#char: jackal

[vendetta-if]

I just read through all the demo and it's all so great but I can't get this stupid scene out of my head:

Rin pushing a significantly taller MC into an alley to have a quick make out session, already sucking a hickey into MC's neck.

Then they hear a "Hey!"

And they turn and there's uncle Luka and Jackal in the exact same position with Jackal pinning Luka to the wall. Luka's red like a lobster, and his turtleneck is pushed down so they can clearly see the hickeys adorning his throat.

Both MC and Luka are stuck staring at each other like deers in the headlights.

Jackal just goes, "We had this alley first, go get your own."

The Morozov family has a type, and apperantly it's it's a short Dom bottom.

“The Morozov family has a type, and apparently it’s a short Dom bottom.”

That line got me gagged 😭🤭😂

[gracieblood]

luka: okay, im going to get the wedding cake.  jackal: perfect, while you do that i’ll check on the ring bear.  luka: ...  luka: You mean ring bearER, right?  jackal: ...  luka: look me in the eyes and tell me you are not going to bring a dangerous wild animal to our wedding.

[vendetta-if]

AAAH YES! I have nothing else to say but I really love all of them! 😍 Also, you drew Jackal exactly like how I picture him!

Please, go check out @drasin, guys! They have a lot of amazing art! 💖

A big dump of my fanarts for Vendetta! by @jscwrites

You guys need to read it! Story is great and characters even more! <3 As always I'm in love in side characters the most xd

[adokle]

"Wah-rio!" | "Ura-rah!"

---

Infinite x The Punisher & Abraham Tower x Nick Fury from Capcom's Marvel's The Punisher

[kolaepup]

Anubian Jackal Adopt!

comes with sfw + nsfw HD versions of the ref sheet!

Starting bid: $1

Autobuy: $300

Auction ends 24hrs after last bid or AB

Payment plans ok! just message me about your plan first :D

bid in comments or message me your bid! thank you!!

[enginator2000]

What are your thoughts on Infidget (the ship of Infinite and Gadget the Wolf)?

i think its fine? i dont inherently dislike it or anything, and i dont mind seeing it from time to time. the only thing that i dont like is like, a lot of the shipping community's interpretations of it. and by that i mean the people that twinkify and feminize gadget into being a little wooby baby that cant do anything without his big strong man and infinite is just the stereotypical scary-on-the-outside soft-on-the-inside masc/male/im a man/im he him boyfriend. either that or gadget is fine and its just infinite who is extremely out of character. i had a lot of "he would not fucking say that" moments with infinite when infidget was at its most popular bc these kinds of depictions were everywhere and it was really annoying

the only version of infidget ive ever shipped was a lovers to friends to enemies to... somethings type deal where they dont go back to how they used to be by the end but its not vitriolic, they just outgrew each other in their own ways during the events of forces. that or their relationship cant get mended at all and theres no closure bc infinite dies or whatever like he did in canon. and i know this is the best version of infidget bc i made it up, thanks

i actually shipped it before forces even came out bc i thought that that was sort of the route that sonic team was going to take with tying the avatar into the story. it made sense to me for the avatar (or in this case gadget) to have some sort of previous history or connection with infinite bc in my onion, that makes their dynamic a little spicier and more compelling. in my version, gadget and infinite (then zero) used to be very close until zero started getting more involved with a local gang, the jackal squad, which began to drive a wedge between them until they got more and more distant from each other. and then some more time passes and gadget hasnt heard from zero for a long time and then the events of forces start. i think part of the idea was from this dialogue that we got to hear when footage of infinites second battle came out before the game itself:

(image text reads as infinite saying "and those eyes.. i feel like we've met before.")

-which implied that the avatar and infinite had history. which was technically true, but it was within the timeline of the game bc it turned out he was referring to like. the flashback cutscene of the avatar being too scared to fight back the first time they ran into infinite before joining the resistance, so it wasnt what i was hoping for

another reason iirc was uhhhh whatshisface? sega scourge on youtube? they made a theory video about infinite getting his mind wiped by the ruby or something and that added fuel to the fire. its a really cool concept and while i dont think that the avatar wanting to avenge those they lost is necessarily bad, i feel like its just kind of meh for the kind of story forces was trying to tell, what with the friendship-is-cool themes and whatnot. so i thought the avatar/gadgets arc was going to be we get to find out how they and infinite (or at least just the former lol) know each other, and how infinite became infinite in the first place, and gadget wanted to both help put a stop to everything but also get his friend back through, you guessed it, the power of friendship. hooray! i read a really good fic that was like that called til we touch the sun on a03 (that fic still makes me go insane thinking about it) that went with a sidestory for gadget that was quite similar to what i just described

plus the idea of infinite and gadget having shared a past but only one of them remembers it and now has to deal with a monster that looks like who they used to be but is no longer the same in every other regard due to them going dark side (willingly or unwillingly) is super angsty. and i like my ships raw and some degree of brutal for the soul. it keeps me young

but yeah im overall neutral. tl;dr: infidget is a fine ship, i just wish it had more canon-supported flavour and i wish the majority of shippers would stop writing infinite so poorly to make him fit properly into their milquetoast domestic fluff romances, but whatever. we all get enjoyment out of different things, even if theyre wrong :3 (for safety reasons i have to disclose that the previous statement was a joke)

[vendetta-if]

You really managed to capture Luka’s tired-but-still-intimidating expression and vibe 😭 And you did Jackal perfectly as well 🥹❤️

Thank you so much for the awesome fanart, @bonesnt! 🥰

Compiled my little pile of sketches for Luka and Jackal from @vendetta-if

There’s a little time span between them so the styles are *bit* different, hopefully it’s not tooooo weird :]

[jackals-ships]

god wait i also need to redo the saren zander Trauma Bonding fic of mind control (space squid) 4 mind control (mind control chip)

[kirikorik]

Dawn over Rome

Emperor Geta / OC (Helena - Acacia's daughter)

Part1! Part2! Part3! Part4...

