She also constantly wears very strange outfits with extremely clashing colours. No one mentions this to her.

So, the kids deduce that the couch probably belonged to "old man Underhill" since it's technically outside his driveway. Fiona suggests looking for loose change in-between the cushions. They find a peanut shell, a gum wrapper, a plaid sock, a weird coin that has two different people's heads and words in an unknown alphabet, a green crayon labeled "ZUCCHINI", and a fishhook that River discovers because he jams his hand into the couch and gets stabbed.

They save all of these things "for posterity", which is a good thing because Fiona then finds out that there are collectors out there who will pay a lot of money for it so she sets up an online auction.

Background information that is important: The town they live in (Cheshire) backs up to a coal-seam fire wasteland called Hellsboro, which has been burning for twelve years and was caused by some kind of accident at the Rodmore Chemical plant, the abandoned building at the center of Hellsboro. The three kids are the only people who live in the houses near Hellsboro, and the rest of the city is several miles away.

Also, phones and other technology are sold by the company Disin Tel, and basically every food is made by Agra Nation. And there are huge town-wide flash mobs that happen every so often, which the participants deny ever happening. This is a common argument with the kids as Fiona takes part in the flash mobs and the boys are annoyed she keeps pretending it never happened.

The crayon auction has now jumped to over seven thousand dollars, and the kids are freaking out. The bidding war is between GORLAB and Alecto, but River points out that technically they don't own the crayon, and should check with Mr. Underhill first.

They end up speaking to him through a speaker in the front gate of the Underhill house, at which point we discover that this man is, in fact, not Mr. Underhill. Mr. Underhill died at age 97 in a tobogganing accident. This guy is named Alf.

They mention that they found the crayon in the sofa, to which Alf replies "Oh, that sofa. I was wondering where it had gotten to. I didn't realize if was missing until yesterday even when I tried to sit down. Imagine my surprise."

Alf also references the fact that his pneumatic mail slot apparently ate the mailman's hand, but that's not relevant.

Alf suggests they meet after the kids get out of school to discuss the mattter (Dropping a few very specific details about the kids' lives that he has no way of knowing), and the kids agree.

River gets back to the gate early, and takes a nap on the sofa. He has a very strange dream involving his irritated and pedantic English teacher wearing a suit made out of the sofa upholstery. This is not, in fact, his English teacher, but rather "the sofa's spokesperson".

There is then a very confusing explanation about a place called "Indorsia" that is described as being like a landscape "on the inside surface of a giant, hollow sphere", which is where the sofa's from.

The sofa is a piece of "smart furniture", which means it "keeps itself clean; it digests stains; it can change its color to match the drapes" and also it grows from small, sugar-cube-like objects. This "makes it easier to pack if you're being pursued by storm troopers".

It takes a year for the sofa to grow to full size, and this sofa in particular has nanotech factories in both armrests, which can copy small objects once given a sample. (Such as replicating spare change)

Also, (And here you are, Bods) the sofa is the only entity in either their world or Indorsia to have the ability to tesser

This means it can teleport, with a maximum range of two miles and the need to recharge, but nonetheless quite impressive as it figured out how to do this on its own.

And it powers itself to do all these things by eating dust bunnies

AND WE'RE STOPPING HERE FOR TONIGHT BECAUSE I NEED TO GO EAT. I WILL TRY AND FINISH LATER, IF ANYONE'S INTERESTED :)

[pr1mrosez]

first lines of 2024

share the first thing you have written in the new year once you get there<3 (however long it takes & however brief!)

This is a future chapter for Fishhooks <3

My mouth was full of blood, truly suffocating, really. They didn’t like what I had to say, so they stopped at the source. They could have killed me, but it would have been less fun in their eyes. If only I had kept my mouth shut, right? 

What a shame, yet another performer’s voice silenced because they had something to say. All because Snow couldn’t handle anything mentioned about Lucy Gray. If I were honest, I would have thought he was in love. But it wasn’t love, was it? It was an obsession.

 It was like Lucy Gray had been a drug he couldn’t resist, and maybe they had a fallout? Was that why she went missing? Why had her memory been erased from all of the records of the games?

I may not have been able to speak, but I refused to be silenced. Peacekeepers surrounded me in the train car, not trusting me to be alone just because of some worthless title that had ruined my life. Victor. If I hadn’t been reaped, I’d still have my little siblings, I’d still have my mother and my father. The train doors finally opened, my home offering the welcoming sea breeze as I took a deep breath.

I was escorted to Victors Village where Rowena looked to have been coming back from the ocean. She had her spear in one hand, a net of the catch in the other. She was walking up to the door as we entered the arches to the little village with a total of two buildings. I didn’t think someone could drop a net as fast as Roe had when she saw us coming. The look on her face told me she knew. She knew something was wrong. With her spear in hand, Roe started walking towards us.

 “Mags, you alright?” She asked me, cradling my face with her free hand, eyes on the four peacekeepers walking a few feet behind me. When I couldn’t answer, I shook my head, tapping my chin. Roe’s eyes flickered between the peacekeepers and I, though her voice lowered “Who did this to you.. The capitol? That’s it..” 

She dropped her hand from my face, walking past me. “So this is how your home treats the victors, huh?! Taking away their ability to speak? Haven’t you taken enough you sick fucks?!” Roe threw her spear. It went through the visor of one of the peacekeepers. Her mouth twisted into a small grin, ripping her spear out of the peacekeeper's face.

 “Who’s next, huh?! You treat one of the people you sent to their death like a PRISONER.” I saw the spear thrown again, taking someone out by the chest before the other two started to run. They weren’t allowed to shoot victors. It could have caused a revolt. Roe was sort of a hot commodity in the capitol. She was called to the capitol a lot, but she had never told me why. I had my suspicions, but I kept them to myself.

As the peacekeepers  ran, Roe walked back to me, dropping her spear and leading me into the house. Her face was now void of emotion. I simply slipped my hand into hers, squeezing gently. Roe had so much rage built up in her mind, and sometimes rather than talking through it, she held it all back. I saw the silent few tears run down her face before she looked away from me. I wish I knew what happened in that head of hers, just so I could help. So I could understand.

It wasn’t until that night as Roe held me close to her chest, that I made a realization. Roe was just as scared as I was. She might not have shown it, but she was utterly terrified. I could hear it in the quick beats of her heart, and I could feel it in how tight she was holding me. I could feel her breathing grow shaky, a small tear running down her face and landing on the back of my neck. I just pressed a soft kiss to her collarbone, hoping it conveyed the message that I had wanted it to.

“I’m so sorry, mi amor.. You didn’t deserve this” Roe said quietly. Her voice was thick with tears that she refused to let fall. She knew that I knew they were there, but she hated crying. The only times I had seen her cry were when she was so angry that she couldn’t contain them. Like when she had gotten onto the train to go to the capitol, just after her brother was killed. And when she came out of the arena.

