#oc: plexus
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ultra-phthalo · 10 months ago
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Name: Plexus Size: Small Altmode: Sundew Info: Artist and writer, turned space fleet navigator. Alt is a sedentary plant. He can attach himself to any surface. The cybertronian plant disguise allows him to avoid anything that isn't familiar with 'Metallic Botany'.
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ryuki-draws · 11 months ago
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3:30 am angst feat. Plex and Pharma back from January 2023
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chesedlovesensor · 1 month ago
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havent finished the dungeon and i am 90% sure wang zhao is going to come back and kick my ass but i have decided to draw this anyway
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asogizer505 · 4 months ago
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redesigned my limbus oc so he suits his source more, hes based off plexus by elena helfrecht. im still not completely satisfied with his design (i kinda wanna extend his hair or something) but i took so long drawing him and PICKING THE COLOR OF HIS HAIR OH MY GOODNESS THAT TOOK SO LONG AND I DOMT EVEN KNOW IF I LIKE HIS HAIR AS WHITE-
doodles and old design below
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danceintheskies · 9 months ago
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look at my horrible son he has fire powers a fresh bachelor's degree a military daddy he has a one-sided beef with and constant masculinity crises
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darkvioletcloud · 2 years ago
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The Soul of The Enduring
A Fear & Hunger 2: Termina mini comic, featuring my OC Louisa encountering Caligura.
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[S] - - - > Son: Rise
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Cherubs enter rooms like they're the final boss in their arena because they're the most important characters and they know it.
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ivory-scorchedphantasma · 7 months ago
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INTRODUCING SPINNERETTE THE SOLAR PLEXUS CLOWN SPIDER!!!
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nightcxty · 1 year ago
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johnny: really? think doin some dumb ass 'karma reverse spell' on a full moon is gonna flatline this guy?
valory:
WELL ACTUALLY
johnny: oh for fuck sake here we go
valory: i uploaded a synapse burnout which is basically like wielding magic. die mad about it noob
johnny: jesus fuckin'---
valory: im literally a goddess reincarnate if u think about it like i literally came back from the dead and i c
johnny:
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mongeesemeese · 9 months ago
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Hogwarts Legacy Weird Headcanons (Pt. 1)
If you guys like learning about the 1890s, which I'm assuming some if not all of you do because of our beloved interactive electronic experience, turn your attention to this very interesting info I found:
Self-defense classes were advertised in the 1890s to women due to recurring attacks on them from criminals (which also happened to be increasing in numbers at the same time. Fantastic.). These classes gained popularity in the 1900s and continued on from there.
One such class instructed women on how to maim, disable or even kill a two-legged brute with an umbrella.
"With the modern umbrella, which is not a slender wooden stick, but a wire rod, as deadly almost as a rapier, the girl who must rely upon her own arm to protect herself from attack in the street is armed with a weapon, the terrible nature of which few realize. But she must learn how to use it skillfully and quickly so as to put a quietus at once upon her opponent’s dream of easy conquest.
The classes at the physical culture establishment referred to are especially organized to make women competent to kill if necessary the man who attacks her while she is armed with an umbrella.
There is, it seems, such a thing as a solar plexus blow with an umbrella that will place the strongest man hors de combat. But the most deadly blow of all is one delivered at the neck of an opponent, driving the sharp steel ferrule straight for the spot an inch or so below the Adam’s apple.
The umbrella should be held in both hands and driven forward with the full weight of the body following it. If the blow lands on the right spot, that is on the neck, past below the apple, it is very likely to make the party attacked a subject for the morgue. The umbrella could be driven right into his neck with the force exerted by even a delicate girl if her weight follows the blow.
The girls who attend this new self-defense class are taught to jab at the eyes of a man who attacks them. All is fair in a case of this kind, for the man who attacks an unprotected woman in the street is deserving of no pity. The girls are also taught to defend themselves against the attacks of two men who come at them simultaneously, stabbing at the face or neck of the nearest and giving the other a back handled blow with the butt. Apart from the usefulness of teaching a girl how to take care of herself if attacked, it may be said that the students derive great benefit from the exercise they go through in the daily drill."
So, if any of your fine OCs are feeling pressed, perhaps have them consider taking up the umbrella.