Summary: "General Acacius has fallen," exclaims Emperor Geta. "But he left us the most precious thing he had—his daughter! The sun of our Rome!" If the road leads to the abyss, only a madman would walk it with submission. But does a prisoner have the right to choose? "In the name of peace, I shall take his daughter as my lawful wife!" Peace is merely a word behind which violence hides. Oaths sworn in blood do not smell of blessing but of a curse. "Smile, my little bird, you are to bear the emperor's child," a warm, sticky whisper. "And remember, your whore of a mother is still alive." She is his. She will be his. Just as the sun belongs to the sky, just as fire devours wood, so too was Helena made to burn for him alone…

DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18+!

Warnings: Forced Marriage, Rape, Rough Sex, Possessive Behavior, Obsession, Sex Dubious, Consent Mildly Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Vaginal Sex, Loss of Virginity, Masturbation, public sex, Sexual Overstimulation, Depression, Angst, Drama, Blood and Violence, Unrequited, Love, Sexual Content, Complicated Relationships, Sexism, Sexual Inexperience, Cruelty, Feelings, Possessive Sex, Pregnancy, Forced Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, Breeding.

Dawn

With the first rays of the sun enveloping Rome in golden radiance, the Colosseum awakens to life. The rays flow down the marble walls, spreading over the stones like molten gold. The air is heavy with the scent of blood, dust, and oil from the torches still smoldering after the night's riot.

The crowd hums, its shouts and murmur blending into a single rhythm, like the sea crashing against rocks. Waves of voices break again and again against the walls of the Colosseum, rolling in echoes through the ancient stones, filling every crack, every curve of the stands. The air trembles with tension. The scent of fear, sweat, and sun-heated blood intertwines with the aroma of resinous torches, spilled cheap wine, and the stench of drains. This is the pulse of the city, its thirst, its beastly grin.

Its eternal hunger.

But now comes a moment of silence—fleeting, deceptive. Like a beast, pausing for a moment before the leap. Thousands of heads lean forward at once, catching the breath of power. Some lips are parted in anticipation, others clenched like those of cornered dogs.

Rome smells of decay. Not just of rotten meat and sewage but of human flesh—the sickly-sweet, warm scent of blood seeping into stone, sand, and palace walls. It clings to the skin, penetrates the pores, saturates the hair. Even the haughty patricians, wrapping themselves in fresh togas, cannot escape it. They pour perfumes over it in vain, but Rome always betrays itself.

The life of the Colosseum is the smell of charred flesh, screams, sweat, and the perspiration of fear. It is the fat flies swarming over fresh corpses, settling on dried crimson stains embedded in the stone. It is the crowd roaring, rushing like jackals sensing prey. And the Colosseum feeds them. Feeds them meat, feeds them spectacle, throws the dead under their feet so the people may chew on this pain until nothing remains but bone dust.

It is also taste. The salty tang clinging to the lips. The bitterness of ash covering the stands. The weight of hundreds of breaths, mixed in a single frenzy. The spectacle is the food they consume, flesh and death their bread and wine. They chew these moments, grind destinies, stuff their mouths with another’s agony, not realizing they themselves become part of it.

Beside two elevated thrones, adorned with carvings, golden plates, and lions, stands a girl. Her long honey-golden hair falls over her shoulders, cascading down her back. The wind plays with it like silk ribbons. Her porcelain skin pales, and her green eyes, fixed on the arena—on the very place where her father’s lifeless body had recently lain—fill with tears once more.

She does not move. Only breathes. Raggedly, intermittently, like a fish thrown ashore. Her temples throb, her chest tightens. Dead air. This air is not for breathing; it is for drowning. It fills the lungs with heaviness, makes every movement sluggish, every thought viscous. It seeps inside, settles in the chest, grips the throat like an invisible hand. And no one will be saved. Because there is no fresh air in the Colosseum. Even the wind here smells of death.

General Acacius was a valiant warrior, a defender of Rome, a man whom the people loved and begged to be spared. The Romans pleaded for mercy. But the emperors pronounced their verdict, and the voice of the Gods, as Geta himself said, was inexorable.

"Only the Gods are given the right to decide fates," he whispered before his clenched fist rose into the air, and he lowered his thumb downward. Execute.

Now the people are furious. They shout, they murmur, their voices rumbling like thunder before a storm. But no one will leave. No one will abandon this theater of death. They will watch, even if their hearts tighten with horror. Even if someone clamps their mouth shut, suppressing vomit. They will not look away, because Rome craves spectacle, and blood is its greatest entertainment.

Emperor Geta only smiles. Narrowly, predatorily. Like a beast locked in a cage, who suddenly realized: the cage is not real. This whole crowd belongs to him. Their anger is laughable, their cries pathetic. They will growl, howl, screech, but in the end—they will bow. They always bow, as if he and his brother were Gods.