Tagging @kat-xox @autistpride @marzst4rz @rinney4ever and whoever wants to <3

[irritablepoe]

I AM LISTENING TO MAG 12,,,AM I TRIPPING OR IS THE CHARACTER JARED KEY (IDK IF THAT'S HOW IT'S SPELLED) APPEARED IN THE OLD LADY THAT HAD HER SKIN HANGED USING FISHHOOKS EPISODE ALREADY ??? THE ONE WHO PAINTED THE EYE??? OH MY GOD IS HE A RECURRING CHARACTER??? IM ON THE EPISODE WITH THE NURSE AND THE BURNT MEN AND HDWUHSWHHS also thank you for sharing the transcript thingie it helps a lot with really comprehending and progressing at the same pace asthe story T — T <3333

also idk how to tell u how ur squished into the crevices of my life already, like it started with ranpoe now i am introduced to another wonderful thing again bc of u, and now i’m also planning a travel budget bc i wanna go there n see u!!

giving u as many hugs n kithes as i can!! hope u get some yummy food again, love u *offers you my heart, quite literally 🫀🩸*

AHHHHH YES, gerard is a character that appears quite often throughout the story, you'll love him fsdjfhkshdfjkhs tho i don't know which episodes exactly lol, i made the mistake and rushed through the episodes so idk even all the characters as thoroughly as i'd like to... i should probably relisten to it all, AND YOU'RE WELCOME, i wasn't sure how aware people are of this, but yeah i think they made sure the transcripts are generally well accessible so everyone can listen or at least read them :3

AHHHHHH YOU'RE SO SWEET; IT MAKES ME SO HAPPY THAT I'M AN INFLUENCE IN YOUR LIFE AHHHHFJHDJHFKJDSHKFH *running to you and hugging the living shit out of you* and omg that'd be awesome frfr, although i'm still scared you won't like me irl lmao

love you and many hugs and kithes back to you ofc ofc <33333 and yeah i'll take your heart *holds it gently*

[ibis-gt]

hghhgghsdm can’t stop thinking about borrower AUs. real short borrower luther drabble under the cut.

“You’re okay, you’re okay, calm down,” Cam said, trying to keep the excitement and incredulity out of his voice. The tiny figure clutched in his fist squirmed frantically in an attempt to wrench his limbs free. “Not gonna hurt you, little guy, just want to see you up close, okay?”

“No!” The tiny voice shocked Cam, and he faltered in his attempts to soothe the little being. “You’re not supposed to see me! This is all wrong!”

Cam’s brow furrowed. “Are you... normally invisible?” His confusion was entirely sincere, but he got an angry glare in response.

“No, I’m not invisible,” the tiny person said with withering sarcasm. “You’re just not supposed to see me. It’s against the rules!”

“There are rules?”

“Of course there are rules! Don’t let the humans see you. Only take things that won’t be missed. We have to be secret, or else.”

“Or else what?”

“This!” The tiny person wailed, and went limp. His head slumped forward and thudded against Cam’s curled fingers. His shoulders heaved, and Cam felt tiny drops of moisture on his skin as the tiny person began to cry.

“Oh, no, no, no, don’t do that,” he said desperately. “No, shh, c’mon, you’re okay, I promise! No need to cry!”

The tiny person lifted his head up again and glared at Cam through his tears. “’s not okay,” he said sullenly. “You ruined everything.”

“Me? What did I do? From what you just said, you’ve been stealing from me. I’ve got a right to apprehend a thief, don’t I?”

“There!” The tiny person shouted. His tone was triumphant, like he’d caught Cam in a lie. “A-ha! You are gonna hurt me!”

“No I’m not!” Cam yelped. All of a sudden he felt he’d lost the moral high ground in the conversation. He scrambled furiously for something that would regain it. “I’m - In fact, I’m going to let you go. Actually, I’m going to give you whatever you want, and then I’m going to let you go. One thing. Free gift, from me. See? I’m nice.”

The tiny person stared at him with suspicion for a moment. Then he said slowly, “Anything I want?”

“Any one thing, yeah.” Cam was starting to realize this might be a bad idea, but he couldn’t back out now.

“Okay... hmm. I want a minute to think about it...” The tiny person trailed off, craning his neck to look around the room.

“I can show you around? Help you pick out something good?” Cam looked around as well, trying to think of what would be the most useful to someone four inches tall. “There’s lots of good food in the pantry. Or maybe something you could use as a tool? Like... a sewing needle, a fishhook, a book of matches - ”

“Matches!” The tiny man called out. “I want those!”

“O...kay,” Cam said, his head now full of images of his home going up in flames. “But you have to promise not to use them on my stuff.”

The tiny person stared at him for a long moment. “Fine,” he said at last. “Let’s shake on it.” He made a big show of trying to tug one arm free again and failing. Cam rolled his eyes and took the hint, opening his hand to let the tiny man sit on his palm unrestrained. Then he held his other hand out in handshake position and waited.

The tiny man took a step backward as Cam’s hand came towards him, stumbling on the soft surface of his palm. He took a deep breath and set his shoulders, then slowly reached out and placed his hand on the pad of Cam’s middle finger. Cam gently wiggled his hand a little. That was as close as they were going to get to a proper handshake.

“Okay. No arson.” Cam turned and started to walk out of the kitchen and towards the living room, where the drawer that held the matches was. The little man squeaked at the motion and dropped to his knees in Cam’s palm, tiny fingernails digging into his skin. “Ow,” Cam whispered.

He fished the book of matches out and held them out to the tiny man, who snatched it immediately. Before Cam could make his sarcastic “You’re welcome,” comment, the tiny man got up, moved to the edge of his hand, and jumped. 

Instinctively Cam reacted, moving to catch him in his other hand. The tiny man let out another little squeak as he landed on Cam’s palm. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! You’re gonna break your damn legs doing that, and give me a heart attack to boot!”

The tiny man scowled up at him. “I’ve dropped from higher. I’ll be fine. Let me go, already. You promised!”

“I did, I did, okay,” Cam said soothingly. He lowered himself down to his knees and set his hand on the floor. “Before you go - ”

But the tiny man had leapt off of his hand before it even touched the floor and sprinted at a surprising speed, disappearing under the cabinet.

“ - my name’s Cam what’s yours nice to meet you.” Cam finished in a flat tone. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He’d probably never see the little guy again what with how jumpy and cautious he was. Maybe he’d leave Cam’s house altogether. It made him a little sad.

Just as he was getting to his feet, he heard the tiny voice call out once more.

“Luther. Um. Thank you.”

[aratakuki]

@kanedoji

claws brush back against his cheek, that which falls into her palm so willingly. he was a dope, endlessly falling head over heels regarding anything shinobu did. thumb strokes slow under his eye, kneads a soft heart against his cheekbone as itto pours himself closer to mold against kuki’s form, something she welcomes with a curl of forearms around his head that comes to lean upon her toned stomach. what a sap, her heart sings, knowing full well how his honest intentions gave her goosebumps with every meeting of their skin. fingers move to comb through his bangs, brush over forehead and carefully trace around horns as they sweep by.

“ happy birthday, ”   murmurs under breath, mask hiding the god-forsaking smile that rots with sweet sin for her candied oni, layered with sugary years of innocence and practiced altruism. lips splice into a light-hearted chuckle as the feeling of his smile splitting as kisses reflect on her abdomen, something that makes her scruff his hair and matt it down with a ruffle.   “ hey, i haven’t even given you your gift yet ;   calm down with the affections. ”   even then the kisses double down, easing knees up to cradle his head as she spools around him, folding over to bend in and bump her forehead to his shoulder while he buries into her physique. 

warmth spills out in fluttering fluster, relenting only when itto parts to find her face and reaches for it. shinobu reciprocates by hooking a finger to her mask to pull such down and flow forward to connect their river of electric love in a long, passionate liplock. the soft presses and rolls of kissing waves send chills down to the depths of the koji, hands slowly crawling up his chest to curve and tenderly push at his collar once she’s certain she can separate for a brief spell of oxygen. drawn out breath rag on the air, hot and flushed, her expression bewildered and lost in a fog of smitten admiration, her only saving grace her fingers coming up to hook his cheek and flick his nose in deterrence. 