Pretty neat stuff.
Sources, if you want to read more:
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karlachismylife · 3 months ago
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Left march
This piece was first written in Russian and translated in English solely thanks to @gomzdrawfr 's encouragement and support. After a lot of thinking I decided to transliterate (write Russian words with latin letters) Russian speech here to help readers get into Graves's headspace of knowing how the words sound but not knowing their meaning. Down below I provide a link to translation of the poem Left march by Makyakovsky in English for anyone interested in the meaning of the words!
CW: MDNI, smut, Graves x Ved'ma (female OC), sub!Graves, bootgrinding and bootfetish, cum eating, established relationship, not much of aftercare (it's implied, but not really described, but trust me, he's well taken care of). Comparisons to a dog once or twice.
Graves is in desperate need of stress relief and Ved'ma offers it, accompanied by some Russian poetry.
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Seated in an Ashley Furniture sycamore ash coloured armchair that he bought for his living room in an attempt to bring it to that upper middle class stylish comfort, is Ved’ma.
Graves sees her before he even closes the front door — this armchair is clearly visible from the threshold, and Ved’ma stopped hiding around the house, so that the local police officer who pops in with a report of his round of apartments won't find her, for some time already — he can’t even remember, when she did. Graves sees her wide-spread knees, her leg casually thrown over the armrest with sweatpants riding up her shin, he sees her hooked nose and her black braid, homely soft on the left temple — none of this fits into the interior of his living room. But she is there.
Ved’ma doesn’t see Graves — doesn’t even look in his direction, finishes reading the page, quickly jumping with her thickly lined eyes along the printed ladder, and looks up only after she’s done, her gaze piercing Phillip like a crosshead screwdriver. After a meeting with cantankerous office rats with a New York accent and a complete lack of understanding of how supply routes work in hot spots, Graves’s got plenty of loose screws in his head.
“The fuck is with that mug of yours, Phil?” inquires Ved’ma, skipping the greetings altogether. He watches her close the book in her hands, marking the page she needs with her middle finger. In her hands is a paperback, background — the red flag, brutalism, constructivism, sickle and hammer, roughly cut out of stone, just like her own jaw and the mug of an unknown man, leering heavily from under his brows from the cover. Graves has seen him already. He knows, this one — isn’t her favourite.
“Had a shitty day, sweetheart.” He can’t just look away and pretend he’s taking his shoes off after he’s come home to a darling little housewife, but the frown contorting his face appears for a different reason. Ved’ma sees it and rustling with her restless arse on the upholstery, asks: “Bring my boots over here. The clean ones.”
Phillip gets into the shoebox mechanically, obeying the barely commanding tone without questions, and only after he has grabbed the boots smelling of polished leather, he pauses, finally reaching the point in his mind that Ved’ma has long crossed. His heart skips a beat, his solar plexus curls up sweetly like a corn leaf overheated in the sun — as soon as he turns around and looks once more into the blackest eyes of the Russian creature occupying his armchair, all this dry flora flares up, starting to choke his brain with damp smog. Ved’ma stares back, directly, no feigned indifference — she wants him so obviously that his knees buckle on the way to her seat. That’s what she wants, though.
“Come on, on your knees, sh’en.”* A folded blanket plops between her widely spread legs with a dull slap, offering itself under Phillip’s knees. Turning her book over and putting it aside, Ved’ma makes herself busy putting the military boots on, stamping her iron-studded toes onto the parquet board. Graves kneels quietly, a little awkwardly — he should be helping her with the laces, but the red menace in his chair moves so quickly that he can't catch her ankle until she allows it. All he can do is stare, fascinated, at the rough fingers tightening the laces abruptly, and listen to the squeak of good leather, sending a shiver down his skin, sweet as the smell of a sponge soaked with shoe polish.
“Razvorachivaytes’ v marshe!” Ved’ma’s voice yanks him out of the viscous shoe blacking suddenly. Ringing consonants vibrate on her black lips — her entire mouth is covered in the soot of steamship pipes and the polish of soldiers' boots - like the brass of a military orchestra playing against the background of a black-and-white newsreel. Graves doesn't have time to adjust, the meaning of what is said in a poorly known language eludes him, the intonation is commanding, and Ved’ma has no patience for mistakes. But she continues, only straightening up as she pulls up her high boots, just gestures shortly for him to take his shirt off. “Slovesnoy nye mesto klyauze. Tishe, oratory!”