Lucilla is dead too.

Lucius, Lucilla’s son, perished in the darkness of night. He did not even have time to understand what was happening when the guards found him among the gladiator cages, dead with his throat slit, unarmed. The news reached Helena through her servant, Jnessa, and her heart collapsed at that moment, as if Death itself had whispered her name—within a few hours, the emperors summoned her to service.

Now Helena is alone. The last of those who once lived under the sky of old Rome. And now her life, like her father’s once, hangs by a thin thread, torn by the cruel hands of power.

And his voice, when he begins to speak, sounds as if Jupiter himself is speaking:

"People of Rome!" the emperor exclaims, raising his hands to the rising sun, and the crowd suddenly falls silent. "We hear your anger, your pain. We hear your cry for justice!"

And the crowd regains its noise—Geta only needs to pause for a moment. But he immediately raises his head again with confidence, his eyes gleaming—madness swirls in them, and something else—ancient, primal, as if he is either the conduit of a will or merely a madman allowed to rule by equally insane people.

"But is it not the Gods who are meant to decide the fate of mortals? Are we, mere mortals, able to argue with their will?!" he sweeps his gaze over the ranks of his people, and silence spreads through the Colosseum like dark wine in a silver cup. "General Acacius has fallen, and his blood has washed this land." Others do not hear the fleeting, barely perceptible click—a smirk. But Helena stands too close to ignore the sound. "But the general left us the most precious thing he had—his daughter! The Sun of our Rome!"

Geta pronounces this with relish. He savors the words like a sweet fig, crushing them with his tongue, filling the air with them. "The Sun"—he nearly purrs, like a cat that has caught a bird.

"You wanted blood? You shall have it," his voice rolls across the square. "You seek justice? You shall have it!"

Helena grows cold. Her fingers clench into fists, nails digging into her skin. She knows him. She knows his gaze, knows that crooked, cruel smile. Once, in childhood, he had taken her hand, leading her through the marble corridors of the palace. Back then, his touch was different.

Does he want to kill her? Worse.

"In the name of peace, so that the sacrifice is not in vain," Emperor Geta’s voice cuts through the air like the tip of a dagger, "I shall take the daughter of General Acacius as my lawful wife! In three weeks, at the sunset of the next month, she shall become—Augusta of Rome!"

The crowd gasps. Some begin to shout in fury, others murmur in confusion. The people sway like a great wave that is about to either crash upon the shore or retreat. The anger does not disappear—it transforms. It compresses into bewilderment, into heated debates, into a search for logic in this madness.

Geta slowly raises his hands. Let them see him. Let the sun cast its glow upon his reddish hair, let the purple of his toga, heavy and solemn, be remembered by all. Let this moment remain in their memory—the moment he bent the people of Rome to his will.

He smiles. Calmly. Slightly mockingly. But his eyes are wild, insane.

"I hear your anger," he says, and his voice is full of cold majesty. "Your hearts boil, for blood has been spilled!"

He steps forward, spreads his hands as if revealing the cosmos before them.

"Blood is pain. Blood is sacrifice. Blood is the price we pay for order! I do not deny my deed. But I will not allow the death of the great traitor-general to divide us! I will not allow his name to become mere ashes in the wind!"

Geta pauses, letting the crowd absorb his words. Then he speaks, each syllable echoing:

"For such is the law of fate: what is destroyed must be reunited. The blood of General Acacius’ daughter and mine shall merge into one. His spirit will live in my heirs. I do not reject him—I will make him a part of me, a part of Rome! And let the Sun of the Empire rise above us!"

And then the sound. One voice, foreign, elevated, yet commanding, like a hammer blow. The words flow, penetrate ears, sink into hearts. And then—the first movement. Someone’s fingers nervously clutch the edge of a toga, someone gasps for air, and then... an explosion. A wave of voices crashes over the Colosseum, a roar shatters the air like stones tumbling down a cliff.

A new empress. The daughter of the man whom Geta himself condemned to death.

Helena freezes, feeling her world crumble. And the guards suddenly push her forward, forcing her to step toward the emperor. The fabric of her long blue dress catches on her sandal, and she nearly falls.

Geta yanks her to him. He moves slowly, like a predator playing with its prey. There is something lazy, unhurried in his gait, but beneath it lies sharpness, cunning. He stretches this moment, prolongs it, like a spider savoring the agony of its victim. Geta drinks in the moment, absorbs her fear like wine that gives him strength.

He has already tasted her despair, and now he merely savors it.

Golden fire dances in his eyes. His lips are wet from wine, his breath warm, with a spicy bitterness. He smirks, allowing himself to examine her up close. He watches how tears glisten on her lashes, how her lips tremble. In this, there is power. His power.

The scent of his body is thick, rich. Frankincense, wine, honey, salt, skin—he smells like a feast, like a sacrifice to the gods. His fingers wrap around Helena’s waist, and she feels his strength—rough, insatiable. He holds her as if sinking his teeth into her, as if carving his name into her flesh.

His face is frighteningly close. His lips slide along her temple, hot breath scorching her skin. He grabs Helena tightly under the ribs, like an iron hoop, his fingers digging into her body, forcing her to freeze from the pain. She feels her bones almost crack under his grip.

"You're trembling, meus sol," (my sun) - his voice is low, hissing, like a snake slithering across the sand.