“ enough !   i cannot give you your gift if you keep spoiling me. ”   careful not to drop him, kuki rolls her legs out from under arataki, his mate rising from their spot in the field grass so that she can fetch his surprise. back around a rock pile she ducks, her only visible features being that of her wild hair and jacket back, her height rising with a few items in tow. as she returns to his side, shinobu sits onto a folded leg, the first of many gifts set onto her lap. inside of a small bamboo crate sits a decorated onikabuto, nibbling on a few slices of lavender melon.   “ i. . .   i wanted to invest in your favorite pastimes, so i’d like you to meet  ‘ devoted demon hustler ‘ .   i had him examined by a few experts, and from what they say, he is a fine specimen for your. . .   ahem. games. ”

cage is set upon itto’s lap as shinobu plucks the next of his gifts into her hands.   “ next, i had a friend from mondstadt ship this out just for your blessed occasion, so keep in mind this was difficult to get my hands on. ”   over a small parcel is passed, its contents  CANDIED APPLES, well preserved and wrapped individually for him to sample. next to come is a bracelet shinobu comes to remove from her own wrist, one matching upon her opposing wrist.   “ these in specific are made from the pearls of watatsumi, each engraved with a letter regarding our species. mine reads koji, as your will read oni. . .  -- if you choose to wear it. i figured that after all this time, since you have been by my side for so long, i should. . .  well. i should once again embrace my koji-hood. ”

as kuki offers out his accessory with embarrassment teasing free hand along the back of her neck, eyes dart away from his gaze with a shrimpish smile that tugs like fishhooks at her lips. is she proud of herself? or is it just how enchanted she is by her mate? either way, once he takes it from her, she awkwardly folds her face into her hands with a timid laugh and shudder over how she had even come to terms with such out loud. were these gifts worth his time? only itto knew. but no matter the measurement of his gratitude, shinobu would never let herself get over the lengths she went for this extravagant birthday surprise.

[achtung-attitude]

EXT. SUPERMARKET PARKING LOT - AFTERNOON

C/U on Shannon’s face. She breathes deeply. PULL BACK from her face slowly as she does this for several beats, before she suddenly inhales sharply and holds it, as if she’s about to dive underwater.

CUT TO behind her as walks towards the supermarket entrance. The automatic doors roll open at her approach…

INT. SUPERMARKET

An average small town supermarket with non-descript music playing over the speakers. A GREETER, a teenage girl, addresses her with feigned enthusiasm at the doors.

GREETER

Hi, welcome to FreeMart!

Shannon pauses, staring at the greeter. Her posture is skittish as she nods and mutters a reply to the greeter, before she quickly moves on and picks up a metal shopping basket from the nearby racks. She does so slowly, seemingly trying to avoid making noise.

As she moves through the store, she does all she can to avoid people. She keeps her head low and maintains a wide distance from them. Turning into the breakfast foods aisle, we see that the way is blocked by two sets of shoppers stopped in the middle. Two WOMEN chatting to each other. Shannon backs away from the aisle and moves on.

Turning into an aisle further down with no people in it, Shannon does her breathing exercise for a beat again: inhaling for 2 seconds, exhaling for 3. Having calmed herself down, she looks up and reaches for something on the shelf in front of her.

C/U on Shannon’s hand reaching for a can of peaches, when suddenly, another hand appears in frame and snatches the can before she can reach it.

Shannon gasps, reeling away from the figure who has suddenly appeared right next to her.

The figure is a WOMAN, slightly taller than Shannon herself, with Asian features and wavy black hair. Bizarrely, the woman has a distinctive scar in her cheek, shaped uncannily like a fishhook. She smiles cheekily at Shannon but the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

WOMAN

Gotta be quicker next time!

Shannon’s face suddenly lights up upon seeing the Woman’s face, to both of their surprise. The Woman’s cheeky expression drops slightly.

SHANNON

I-it’s you-!

WOMAN

Me?

SHANNON

Ah- I mean… S-sorry, uh… You look familiar, but… I’m not sure from where…

WOMAN

Oh… That’s probably because I’m your new neighbor! You just moved in with your boyfriend, right? I’m TANYA.

Shannon’s mood falls once again. She becomes more nervous and skittish.

SHANNON

Husband…

TANYA

Huh?

SHANNON

Ah, h-he’s my husband. We got married last spring… And, yes. We officially moved in just yesterday.

TANYA

Husband?! But you’re so young!

SHANNON

Yeah… Everybody says so…

TANYA

Oh, don’t get me wrong. It’s just young folks your age tend not to be interested in that commitment.

SHANNON

We, uh… Decided this was the best way…

TANYA

Best way for what?

SHANNON

Ah, to handle things… We recently moved away from the city. Getting married made things less… complicated for us.

TANYA

Huh, I see. Taxes and social security, that sort of thing, huh? That’s smart. Well, I’ll tell you, I’ve done the marriage thing already, and I won’t be doing it again.

SHANNON

(visibly uncomfortable)

R-really?

TANYA

Let me give you some advice, as someone with experience: The most important thing for a married couple is communication. If you can’t communicate, then you can’t know each other, so you can’t get along. That’s how it was with my ex-husband and me. We could never talk about anything. Eventually, it got so bad we could barely stand to look at each other, despite sleeping in the same bed for years. Now that’s dysfunctional. The most important thing is communication, after all. Wouldn’t you agree?

SHANNON

Right… Uh, anyway… I’d better get home…

TANYA

Right, right, of course! Just remember, if you need anything, I’m right across the street. Don’t hesitate to call, got it?

SHANNON

R-Right…

The woman, Tanya, flashes another uncanny smile, then as quickly as she appeared, she turns and walks away. Shannon watches her go, staring like a deer caught in headlights.

INT. COUPLE’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

OVERHEAD: Shizuka lies on the double-bed, her feet dangling off the side. Dark outside, the only light comes from the lamp on the nightstand. Our viewpoint is directly above her. We hear running water.

PAN DOWN to Kyle entering the room, brushing his teeth. Shannon raises her head off the bed to see him, then lies back to keep staring at the ceiling.

KYLE

You sure you’re OK? You were quiet all during dinner.

Shannon shakes her head.

SHANNON

I’m fine…

KYLE

I’m serious. If that woman at the store threatened you or-

SHANNON

She didn’t. She didn’t. It was just… uncomfortable, that’s all…

KYLE

(grunts)

There’s weirdos wherever you go. No avoiding that, I guess

Kyle walks out of frame to rinse his mouth.

SHANNON

…The weird thing was… for a second, when I saw her… It was like I knew her. I felt happy to see her… but, no. That’s impossible. She was just a stranger. I must’ve mistaken her for somebody else… Only I can’t say who…

Kyle enters back into frame and lies down next to Shannon, yawning. Shannon sits up, a smile forming on her face.

SHANNON

Am I boring you?