Her hand flies into the air, stopping someone — Phillip freezes, barely having had time to loosen his tie and start on the buttons, just barely stops himself from looking around in an attempt to figure out if there are any uninvited spectators in their house that she is addressing, looking over his head. Marusya pauses, counts each of his quickened breaths, and finally narrows her dark eyes, locking the handcuffs of her gimlet gaze on his face for good.
Slowly, with the satisfied smile of a real witch, she leans forward, and Graves, hypnotized by the sorcery pools of her eyes, feels the pressure of the ribbed sole on his thigh. Unstoppable, like a tank, the boot crawls up the dipping fabric of his trousers, reaching the holster, while Ved’ma mints word by word. It dawns on him.
She is reciting a poem.
Vashe
slovo,
tovarish’ mauser.
Getting the hint under the suddenly changed to ingratiating tone, Graves hastily gets rid of the weapon and winces when Ved’ma barks the next words like Lenin from the roof of an armoured car. His slowly coming to life in the nice pants cock twitches in reverent awe, fingers fumble with the buttons. Saliva suddenly gets syrupy thick in his mouth, his pupils dilate, absorbing the words of the past revolution.
Dovol’no zhit’ zakonom,
dannym Adamom y Yevoy.
Klyachu istoriyu zagonim.
Levoy!
Levoy!
Even drunk on her words, Phillip notices the devilish spark that lights up in Ved’ma’s eyes during this short pause, full of expectation — and then he himself starts to rain sparks from his eyes, enduring the rough pressure of her left boot in the groin with a tortured whine.
Levoy!
Everything suddenly starts making sense — every word, written like stairs by the frowning man staring at the ceiling from the red cover now, falls into place in the powder keg of his mind. Graves breathes heavily, feeling the sweat roll down his temples like melted snow of the February revolution, and looks at Ved’ma with a feverishly loving gaze. She looks back in the same way. Hot dick under her sole is leaking into his underwear and throbbing in time with his rapid heartbeat.
Ved’ma herself breathes heavily, greedily examining his arousal — red tongue wets black lips, smearing matte lipstick over an ecstatic smile. The blunt toe of her boot moves, probes the hard shaft, adjusting it through the fabric, and stops again, pushing against the sensitive tip. One encouraging nod is enough — Phillip swallows, barely keeping his gaze from falling to her lips, and finds support on the floor with his hands, carefully trying to roll his hips towards the now motionless foot. The ribs of the hard sole are painful even through the double layer of quickly soaking fabric, his thighs twitch as if they want to close and protect the tender flesh from such a rough impact, but under his fluttering eyelashes Graves sees stars — red and gold, rolling along all his nerve endings with sharp pleasure.
Ved’ma seems to even praise him — she hums something approving, breathing out loudly through her nose, like an angry armoured train, but he doesn’t manage to catch anything, immediately deafening himself with repeated friction. Like a dog gone mad in a rut, Phillip whines briefly and opens his clouded eyes, trying to keep obediently staring into the face of the one whose boot he’s grinding his aching cock on, dirty and desperate, — and to catch her every word.
Ey, sinebluzyye!
Reyte!
Za okeany!
Yly
u bronenostsev na reydye
stupleny ostryye kily?!
Pust’,
oskalyas’ koronoy,
vzdymayet brytanskyy lyev voy.
Kommune nye byt’ pokoryonnoy.
Ved’ma's broad chest boils like water over a hexamine fuel tablet — the ardor of century-old words blooms into the red flag on her cheeks and gets transmitted like a contagious disease to Graves, who’s pushing his hips towards his tortured orgasm in quick, sharp thrusts. Intoxicated by the pleasure-pain in his chafed cockhead, he misses a warning in the form of a deep breath above him, and-
Levoy!
The iron toe screws into the soft flesh, pressing the toothy fly zipper into his cock, smeared with arousal.
Levoy!
Ved’ma twists her toe again, as if putting out a discarded cigarette butt, and his trembling arm folds, almost dropping tear-eyed from the sharp pain Graves to the floor.