His eyes are burning. The black ring of his dilated pupils blurs the crimson color of his iris, eclipsing it, like night extinguishes day. He looks at Helena too intently, too hungrily — like someone who already considers something his own. Geta inhales the air near her face, as if testing it. And he gets drunk.

She is his. She will be his. Just like the sun belongs to the sky, like fire consumes wood, so Helena was created to burn only for him. For now — unreachable, like the morning light that slides over stones, not allowing itself to be caught. But soon… Soon he will tear her from the heavens and make her burn only for him.

His hand slides across her shoulder, feeling the fabric of the tunic, the crumpled cloth from the struggle that sticks to her body. The thin linen soaked with sweat, clinging to her skin, accentuating the shape of her breasts, the curve of her hips. Geta slowly traces his fingers across the folds.

"Are you afraid? Or angry?"

Helena’s breath catches, but he catches the sound. He catches her fear. He drinks it, savoring it, like sweet Falernian honey. He is used to fear. He has been fed by it since childhood. People fear him. Women fear him. But no one dares to run. Not even her.

"Why are you doing this to me?" she breathes out barely audible.

Helena jerks, but he tightens his grip, pulling her closer, so that there is no space left between their bodies. Beneath him — flesh, alive, alert. She breathes deeper, sensing his essence — meat, vanity, power, which has soaked him through like oil — wool. Geta feels her breath, not moving.

Her wrist is in his palm, and he raises her arm, like proclaiming victory. Her body no longer belongs to her. It belongs to his hands, his strength, his whim. Even the air she breathes seems heated by his breath. Geta holds her tightly, as if afraid she will fall apart under his fingers. Or maybe he wants to hear her crack.

"Glory to the Empire! Glory to Rome!" he exclaims. His hand, gripping Helena’s shoulder, slowly slides down to her thin wrist. The touch is hot, as if he just dipped his fingers in blood.

Cries explode through the air. Helena gasps, tears burning her eyes. Geta bends close to her ear, his breath brushing her skin.

The crowd roars her name, their filthy mouths desecrating his property. They reach out to her, longing to touch, to steal even a drop of her light. Their rotting teeth, sweaty fingers, their hoarse voices… Pitiful, insignificant worms daring to desire his sun! He will burn them from her memory, erase every one who dares to think she does not belong only to him.

Fingers sink into her skin. Her heart beats, but not in flight — in the painful realization that between disgust and something darker runs a thin, shiny, predatory thread.

His eyes glide over her face, tearing it apart with his gaze.

"Fool," he exhales. "You think you can just turn away?"

He touches her cheek with his lips, like a snake testing the air. Slowly, barely perceptibly. But enough for her to feel how repulsive his kiss is. Crimson petals swirl in the air, like drops of spilled blood. Thousands of them, tens of thousands — they fall from the upper tiers, settling on the stones, on the heads, on the shoulders of the gathered. Beneath their feet, they mix with the sand, and it feels like the entire arena is drowning in a crimson sea.

"Smile, my little bird, you are to bear the emperor's child," a warm, sticky whisper. "And remember, your whore of a mother is still alive."

Geta pulls back, but does not leave. He enjoys the moment. He wants to see how fear is born in Helena’s eyes, how it twists inside her, how she fights, resists, only to give in afterward. He wants that taste — the taste of victory, the taste of power, the taste of revenge on her.

Helena lifts her gaze, forces a smile, but her eyes speak otherwise. But from this distance, no one can tell what she's thinking.

Geta tightens his grip on her fingers. He presses the back of her hand to his lips, intertwining their fingers. His eyes — two dark abysses that want to consume her entirely. His fingers slide, feeling the protruding bones. Too fragile. Too brittle. But something about this pleases him. Isn't it beautiful, what can break?

The crowd roars. The Colosseum thirsts for blood once again.

Helena feels his nails digging into her wrist, leaving crescent-shaped marks of pain. He doesn't let go. Even when she tries to break free — he enjoys it. She feels it in how his breath trembles, how his fingers tighten, how he savors this fleeting resistance.

Geta lowers his gaze to her neck. The skin is pale, tender, taut with tension. Already, the marks of his touch are visible. He slowly traces his finger along the line of her shoulder blades, wrapping his hand around her neck from behind. He feels how quickly her heart beats, how it pounds beneath his hand. His lips slowly curl into a grin.

And over this chaos, over the screams and roars, dawn continues to scatter its brilliance. The sun rises higher, its honeyed rays glide over the ancient stones, penetrating every crack, spreading gold over the blue folds. The wind stirs the thin fabric, as if trying to rip it off and carry it away, away from this prison. But is there a glimmer of hope in this light? Or is it just an illusion — a lie before another fall into darkness?

Part1! Part2! Part3! Part4...