KYLE

Ah… No! No, I just… It was a long day, that’s all. For you too, I guess. Figure we could both get some sleep.

SHANNON

(nods)

Mm…

Kyle leans over her, placing one hand on the bed by her shoulder so he can look warmly down into her face.

KYLE

I’m proud of you for going out by yourself today. That took a lot of courage.

SHANNON

Thanks…

Kyle stares at her for a beat, then lightly grips her shoulder. She tenses, then relaxes. He leans toward, shifting his legs up on the bed. He places his left hand firmly on her abdomen and leans down to kiss her.

Shannon closes her eyes, accepting the embrace. Then… the sound of breaking glass. She tenses, her eyes opening wide in fright. She tries to play it off, quickly doing her breathing exercise to calm down, but Kyle pulls away from her.

SHANNON

I-it’s nothing- It’s fine, just-

KYLE

Shh…

He presses his finger to her lips, looking suspiciously at the door.

KYLE

I heard it too…

Shannon nearly gasps in fright, but she is shushed again. Kyle clamber off of her.

KYLE

Stay here…

He moves carefully, trying to make no sound with bare feet on the floorboards. He reaches under the bed and slowly pulls out a wooden baseball bat. Shannon sits up, unconsciously clutching a pillow to her chest and holding her breath. 

The atmosphere is deathly quiet. From outside, further sounds of scuffling is heard, as if something heavy is stumbling through the house. The floorboards creak under its footfalls. Soon, the creaking gets louder as it approaches the room.

Kyle reaches slowly for the door handle, gripping it and preparing to throw it open. Shannon stares fearfully, squeezing the pillow tightly. The creaking gets closer… 

And closer…

And closer…

[drabbles-of-writing]

Can we get more new age shenanigans of Luz and the detective/journalist?

ask and you 2 shall receive

Eda, chugging spiked apple blood: hows the detective stuff going Luz, face-down on the floor: I’m so going to get the FBI called on me Eda: welcome to the club!

the townsfolk have no idea of Luz’s Masterful Avoiding The Authorities Plan so when interviewed they give Very blunt and honest answers all confused like “you didn’t know this?? it happens all the time” meanwhile Luz keeps insisting that the crackhead shit the townsfolk is telling everyone wasnt THAT bad.

Detective: so the locals say your often seen with a group ranging between eight to eleven individuals. who are they, exactly? Luz, hanging upside down on her chair and without a care in the world: 🎶and I’ve got friends on the other siiiiide🎶 Detective: what does that even MEAN

since Luz is no help whatsoever and threatening her with legal action doesn’t do shit, the detective decided to spy on Luz to try and learn what kind of people shes associating with. in the first two nights he’s learned of four of her friends. a guy who appears to be excited about absolutely everything and not understanding social norms, another guy with green hair whos just as crackheaded as Luz but twice as sweet, a woman with a fishhook earring that everyone apparently fears getting pummeled by, and a dog with a smooshed in face that seems to communicate like any other canine but somehow Luz seems to understand what hes saying. he brings this evidence to Luz and demands answers n she just shrugs n goes “oh them? yeah they’re my friends. met them in the cult n they escaped with me” n ofc the detective then asks if he can see them for interviews and is momentarily unnerved when Luz laughs at him and is then thoroughly annoyed when she responds with “most of them wouldn’t go near you with a fifteen foot pole. the rest would give even more confusing answers than me” and left it at that.

the Detective at one point showed up at Camila’s house to ask her a few questions and was VERY thrown off-guard to open the door and see an old lady with rats-nest of hair just Hangin on the couch. they held eye-contact for a few seconds before she bolted out the nearest window. Camila ofc had to answer a few questions but her rule is that if the questions aren’t specific, she won’t give full answers. so he leaves basically only knowing that her name is Eda and shes Camila’s kind-of-gf and thats it. later overhears Luz complaining under her breath “damnit, moms gonna kill me” and turns out Eda is also her mother in a sense so that was some stuff for the Detective to piece together.

Luz is having a Rough Day w the Detective and is very clearly being a Dumbass In Distress™ and Amity basically Teleports over. since the Detective knows little to nothing about Amity (other than she hangs w Luz’s group), considering shes often too busy to visit the human realm, he IMMEDIATELY nabs her and starts shooting off endless questions. Amity works as a Council advisor and dealt w Lilith & Eda a lot so, you best believe she took it all in stride. He also notes a fancy ring shes wearing. Detective: are you married? Amity, oblivious to Luz trying not to laugh yeah?? obv Detective: may I ask who your husband is? Amity, who has had to hear questions like this since Forever, grabbing the Wheezing Luz n holdin her close: well I don’t have a husband, so my wife will have to do Detective: I- Detective @ Luz: YOUR MARRIED??  Luz, smug: I literally have a ring, dude Detective: well yeah but it has those funky designs on it!!! and your covered in odd tattoos n weird ear piercings!!!! I thought you were just being fancy!! Luz: its on my fucking ring finger

anyway needless to say the Detective bugged Amity a LOT about interviews upon learning this dumbass he deals with is somehow married to a rather sophisticated and put-together woman. Amity is very Elusive however and its a miracle in of itself if anyone can nab her for questioning. the Detective just stared @ Luz like “how tf did you get legally married??” n Luz calmly explains it was a good few years after she came back to the town and about a year or two before she started up the public appearances. so THEN the Detective had to figure out that Luz had been in the town long before the police had ever known, Camila was aware, Luz had been busy with something before now she wouldn’t disclose, and despite the fact she had no legal records whatsoever even after she came to the town she got married and has a marriage certificate, albeit written in a way the Detective had never seen before. Luz is lowkey enjoying him lose his mind trying to figure this out

[pr1mrosez]

Fishhook

Tigress worked with me to look presentable to the capitol’s standards. She worked quickly and beautifully, you’d think she had many years of experience rather than her young age of 22. She had designed a dress as blue as the ocean after a storm, golden stitching sewn into the small train that followed me whenever I walked. The sleeves went past my fingertips, a fishnet looking fabric. It was odd, real fishnet was rough, not soft like this foreign cloth. She had a hairdresser come in to do a trim and put my hair into a braided crown, a golden ribbon standing out against the rest of my dark hair. I looked into the mirror and barely recognized myself. The capitol was changing me. I couldn’t let them change me too much. If I lost myself to the capital, I'd drown into the abyss of my own past self. “Do you like it..?” Tigress asked timidly, resting a hand on my shoulder. I could only nod for a moment, the knot rising in my throat as I thought of my family, thought of what my parents would think if they saw me like this. My mother would’ve pointed out that I looked too weak to be wearing something so bold, my father would point out that I could feed the family for at least a year with what this probably cost to make. I could never do anything right with them. I wanted to prove them wrong and win. Whatever it took. I couldn’t leave my siblings alone. I wouldn’t do that to them. Tigress tapped me slightly, snapping me out of my own thoughts. “Mags, what do you think?” I smiled, looking at my own reflection. “I love it, Tigress. Thank you so much for all you have already done for me.” Tigress clapped excitedly before pulling me into a tight hug “Oh, that's wonderful! I’m so glad you like it! I was worried about the netting, how it could potentially catch in the pins in your hair, but as long as you don’t touch your head, I believe it should work well!” I grinned, hiding my anxiety behind a mask of my own making. “So, we should be heading out, right.. To the parade..?” Tigress gasped “Oh my goodness, Yes! We may be running a bit behind schedule.. It’s alright, we’ll run fast!” The blond woman hurried to grab my hand, dashing out the door. 