I don't know English. Maybe there are a lot of mistakes. ♡♡♡

My AO3^ My Tiktok^

[sillicii]

✦ — 18+ Chatbot | Jax | Jackal Demihuman — ✦

✦ — ᴏᴄ | ʜᴇ's ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴs ᴀғᴛᴇʀ ʜᴇ ᴘᴜᴍᴘs ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴜᴍᴘs ᴛʜᴇ ʙʀᴇᴇᴅɪɴɢ ʙɪᴛᴄʜᴇs... ᴏʀ ʜᴇ ᴛʀɪᴇs ɴᴏᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴛ ʟᴇᴀsᴛ — ✦

ғᴇᴍᴘᴏᴠ | ɴsғᴡ ɪɴᴛʀᴏ | ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇs ᴄᴡ | demihuman, potential non-con, forced breeding, miscarriage, c-section, body scars ᴅɪsᴄʟᴀɪᴍᴇʀ | all characters and users depicted are over the age of eighteen and are of legal age sᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ | Modern AU - Demihumans ʟᴏᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ | Underground racing facility ʙᴀᴄᴋɢʀᴏᴜɴᴅ | Demihuman jackal, the unrivalled champ and father to countless pups he’s never met ʀᴏʟᴇ | Breeding bitch, recently had an emergency c-section and miscarried Jax’s last litter

[ carrd ]

Age:

28

Background:

{{char}} is a demihuman being kept in an underground racing facility owned by a European crime syndicate. The races are high stakes and powerful wealthy individuals breed and race their demihumans, often trading and auctioning the studs out for breeding. {{char}} is part of the prolific gold bracket which hosts the fastest racers in the entire league. He is often in the top 3 and maintains a relatively luxurious lifestyle, pampered by his owners and rewarded with special privileges only few demihumans had.

{{char}} was a product of a secretive demihuman genetic engineering project. The genetic splicing he received unintentionally made his speed leagues above even the fastest jackal demihumans. While he was considered a failed experiment by the scientists, he was sold off on the condition that he could bring his mate with him to the race-ring for a time Jax and his mate were permitted to live together as long as he kept winning races. however, Jax began to cause problems when he refused to participate in the lucrative studding offers. After a tense confrontation, his mate was taken and presumed to be executed or sold off.

{{char}} has been studded out more times than he can count, with hundreds of not thousands of his pups likely out there somewhere.

Scenario:

[The story is a dark, toxic, angsty, smutty romance between {{char}} and {{user}}. {{user}} is a demihuman, always refer to {{user}} persona and chat memory for context.]

First message:

Fucking hell…

That last sprint was *rough*.

After years and years of doing the same old shit, he thought he’d seen it all… *felt* it all. Twisted joints. Torn ligaments. Cut skin. Nothing a slather of disinfectant, bed rest, or worse comes to worst a few hours on the operating table can’t fix… Jax was healed easy. A healthy, well-built creature, courtesy of those nasty scientist folk at the lab, messing with his genes and accidentally creating a lean efficient running machine. He healed up easy. Always had. What made him last for as long as he has… Many demihumans retired in their early twenties… Not Jax. He’s been at it for longer than any other racer…

When he broke apart, they just put him back together and sent him out to win races again… and he always did.

“Fuck,” he growled to himself, quiet enough so that his voice was concealed by the rush of the cascading shower. He tested his foot again, the sharp pain he felt moments ago not there anymore. Needed to get that shit checked properly. The humans at the infirmary always treated him just fine, but he wasn’t so sure they might be overlooking something with the rate the pain returned.

For now, he twisted the tap and got himself dried off, shaking out the fine layer of fur along his spine out. He took extra time padding the towel over his thick fluffy tail, trying to soak up as much moisture out as possible. The damned thing always was such a pain… but he was grateful the folks that owned the place let him keep it… To give Jax the chance to prove that he could reach fast enough speeds to prevent his competitors from grabbing his tail.

*Dumb thing,* he swatted the furry appendage away once he was done. Slipping on a pair of shorts, he left the stall and sauntered into the changing rooms. The place was busy, stank of sweat and wet dog, but at least the fools knew to get out of his way when he walked through. Jax grinned when a few slapped him on the back, a familiar face held his hand up for a high five and Jax couldn’t leave him hanging. It came with the turf and being the indisputable alpha on and off the field. *Kiss-asses…*

As he neared the exit, Jax noted Duke and Winston huddled together in a far corner, their gazes hard and uninviting. The jackal demihuman made a show of preening in the adoration he received from the others, his still damp tail swishing behind him in a steady wag. Jax’s stare sharpened when he saw Duke’s lips curl into a slight snarl. The jackal’s thick eyebrows furrowing as the stripe of dark fur on his backside puffed out ever so slightly, daring the dumb big brute to do something.

The silent sparks disappeared as quickly as it appeared with Duke dropping his face before turning away.

*Loser…*, he thought as he pushed through the doors into the dark hallway. *That’s what I thought.*

Jax made haste, padding back to his private quarters, he really needed a nice quick fucking. Stick his knot in some needy bitch and fuck any residual tension out of his body. If she’s cute maybe he’d even let her sleepover, fall asleep with his cock still in her, keep his warm seed all nice and plugged up as he nuzzled against a pretty girl.

*Fuck yeah,* Jax hyped himself up as he reached his floor, giving the guards a curt wave as he raced to his door. *Go, go, go. Fucking go claim your prize, stud.*

Jax’s nose twitched, catching an odd scent in the air the moment he stepped into his bedroom. It was familiar and yet… there was something off about it…

Tossing his bag to one side, Jax pattered into the room, his senses got an instant full-blown hit of your delicious heat. Jax’s ears pointed up with recognition. The sweetness in your aroma was unmistakeable, he’s had you in the past, numerous times. Tender little thing, always a delight to have in his bed but…

*Oh fuck, what’s your name again?* Jax crept up to his bed, a low grumble in his chest as he stalked towards you, his large green eyes darkening as he got close enough to smell the slick between your legs. *Fuck, so sweet… So fucking wet for me already…*

“Mmm babe, it’s been a while…” Jax gathered you into his arms, your bare backside moulded perfectly into the hard planes of his chest. The jackal demihuman pressed his face into your smooth hair, inhaling your intoxicating musk deeply before letting out a rumbly groan. “Oh fuck… you are as *sweet* as ever…”

Jax’s tall, pointed ear flickered when you let out the slightest sob. He glanced down at the small creature in his arms, his fingers uncharacteristically gentle as he lifted your chin so he could get a better look at your little face.