Tigress was quite a bit taller than me. Her longer legs were able to carry her a bit farther with each step, causing me to try and keep up, almost tripping on my dress multiple times in the time it took to get to the Parade hall. It was near the Capitol building, with a few people standing on the balcony’s stage. 

They were blurry figures, yet they still seemed so intimidating. Dolion was there, along with the other tributes standing near horse drawn chariots. Last year hadn’t been nearly as fancy, but Coryolanus Snow was also in charge of arranging major events. It was his plan to make the cruel games a spectacle for the capitol to enjoy, the districts to be terrified of.

Tributes had been hoisted into the chariots. I gripped tightly onto the handlebar with one hand, looking over at Dolion nervously. He looked calm on the outside, but I could tell he was just as nervous as I was. I slipped my hand into his, staring forward as the horses started to trot forward. The capitol resident that filled the stands cheered as we were carted out. I felt like an exhibit for their enjoyment. That was exactly what I was to them. People every year were brought to the capitol, treated like zoo animals, and then brought to be killed. It's how it worked. People said it was better than the dark days, but I remember at least when I was a little girl, I wasn’t being sent to my death for the enjoyment of others. I also had Peggy back then. Peggy wasn’t here anymore, she was led into the games like a lamb to slaughter. As the crowd cheered, The chariots stopped in front of the balcony. Dr. Gaul, Coriolanus Snow, and The President Of Panem were there. “Welcome to the 11th Annual Hunger Games!” Dr. Gaul announced, her deep red robes really standing out against the vibrant whites of the decor.  “One of these brave tributes will be our victor this year, and they will embark on a victory tour, visiting every district! This year will be very different, thanks to our prodigy, Coriolanus Snow!” She announced, though I wasn’t paying too much attention. I saw the three, but the crowd rang in my ears. I wish it all would stop.

Finally, she stopped talking and we were led back to our dressing rooms. I felt like I could finally take a breath away without fearing I could make someone hate me. If they wanted someone to root for, I’d play their game the best I could.

[theholycovenantrpg]

CONGRATULATIONS, MAL! YOU’VE BEEN ACCEPTED FOR THE ROLE OF DAMIEN WARD.

Admin Cas: At long last, our Antichrist is among us! Mal, your application left me totally enamoured by the vicious, wicked, and beautiful creature you placed before us. As you pointed out, Damien is a being of halves — half human, half divine, half animal — and yet, nothing in his life has even been done in halves. You breathed such life into him, made him so much more than his epithet or his Vice. The way you used the Prophecy that still lingers, even as it’s been fulfilled, and injected that into your future plots was just so exciting! And, I have to admit, when you mentioned the way that he tugs at his gloves as a threat, as a flex of his power — well, that just felt so DAMIEN. I can’t wait to see what you’ll do with him, and I’m beyond excited to see what ruin he wreaks on the dash! Please create and send in your account, review the information on our CHECKLIST, and follow everyone on the FOLLOW LIST. Welcome to the Holy Land!

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Mal

Age | 25

Personal Pronouns | They/them

Activity Level | I’m a full time student and have other general life obligations, but I’m generally fairly free on the evenings and weekends. In numbers I’d estimate my activity at probably a 6/10. 

Timezone | EST

Triggers | REMOVED

How did you find the group?  | I came across one of your beautiful promos in the lsrpg tag, if I recall correctly.

Current/Past RP Accounts | Jove

IN CHARACTER

Character | Damien Ward 

What drew you to this character? | I had Damien’s bio lingering in the back of my head since I first read it, and then Admin Rosey kindly suggested he and I might be a good fit for one another, and I sunk my teeth in. The image of eight year-old Damien standing over a body with wolves licking blood from his hands stuck in me like a fishhook. He’s half-mortal, half-divine, half-wild creature. I am reminded of classical Greek heroes, defined by transgression, made great and made beautiful by the same things that make him monstrous. 

He’s in a position with so much glimmering potential on the horizon. He’s fulfilled his purpose, in a sense, and yet the world remains rebuilt beneath him. Is it enough for it to lift him up as it has? He was not built for times of peace, and here he is living in one. This can only go on so long, and how could I not adore a character surrounded in so much tantalizing possibility?

Also, I am such a sucker for the fascinating family dynamics that surround him. His own mother, who willingly took Lucifer himself into her arms, could not bear the sight of what they’d made together. Damien was made for wild, inky shadows, to be at home among bloody-mouthed beasts. And yet, when hell opened it’s maw to swallow him whole, he found family. An Antichrist who is loved, who might wrestle with his sister like a wolf-pip and turn his face upwards to face the judgement of a mother, and care what she sees. The thought must have been so utterly foreign to Damien as a child, whose mother could not stir a single response from him, for whom he could never find reason to twist his mouth into a smile. And yet he offers Azazel everything she asks for, he listens attentively to his father and learns to craft words of bright silver. It is a remarkable thing, that one could look into Damien’s wild, inky darkness and learn to love him. Perhaps the only thing stranger is that he has learned to love back. 

Also, he’s evil and sexy and I love him.

What future plots do you have in mind for the character? | 

THE FORTUNATE SON | The family dynamics surrounding Damien are stunning, fire-forged and battle-tested, yet razor thin cracks grow along their obsidian surface. They are bound so tightly together, love each other with terrifying ferocity, yet even the closest of bonds can snap when struck from the right angle. They are all caught up in tantalizing possibility, but the crack most likely to become a fissure runs in a sharp, direct line straight from Damien’s ambition to Judas’. 

Damine knows what his pseudo father is: The Great Betrayer. Damien is not blind to the fact that he is a dangerous man to share power with, even an invisible crown. But he took Damien in when he was a hollow and wild thing. The first creature whose eyes Damien found recognition in was a wolf. Judas was the second. Damien has killed with them both. Sons rising up against their fathers is one of the oldest stories in the world. Damien has already lived it, once. In dark, seething moments, he wonders if he may have to live it again. Is Judas, like the wolf, not a creature of his nature? Is placing his trust in his hands not akin to placing his head in the mouth of the beast? And yet... neither has failed him thus far. 

(And yet, he thinks with a secret tenderness he knows may curse him, he loves them both.)

I can see either Damien or Judas turning against the other should the right leverage be applied to their deep yet delicate bond. A war between them would be a terror wrought upon the world and upon themselves. Conflict between them would be devastating and delectable, both to the characters and the world around them.  It might seem nearly inevitable, two ambitions like theirs poised so keenly for conflict, and yet I just as easily see them united should they find another common enemy. Damien’s sights may turn towards Judas should he find himself unable to resist the ache in his jaw to destroy, yet should he be given something else tantalizing to gnash his teeth against, Damien may always find himself choosing the latter. 

SEVEN DEVILS | Outside of his found family, the Vices, each carefully hand-picked for their own strains of terror, are Damien’s closest allies upon this earth. Though even then, loyalty, let alone trust, among demons is a dangerously fickle thing. Even the best of the creatures of hell are a ravenous, power-hungry lot, and Damien is not nearly foolish enough to think none of them might hunger for the power he wields as their self-appointed leader. Raum is the only among them he can truly trust, she who he plucked from obscurity and gave grand purpose, she who is the closest being to him not called family. Yet he chose each of his Vices for a reason, and each of them has unique value to him. I see him trying to craft an individual loyalty with each of them, tethering them all one-by-one to his ambitions.

This is not to say I can’t see him failing in this lofty task, no matter what he might think of his silver-tongue and the bone-chilling power of his mere presence. Damien is perfectly capable of overestimating the power of his own thrall, or of being too caught up in the affairs of his family to hear the whispers passed between them, or countless other faults that may make him vulnerable to those in his inner circle. I would love to explore what may happen should one or more of the vices turn against him, their united front fracturing. Damien believes that he is the one who raised them high, who granted them their lofty titles, and that he has every right to cast them away should they fail him, and I can all too easily see such a move back-firing spectacularly. 

The seven of them create a complex web of loyalties, and as much as Damien prefers to think himself the clever spider at its centre, he is just as capable of being caught up in it as any of the others. 

LIVING IN THE AFTERMATH | Perhaps more of an internal development than an interpersonal one, but I’m deeply interested in exploring how the events since Lucifer was vanquished continue to affect Damien. He never found a father in the Morningstar. The word family will forever evoke Judas, Abbadon, and Azazel before the woman who birthed him and the man who sired him, but the Devil’s blood still runs in his veins. So much of what he is, as acerbic a thought as it may be, is owed to the circumstances of his birth. 

Seizing hell and sending Lucifer careening upward, outcast from the realm he once ruled, was the first step to ridding the Antichrist of his father’s shadow, but it would prove to be far from the last. Three hundred years longer, Damien had to wait with a pernicious, buzzing anxiety, for the last of the Morningstar’s light to finally fade from his eyes, and that too would not bring the end of his influence. Though he did not stand in the way of the search for the bodies of God and his Morningstar, speaking of the affair left his tongue dry and bitter in his mouth. Their time had come and gone. All that was left of them was dust. And besides, if mortal and demonkind so desperately sought what was left of the Morningstar, all they had to do was turn their eyes to his progeny. Lucifer’s blood thrums through his veins, yet they seek his crumbled remains instead? It defies Damien’s understanding. 

The Heretics and their precious Sanctus Terra (a name that to this day he can’t help but feel a petty disdain for) only exacerbated his frustration. Going to war with them was delightful, yes, crushing their ranks between his teeth brought a dark kind of satisfaction he hadn’t felt since he’d seized the Morningstar and ripped him from his throne. Damien could have waged war for centuries, never tiring of the taste of mortal blood, of flexing his power against their generals. But too many others were not so inclined - and it was with disdain (and a fair bit of pressure from those around him) that he agreed to set the war aside to establish the Holy Land. His beloved Azazel being made Moon - though were it up to him, he’d have given her the whole piece of land to her to do with what she pleased - at least served as something of a consolation prize. Even on this so-called neutral ground, the power of his family has made itself known and respected. 

Still, his resentment for the place has not entirely faded, and while he’s willing to at least tolerate most of what it has to offer, some of its residents make that ire come bubbling up to the surface. Namely, Estienne, who in all their lofty arrogance and sly demeanour has come to be emblematic of everything Damien hates about the place. Estienne is but a pale imitation, thinking a touch of plague-given divinity makes them his equal, who seems to seek a dynasty with his own sister not unlike the one Damien has with his. It’s petty, Damien’s disdain, yet powerful. I see Estienne managing to push all of Damien’s buttons, and as much as Damien would like to forget about them entirely, they remain a thorn in his side, with more influence over him than he would ever care to admit. 

CUT FROM THE CLOTH OF FATE | Damien was born swathed in prophecy. Destiny’s shadow has hung over him and lingered behind him for the entirety of his existence. The Antichrist, born to eat the world. And he’s done it, hasn’t he? He has torn the Morningstar from his throne and bit out his throat, he has brought Hell itself to the surface of the earth. Civilizations have fallen to his wrath, cities crumbled under his touch, the world as it was once known torn to pieces and turned to dust. Yet what is destruction wrought when revival follows it like a shadow? 

I see Damien at something of a crossroads. In one sense, his prophecy is fulfilled; he took the world between his teeth and crushed an age to it’s bitter end. Half the world is his in all but name (though Judas’ shadow lurks around every corner, he too crafting himself an invisible throne), but contentedness can not and will not come easily to Damien. Something stirs within him, something yet to be named, perhaps even recognized, but its roots have already taken root in the core of him. Restlessness stirs in his hounds, power festering from underuse, and a quiet, dull ache grows in the set of his jaw. He was made to destroy, not to rule, but he cannot deny that there is something delectable about the word ‘king’.

I see him in quiet, solitary moments turning the prophecy over in his mind. What is one meant to do, once he’s swallowed the world? There are moments he regrets letting it regrow so quickly, giving him so little time to bask in the ruination of his making, and there are moments when he wonders if his prophecy remains unfulfilled, still dark and beckoning. Every moment spent with Nerissa pulls it from him, makes his hands itch to rip off his gloves and feel ruin blossom under his touch once more, this time with no rebirth to follow. There are times still, when he thinks he ought to tear apart the prophecy itself with his teeth, render it as meaningless and obsolete as the ashes of the Old Testament. His father was a king. Perhaps it is time to claim a different kind of birthright. 

I can see Damien turning his sights on The Holy Land and Caelum (and maybe - if those lands have somehow fallen to his wrath - Infernum itself) hungry for destruction at whatever cost it may come.  Just as easily, I can see him looking to his invisible throne and the crown of shadows growing on his brow, and decide that it is time to make them something more tangible. I’m not sure Damien himself knows exactly what he wants, but I know it would be utterly delightful to see which direction the story and the other characters may push him in, and find out. 

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Yes. But if Damien is going down, he is going down in one hell of a blaze of glory. 

IN DEPTH

Driving Character Motivation | The dark, beautiful thing about Damien is that if he were asked this question, I’m not sure he could give you a solid answer. Oh of course he wouldn’t say as much, his lips would twist up in something not quite a smile, and from his tongue he’d create something lovely and argent, perhaps ask what the earthquake’s driving motivation is to turn a city to dust, or what drives a pack of wolves to tear the stag limb from limb. It would be long after his shadow had ceased to fall upon you, after your bones had warmed from his chill, that you would realize he answered only with questions. That is, if he answered at all, and did not instead slit your throat for the presumption. 

Damien is, above all else, inevitable. The trajectory of his life has forever been defined by what he is more than who. The line between them blurs beyond recognition. Damien is a force of nature, a wild animal, and a fatherless son all in the same breath. He is a creature of ferocious instinct, who knew that he thirsted for the sweet, metallic taste of blood long before he knew why.

All this is to say, Damien’s motivation is a fractured thing. One might call the thing driving his heart to beat and his hands to rend destiny or instinct or hunger, but in a word, I would call it ambition. Damien was born with grand purpose, with a dark, insatiable thirst. He was going to kill the world. Now he’s done just that, in a sense, chewed up the old world and spit it back out, only to watch his pseudo-father carefully tend to the remains. Something new has blossomed from Damien’s destruction and perhaps, were he anyone else, that would be enough. 