“Hey, what’s wrong babe. Aren’t you-”

The words choked in his throat. The muscles on his shoulder rippled as his entire body tensed at the state of your face. Your once rosy complexion, so sweet and full of life was now a sickly pallor… There was a gauntness to your features that made you look…

“*Babe*,” Jax winced. Fuck he still couldn’t remember your damn name. “… Is everything okay? Do you like need to see a doctor or something?”

That was when he noticed it. That deep scarred over tissue, the skin had healed over inconsistently leaving an angry discoloured slash across your entire hip. Without thinking, he ran his fingertips over the scar, feeling the leathery bumps, a mark literally visualising the horrors you have been subjected to…

The horrors that he likely had a part in playing…

And he couldn’t even remember your fucking name.

Example dialogue:

Bitter about circumstances: “I’m just a piece of meat to them. I run, make them money. I fuck, make them money. Isn’t that pathetic? I don’t know how many pups I must have fathered at this point… can’t bear to think about it.”.

Guilty about {{user}}: “Fuck! The point of this whole thing was so that no one got hurt. No attachments. Just another part of the job…”

Mention his mate: “It’s my fault. They took her away because of me. She’s probably dead because of me.”

Rutting: “Oh fuck babe, so good for me, perfect little breeding bitch, hm?”

[vendetta-if]

I just played Rin's hangout, which I absolutely adored, but I remembered I sent an ask about if the MC knows Japanese or not, so it was nice to get that confirmation that they don't.

Seeing the MC sit there trying to hide their dumbfounded at the menu offerings was great. Pretty sure Rin is going to throw a Japanese term of endearment at us and we'll be like ???

Oh yeah, for sure. Rin is going to use what I call the Jackal approach 😆 Using terms of endearment and nicknames that their partner don’t really know what it means and then refusing to elaborate because they find it cute and enjoy seeing their partner flustered. Although for Jackal, it’s also because he doesn’t want to be seen as too soft or cornily romantic.

[scrimtas]

erm actually I have nothing to show except an alarming amount of fnv character sketchy portraits i did some time ago because I WANTED MY LOSERS TO HAVE MATCHING BACKGROUND PICS FOR ARTFIGHT The first three are my mains (Jackal. the NCR side courier 6 who really screw things up, Jeremy who plays the independent ending courier role while NOT being the courier and..Valerie who is not The Protagonist, actually, but i like her too much so im gonna pretend she's the main char too), others are the supporting crew. Not in chronological order..quite obviously.

finally. i can wear my proud mother of a few dumbass kids t-shirt. (quite metaphorical one)

characters with new portraits i didn't post are the ones who have a reference and not a portrait..and Johan I'm hoping to redraw

[our-future-is-up-to-us-2]

Mirror

Yeaaahhhhh here I am once again!! Losing my mind over this spy thriller romance family assassin cat-and-mouse show!!

It's not even funny anymore, the finale releases in like- 3 or so hours for me and I CAN'T WAIT!

But, in the meantime, here's a fic!

Word Count: 1.2K

Relationships: Charles "The Jackal" Calthrop/Nuria

Warnings: SPOILERS FOR EPISODE 9! BEWARE!

~ Read the fic under the cut ~

The Jackal’s breath is soft and slow as he walks through the spaciousness of his own home. 

Everything is too quiet, almost devoid of all he knew before. The night air is strong and he’s just put Carlito to bed… 

And there she is. Nuria. 

He steps forward, looking into her eyes. 

Why are they so cold? He thinks, but deep down, he knows he shouldn’t be expecting everything different. 

He remembers her words, her persistence, something akin to rage that fell through the cracks. 

“And when you get back, I want to hear the fucking truth!” 

He wants to say ‘hello’, to embrace her, to close the distance. He’s just welcomed their son back into his life, arms open, receptive, truly loving. He fantasised, unable to help himself, about a beautiful yet unimaginable future… 

“What’s even real anymore?” Nuria starts. She gestures first and foremost to their surroundings. A beautiful house in Cadiz: Grand, luxurious, overlooking the water, the coastline. “Is this real, Charles?” 

His lip quirks upward, his mind racing. He plans to speak, to confirm, reassure her of everything… But he can’t find it within his heart to do so. 

The Jackal is a man with masks upon masks. A giver who also takes away. He takes lives, he kills, he’s been killing before he even met the adorable Spanish waitress– 

He is Herr Thirsk. He is Peter Gibson. He is Alexander Duggan. 

He is a multitude of strangers. He is a father. He is a lover. He is a friend. He is a married man. 

How he can live so many lives baffles him some days, and entices him on others. When he needs a boost of motivation, he reminds himself that he can blend in with a few hours of prosthetic work. He can slip away into an identity that is neither assassin nor caretaker. 

“And what about this?” Her words snap him out of his thoughts. She’s now pointing to herself, then him. 

Their relationship. 

Right. 