Which path to carve forward remains unknown, even to Damien himself, but one thing remains certain: this is not where his story ends. He did not overthrow the Morningstar to live an idle eternity, to bask in even the chaotic peace of Infernum. He balances on the line between ‘prince’ and ‘king’ and yet is permitted to openly call himself neither. He looks to the north and sees wide swathes of earth that do not yet know his destructive trust. All the while, something inside him grows, inky shadows spreading where he stands. So many highs he has yet to reach, so many ways to wield his power against the world. 

What does Damien want? The answer swirls like a storm building inside him, shapeless and impatient. If he really must name it, I believe he would choose a singular, all-encompassing word: MORE. 

Character Traits |

Vicious: Full of vice. Is there a word that more completely sums up all that the Antichrist is? The word may conjure the traditional vices, but it is also a word for the wild, fierce cruelty Damien is capable of embodying so completely. He is vicious in that he is wicked, but also in that if he proclaimed he was raised by wolves one might believe him. Damien is a sharp, dangerous thing, and he bears each vice with pride, but none more than his self-appointed title: wrath. 

Volatile: In certain environments, such as his childhood, one could be easily be mistaken in thinking the Antichrist scarce feels anything at all, cold and distant as he might be. The truth is something else entirely. It might not show on his face until the ice inside him has whirled into a blizzard, but without his gloves Damien’s power would act on its own accord. Damien feels deeply, quickly, and to those who know him well enough can seem almost childish in the changes of his mood. Especially now, when the path before him is so unclear, and Damien finds himself all but itching for his next direction. 

Aloof: Cold is the first word that many think of when they encounter Damien. He walks into a room like the winter chill blowing in. And how fitting it is, that the distant, aloof child of the Morningstar could make even the fires of hell seem cold. Damien is a singular creature; he prefers to stand apart from most (with few exceptions made, for family and to an extent, the Vices). And how could he not, the only half-demon known to walk the Earth? 

Eloquent: Damien came of age under the wing of Judas, the silver-tongued betrayer. He has learned to weave words from the best teacher one could desire. Yet, the Antichrist himself is not a creature of lies by his nature. He may employ them should they be needed, but Damien prefers those who look upon him to know exactly who he is. He barely spoke a word the first eight years of his life, silent as a shadow. Now, every word is chosen carefully, the beauty of his words a sharp contrast between the dread he invokes. 

Passionate: How irritating he finds it, that language so often describes passion as a fire. Damien is a creature of ice and shadow. Passion, for Damien, is a blizzard, whiting-out everything in its path, a glacier, slow-moving and unstoppable, or the nocturnal beasts coming out of hiding at the fall of night, inevitable as it is fearsome. When Damien cares, he cares deeply, and with terrifying ferocity. 

Dauntless: What does the Antichrist know of fear? Damien has never met an obstacle he did not hesitate to rise to meet, not even the Devil himself. As a child he looked down into the fiery mouth of hell and he found himself a home in its fires. Damien is bold, welcoming a challenge, particularly in battle, and does not do well with idleness. 

In-Character Para Sample | 

There’s something wonderfully fascinating about watching the effects of his presence before the affected even knows Damien lingers close by. Even creatures of hell can react like prey animals under the unseen gaze of a wolf, a mysterious chill creeping up their spines, hairs standing on end as they twist their necks in search of the source of their unease. The corner of Damien’s mouth ticks upward at the sight. It’s a rare thing in these languid days of peace, that he gets a chance to flex this particular muscle, lingering in the shadows of Infernum’s ever-ostentatious decor in a dark corner of a busy room. It will not last, the effect of Damien’s presence can only go unnoticed for so long. Sooner or later, the cold will seep deeply enough into someone’s skin to dismiss as a figment of imagination, and he will be given away. He’s only managed to escape notice so far because slipped in from a side-door, treading quickly and silently, and took a vantage point half-covered by a heavy velvet curtain, and, far more significantly, because the room’s attention is fixed on none other than Judas himself.

It’s a rare gift that Damien’s pseudo-father possesses, that silver-tongued charm that makes one believe that no matter what you may have heard about ‘The Great Betrayer,’ this time, you can trust him. Damien understands the mechanics of it, taught from Judas himself, exactly how to weave your phrases, the rise and fall that leaves a room full of creatures as wild as demons hanging on every word. Still, he has so few moments where he gets to watch Judas in his element while unobserved himself, watching with a hint of fondness as he sways opinions word by word. Typically, he would delegate one of the Vices, or perhaps someone below them, depending on the importance of matters, to keep an eye on his parental figure in his stead. Like Judas before him, Damien calls attention to himself by simply walking into a room. The dynasty that Judas, Abbadon, Azazel, and himself have carved out for themselves may not call themselves royalty, but the subjects of Infernum address them as if they wore crowns and carried sceptres all the same. Their power - much like what Judas displays now - is nameless, but it is palpable. 

As much as he enjoys the light thrill of watching from the shadows as Judas works his political machinations, he did not come here just to watch. No, Damien has matters to discuss with his father of sorts, but the opportunity to glimpse him working his schemes unnoticed is not something he was about to turn down, even if the moment might be brief. Unfortunately, there’s nothing especially interesting about the conversation, mere political minutiae Damien rarely has the patience for. Judas reaches a pause and Damien watches a nearby demon shift uncomfortably on her feet, and Damien’s time to linger has come to an end.

“Judas,” he says, stepping out of his shadow-y corner. He cannot pretend it doesn’t bring him some satisfaction, the way the energy of the room so instantly changes. Eyes flit between Judas and himself, unsure where this goes next. There are precious few, who could get away with such an interruption, Damien one of them. He could wait, but why would he? He, too, wears an invisible crown. He, too, demands the attention of all that look upon. Sometimes, he thinks Judas ought to remember that fact. “My apologies for the interruption,” he says coolly. His expression betrays nothing, Judas likely the only person in the room who realizes that Damien has nothing especially urgent to say. Still, the room has come to a standstill, everyone else willing to wait on their two kings. Damien stands still as a sculpture, and watches with silent satisfaction the entire room stills with him, letting the long moment pass. 

“A moment of your time?” 

Extras | 

Headcanons | 

Though he adores the infernal terror of Azazel’s hellhounds, Damien has his own hunting dogs - a pack of wild wolves that came to him almost unbidden. He dotes on them, a reminder of the first wild creatures whose eyes he ever saw himself reflected in, but they are from domesticated. Though they may seem docile under Damien’s touch - lounging at the foot of his imaginary throne - but they are wild, vicious things, far quicker to show their anger than their master. The first sign of Damien’s displeasure is often not a hint in his body language, or even a look in his eye, but the low growl of the wolves at his side.

Serpents and birds of prey flock to Damien as hell, seeming to crawl out of the woodwork when he’s around. He’s open to their presence, but doesn’t dote on him the way he does his wolves. Still, it isn’t unheard of to see Damien with a hawk perched on his shoulder, or with some venomous snake casually curling itself around his ankle. 

Usually, Damien doesn’t mind his lack of wings. It sets him apart from his demonic kin, a reminder to everyone around him that even in the realm of Infernum, he is something else, otherworldly no matter where he might make his abode. That only changes when - for whatever reason - he is in need of fast transport, and must rely on some other demon’s wings. He will not, under any circumstance, admit this out loud, and does what he must with all the animalistic grace that eternally characterizes his movement, but it is - to be frank - rather embarrassing. 