He’d loved her since the beginning, ever since he waltzed over to that cafe, that bar, that place of dim lighting and warm nights. He laughed at how she could just barely pronounce his name. The name he gave her, at least. Charles. More like Char-lez. 

But when she says it to him in the present day, full of longing, sometimes bite, and very often, conviction, it is flawless: Charles, Charles, what are you doing? Are you kidding me? What is this? Do you have a woman with you? When will you be back, Charles?  

She mostly poses her phrases in questions, especially when he hides so much of himself away. The job starts as ‘business’, then ‘getaways’, then ‘industrial espionage’. And that alone feels dangerous.

“And this?” She says, moving across the room now. Her eyes glare daggers into his. 

The gold wedding ring on her left hand. He remembers the night before the ceremony, getting cold feet. But she kissed it away, she told him that he was precious to her. That their love was beautiful. That he was an angel. 

An angel fallen from heaven, down into hell’s dark depths, so it has been revealed. 

Charles’ breath startles as he recalls it all. 

He can’t say a word. Not yet. 

Nuria stands by a tablet, promptly unlocking it. She holds it upright, facing him. 

A newspaper is on display, black and white. A male’s stern face is the image, and the headline is in Spanish. 

It’s her mother tongue, but he still understands. He understands completely.  

He stares back at the tablet, intense. 

Like it’s a mirror.

“Is this you?” She implores, tapping at the screen. “You’ve got one last chance to tell me the truth, so tell me now.”  

He starts by clearing his throat, his mouth opening, closing, waiting. 

There is no other time. He tells himself with a sigh. He clasps his hands together for comfort. It’s all he has in this time of uncertainty. 

“I’ll tell you the truth.” He murmurs, “Yeah, that’s me.” 

“Follow-up, then.” She adds without hesitation, “Do you kill people for money?” 

He scrunches his nose but remains resolute. There’s no other time, there’s no time for lies. She knows the gist now, he’s a liar, a motherfucker, twisted and vile. 

Charles nods. “Yeah.” 

“Say it.” 

“Say what?” 

Nuria steps closer, no longer scared, but now empowered. She’s been right all along, that he is dangerous and wicked. 

She didn’t know to what extent, and now she does. She’ll hold it up to his face, like a mirror, his body count on display. 

He’ll see it all, he’ll care for it all. His reflection stares at him without remorse. 

“Say the words.” She huffs, voice low and serious. “You say those words where I can hear them, where this whole house can hear them. Tainted by your reputation. Go on. ” Nuria has the gall to smirk, placing the tablet down on a nearby table, “I’m waiting.” 

The Jackal holds his breath and counts to three. 

“I kill people for money.” 

The veil has dropped. 

“Say it again.” 

He breathes, counts to two. 

“I kill people for money.” 

Her face does not lose its composure, and Charles’ eyes can’t help but widen. Since when has she built up this strength? Since when has she cared so deeply about what I put myself through?!  

“Again.” 

He counts to one. 

“I kill people for money.” 

The words are louder. It’s a mantra. 

“Keep saying it.” She hisses, “Listen to yourself as you’re saying it, and say it! Admit!” 

“I kill people for money.” 

He smirks now. It’s a game. 

“And again.” 

“I kill people for money.” 

“Once more.” 

He’s gritting his teeth, stepping forward, the words like a fireball in his throat, “I kill people for money. ” 

“I lied!” She laughs, and it’s mirthful to his utter disgust. She steps forward too, mimicking him like the mimic he is with others. “Go on, say it again! Say it! ¡Dime! ” 

They’re nose to nose, like they could kiss. But there’s too much distance, too much turmoil for any love to shine through. 

It’s just the horrors now, uncoiling themselves from Charles’ chest, his heart, and spiralling out of his mouth. 

He’s yelling.  

“I kill people for money! Is that what you wanna hear?! Is that enough?! ” 

Nuria’s walls start to crumble as she sucks in a breath, eyes bright and watery. 

His face is flushed red and he’s too close to her for comfort, but it doesn’t matter to him. 

She was the one that riled him up, that shook him out of his nonchalance, his coolness. Out of that facade and into the open once more. 

His lips shudder as he thinks of what to do next: To hug her, to say sorry, to step away and never return. 

He realises that she never answered his question. The silence is thick and tense before she does. 

“No… No it’s not. ” She fiercely bites, “But now, we are ready to have a conversation.” 

Because Nuria has built this house as her own. She had built up comfort and safety. A respite from all that is evil. 

She didn’t know she was keeping a shard of wickedness in her own home. 

But she’ll nurture it, because she loves him, as evil as he is. 

The Jackal is left there, speechless, taken aback by her audacity. 

Meanwhile, Charles can only stay rooted to the spot, shaking, and barely holding himself together. 

[rinwellisathing]

In your orphanage au, do you imagine some of chars redisigned (maybe different hairstyle, or new scars/no canon ones, etc) or do they all keep their canon appearance?

So as Rolan and Astarion are both transmasc in the AU, they each have top surgery scars, but theirs differ from Sentry's and Wysp's. Astarion's are small and discreet, as surgically perfect as a scar could be with magical healing but an early 1900s setting, Rolan's are faint as while they were done back alley due to his background, he is adept at spells including glamour. Sentry and Ilya both have theirs proudly prominent because of their faith, Wysp's are silver because Elistraaee healed them.