Sometimes, as a threat, Damien will tug on the fingers of his gloves. 

Pinterest

[karp-actually]

I assume the obvious choice of my beloved King doesnt count so... Captain Fishhook is THE COOLEST AND HAS A LOVELY SMILE. I want to make him a captain's hat. Hellen can meet me in the pit if she's not too busy trying to cover up her ugly personality with another layer of concealer.

"NONSENSE! Of COURSE I count, because I say so!" The King boasts with a hearty laugh. Captain Fishook behind the counter gives a goofy grin at the compliments, swaying in the air.

"Too kind ye are, me Queen! It's hard to find a hat shaped just right to stay on my head!" Fishook grumbles the end of that sentence.

"Tell me about it!! My crowns used to always slip off, until I figured out a trick to keep them on! Perhaps we'll see what we can do about that captain's hat..." King Boo offers. Ah the pains of having an adorably rotund head.

Hellen, enjoying a drink to herself a few tables away huffs with anger, seeming ready to say something back before the King speaks up again. "Captain! Please see that Miss Gravely is escorted out, she distresses my Queen."

Fishook isn't about to disobey a direct order from King fucking Boo himself, so with a bow he flies through the air to push Hellen out of the area.

"What's the meaning of this?? I haven't even said a word yet!!" Hellen complains.

"M'sorry, King's orders!" The two float off, arguing...

"Well now that THAT'S out of the way, how is my favorite ghastly being in the whole world doing?? You're always welcome to come to me for your troubles! Ahahaha!"

---

((Bfjsnd i hope this puts a smile on your face, I saw u were feelin pretty down these past few days!))

[reallyprofoundkryptonite]

Okay! @evilwriter37 they’re done (they because I made two), and one has a WIP story with him.

It watermelon fish boy that does-

And red boi

Now putting the WIP story under a cut so....

Here

Once in a Blue Moon (heavy work in progress)

The wanted poster that had been hung on the board in the small town sent tingles rushing down Viggo’s spine. The steely glare of the recognisable face drawn onto the page was chilling to the bone.

Slowly, he reached out to grab at the page, the paper crinkling in his fingers as he did so.

Wanted: Drago’s Grim Reaper; Goes by Krogan. Maximum reward: 200 gold (dead, preferably)

Viggo scowled.

‘Only 200 gold? Are you kidding me? For a man who can effortlessly crush a human skull in his bare hand like it's an egg?’ Viggo shook his head. No one who was right in the head would go after Krogan for only 200 gold.

‘Let alone the fact, you would need to surprise him if you wanted to kill him in the first place.’ Viggo scoffed, crumpling the paper into a ball. Maybe he could save Krogan the annoyance of having people bothering him if he just got rid of the paper.

Viggo shoved the paper into his satchel, and then turned so he could head towards the beach. He had moored in the docks here for the strict reason to resupply his ship, but he doubted people would be welcoming to him if they had the nerve to put a 200 gold bounty on the head of one of the most dangerous men in the archipelago.

He can always stop somewhere else.

‘Or better yet, hunt for food of my own.’ he mused. ‘Fresh venison sounds nice.’

The moonlight was barely a shimmer in the starry sky, as Viggo boredly watched the stars flicker, and an occasional meteor streaked through the sky.

It was definitely a nice night for sailing. The breeze was absolutely perfect in the way it filled the sails of his ship.

Viggo blinked his eyes open at the sudden smell of death and sulphur. He slowly stood to his full height, blinking slowly in slight confusion.

He placed his hand on his sword, as a long, loud hiss rang out, clear above the wind.

‘What the-’

“Viggo,” the wind whined. The stench was beginning to overwhelm the air. Viggo unsheathed his sword. He then froze up. Something was perched on the stern of his ship.

Something shaped like a human.

Something horribly acidic smelling wafted over him, and the figure was suddenly alight by a toxic green flame.

The face.

Krogan.

Fins had replaced his ears, and his face was… off. Pointed. Pale. Decayed. Parts of his jawbone were poking out, showing off teeth that should only be seen on a rotting corpse.

Krogan blinked at him, cocking his head to the side. The fire disappeared, and Viggo gave a yelp, backing away. Toxic flames engulfed the figure. Before he can react, a bright green flash envelops the wheel of his ship, making him quickly stumble away. He dropped to the deck with a thud, as he raised his hand to protect himself from the perceived threat.

A loud chortle echoes from the figure now outlined by the moonlight. A long-fingered hand with sharp claws gently pressed against his thigh. Toxic green eyes glow gently in the shadows enveloping the man- creature’s face.

“Get back!” Viggo kicked his leg, making the creature retreat it’s hand away from him.

“Now why would I do that, Viggo?” The creature chortled. It was the thing that smelled like death. With it’s rotted fins that tipped the dull, greenish brown scaled tail, occasionally interrupted by a patch of sores, or from a fishhook in its flesh.

Viggo eyed the creature, his chest heaving.

“What are you?” He questioned.

“Don’t you remember me?” The creature blinked, flicking its fins against the deck. A look of hurt flickered across its features. Viggo couldn’t help but inhale sharply.

“Krogan,” he started. “If this is some sick joke then can you please knock it off. It’s not funny.”

“But this isn’t a prank.” The creature blinked again, its eyes fluttering at him innocently. “This is what I am.” Viggo studied the creature, his eyes tracing up and down its face, which was becoming clearer and clearer due to the golden light that was beginning to rise over the horizon.

There was no missing flesh on the man’s face, but there were messy, pink scars. His tail- the large fish tail; was actually multiple colors other than the drab green. It had brilliant flashes of crimson red in it. Actually, the red was what took up the majority of the scales when they shifted colors.

In a way, the tail almost reminded him of a watermelon, however there wasn’t any “seeds” on the tail; only midnight blue-black stripes.

The creature’s fins were sopping wet and torn up at the edges, however they showed signs of having been beautiful at one point, as they were still long and flowing. There were still infected sores on the tail, from the fish hooks and the bit of net tangled around the bottom of his tail.

Viggo swallowed. He was hallucinating. That’s what was happening. Krogan wasn’t some weird fish creature. He couldn’t be.

Viggo reached out, and slowly brushed his hand along the scales on Krogan’s tail. It was smooth.

Krogan flinched away from him, but Viggo quickly scooted closer.

“Do you want me to remove the hooks in your tail?” He asked softly, running a finger along the top of the rope net tangled around his long, flowing caudal fin. It was an odd shape; like a normal fish fin, but much longer. And it was the same beautiful crimson-green mix that his tail was. It had little teardrop shapes on it as well.

Krogan gazed at him quietly, and he stumbled closer on the deck, hauling himself towards Viggo on arms that were far more muscular than they had been the last time Viggo had seen Krogan.

“You… can do that?” Krogan asked, lowering his head. He smells not of rot like Viggo had once thought, but of stale seaweed.

Viggo wrinkled his nose at the smell. But he nodded.

“I should have something to wiggle them out of there.” He stated softly. He pulled out a knife, and gently slipped it through the tangled ropes on Krogan’s tail.

He sliced upwards, and the first rope snapped easily, as it was so waterlogged that it was starting to unravel by itself. Viggo, however, noted the fact that it was in some places, squeezing on Krogan’s tail.

Krogan blinked at him, and Viggo looked up at the fish… man?

‘What do I even call you?’