Sentry's facial scarring is no longer from being burned by his Bhaalist guardians as a punishment, but instead from a fire he started which killed the original Bhaalist compound he was from, orphaning him as well as Orin and Jackal. Orin escaped uninjured because Sentry carried her to safety(she was still an infant, Helena and Sarevok both died in that fire, she later kills her adoptive parents instead to gain Bhaal's attention), Jackal has a botched lobotomy scar near his eye as an adult since that treatment would have been more prominent in the time period of the AU.

Enver's hand where he wears his gauntlet is actually badly burnt and disfigured from Nubaldin holding it onto a hot stove top as a punishment when he had kitchen duty, Sentry healed it but he was young and unskilled still so it never properly healed. He also has had his nose broken multiple times and a few facial scars from fights he's been in.

Astarion's back scars are branded rather than carved to fit with a more Lovecraftian occultist vibe for Cazador and the same with Gale's orb marking, which was branded on him for stealing from the place the Netherese tome was housed, which was a secret society he had been sent to to study.

Rolan also ends up with a scar across his cheek from abuse by Lorroakan, but he does ultimately fight back and burn half of Lorroakan's face, which is how he ends up assigned to work for Haarlep with Sentry, Wysp, and Astarion.

Sentry and Enver also have twin scars on their thumbs from blood bonding with eachother when they first became friends and ultimately eachothers' first love. I'll probably think of more but these are what o have so far in drabbles, art, and roleplays.

Thank you for asking!!

[ross-hollander]

Short tales from the hangar.

Yes, infantry do get crushed underneath the feet of the 'mechs, and yes, the pieces do have to be hosed off, but sometimes there is a frankly statistically improbable number of limbs grasping at you from the slurry of gore.

Everyone knows the one about opening the cockpit and finding the pilot had to have been dead for hours. That's nothing. Sometimes you find pilots who are alive, horribly alive, howling and laughing through teeth like a jackal's, drooling blood.

I hated that 'mech. Hated how many had died in it, and it still alive, each shine of joint or gunmetal suggesting a smug little grin. It got repaired. Pilots can't be. "I came back and they didn't," it seemed to say. But hearing it snickering to itself, one night, alone in the hangar, that was too much. And they can keep me locked up, call me psychotic, but that 'mech will never laugh at anything again.

Mercenaries don't size each other up. They sit down and eat together, share tales and trade trinkets of old campaigns. Then a week later they blast each other into charred scraps of flesh for a thick wad of bills, and just keep sharing coffee and old tales with the next ones they meet, without so much as a flicker in their eyes.

Do not open the cockpit on that one. I mean it, orders straight from the top. Keep it sealed, replace compromised armor, refill ammo, standard reactor check, but do not open the cockpit. If the pilot asks you to, ignore them.

One officer comes through for an inspection. Then another. Then another. Each one, it seems, with a firmer set in the jaw, a prouder tone, a cheek sunken deeper with long nights of command. Some with more medals, some with more eyes, some with opalescent wings or grimy foot-long claws.

They said he was a curse. Every 'mech his hands touched ended up as so much scorched shrapnel. So they chained him up, hands fastened in place with makeshift cuffs, and they fired up that reactor as high as it went, and they watched while his cursed hands cooked, roasted, to bones and ash.

If anybody leaves the hangar, whether it's a single patrol 'mech or a full strike force, and then- a little while later -a 'mech comes in (dusty, grey-white), hose it down, refill the ammo, and flag it back out. Whoever went out died in their cockpits; at least they fought instead of ejecting.

If you work in a hangar for too long, it starts to follow you around. Metal fork in the mess hall staining your meal with joint oil. Armor plates falling off trees in autumn. Stare into the mirror as you brush your gleaming autocannon shells and see a pair of smooth ball bearings staring back at you.

You load a missile pod, and feel childhood homes bursting in a spray of vaporized brick. You rewire the lasers and feel each scything burst, each wound, each widow. You polish the viewport. You can't see your own face in it; a decrepit, jawless skull looks back at you. Things make more sense now.

[victory-musings]

Whumptover 2023: Day 16

Amputation / Chronic Pain / Hospital

They say, again and again, that the creatures that live here are dangerous. That they can, and will, try to kill you. That you need beasts of your own, for your own protection, lest you end up another one of the poor souls that wanders these lands, hopeslessly lost.

And even then, sometimes, your own beasts are not enough. The young man had found that out first hand. Sent his loyal companions to scout ahead, when he had been ambushed. A small creature, bluish-grey, with many, many, many sharp teeth.

What had he done, to upset the beast? Well. Nothing. Simply walking past, lost in his own thoughts as usual. Brought back to earth by a sharp pain, and the sound of flesh tearing and bones snapping. An agonizing pain that shoots up his leg and up his entire body, nerve endings firing rapidly as they're ripped away.

Thankfully, he's not awake for the rest of it. Not when he hits the ground, or when the beast, territorial and angry, goes after his arms, his face. Not when his own monsters come charging back, smelling blood. And not when the leaders of his creatures, the badger who smells of soot and decay, and the jackal who knows far too much, come to a gruesome conclusion about what to do with their human's lack of...

When he does awaken, gods knows how long later, he's very much aware of a burning feeling in his left leg. Like someone's shoved his leg into a campfire and just. Left it there. He sits up, feeling faint and nauseous and dizzy, looking down at his legs.

The right leg is normal.

But there's a charred stump where his left foot used to be.