Levoy!
Phillip cums. He is shaking with small spasms of a violent orgasm, his bare stomach covered in sweat twitching hysterically; his trembling hand jerks up unconsciously to grab Ved’ma by the ankle of her mercilessly crushing leg and ease the weight off his abundantly spurting member — but she gets ahead of him. In tense silence, interrupted only by moaning undertones in Graves's still ragged breathing, she slowly pulls her toe towards herself and leans in, resting her elbows on her knees, to carefully examine her boot.
There’s viscous semen that has seeped through his underwear and pants, spreading over the polished black leather. Right on the seam, which Marusya carefully treated against moisture, a cloudy bubble divides in two and bursts, spraying even the old shoelaces with micro-splashes of sperm.
Tam
Ved’ma begins again in a low voice that makes Graves’s still aching cock to twitch weakly again.
za gorami gо́rya
solnechnyy kray nepochatyy.
Slowly, almost thoughtfully, she leans back in her seat again, still looking at the soiled boot. In the blink of an eye Phillip, driven by a pulling hunger, falls to her feet and sticks out his wet pink tongue. His own cum is still warm, salty, sticking to his lips — Graves licks widely and suddenly chokes on saliva from the sharp sweetness of the natural leather of the boot. The tip of his tongue is almost numb in his mouth, as if pricked by micro-needles, and he slurps loud and dirty, hastily lapping up the liquid mixture of semen and saliva.
Za golod,
za mora morye
shag millionnyy pechatay!
Pust’ bandoy okruzhat nа́nyatoy,
stal’noy izlivayutsya lyе́yevoy, —
Rossiyi nye byt’ pod Antantoy.
Levoy!
Levoy!
Levoy!
At what point Ved’ma places her right foot on the back of his head, Phillip does not notice — carefully scraping the seams and ribs of the boot that are cutting him with their hard edges, he only gasps when her heavy heel with a short jerk pushes his mouth into the sole that needs cleaning. Desperately squeezing her ankle in his hands to the point where the leather squeaks under pressure, Graves slides the tip of his tongue between the protruding patterns that help Marusya keep steady on the ice roads and awkwardly smacks his lips, trying to lap up the spread out sperm from the deep grooves. The wet sounds of his thorough cleaning mash with the chopped words falling from her lips like iron scraps, and under the baggy fabric of her sweatpants, her tanned thighs press together, sticking to the slick smeared all over the skin.
Glaz li pomerknyet orliy?
V staroye l’ stanem pyalit’sya?
Krepi
u mira na gorlye
proletariata pal’tsy!
Grudyu vperyod bravoy!
Flagami nebo okleivay!
Kto tam shagayet pravoy?
The pressure on the back of his head disappears as abruptly as it came, and instead Ved’ma hooks Graves under the chin and pushes him away, forcing him to lean back. His lips are wet and glistening, his cheeks with yesterday’s shave glow with an adorable pink blush, the fur on his chest is dark with sweat and sticks to his tanned skin in curls, framing painfully hard nipples. Struggling to maintain his balance, he looks up at her pleadingly, asking, his fingers reaching out on their own accord to grab her ankle again and press the boot, covered in spit smears, to his heart.
Ved’ma grins, lifts her leg despite her protesting knee, teases Phillip like a dog with a bone, and finally pokes him in the sternum accusingly, not giving in until she has finished her march. Graves clings with his whole body to her shin, presses his lips to the scar on her knee he can find without looking, and finally breathes out, going limp, like his member still in the soaked pants. Marusya's strong fingers bury themselves in his disheveled blond hair, stroking, preparing to pull him up for a kiss in a minute — not yet, though.
From behind the relaxed mound of her right thigh, Graves can still see Mayakovsky’s sullen stare.
Levoy!
Levoy!
Levoy!
*sh'en (щен) - something like "pup", a neologism from the word "puppy" (щенок) [sh'enok] Mayakovsky was called (and called himself) by Lilya Brik who he was in a throuple with (with her husband as third). Here's the link to the translation of the poem.
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ultra-phthalo · 8 months ago
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PLEXUS
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Got around to doing more art of Plexus. He's a small compared to most bots. And tries avoiding attention at all hours, even while at work. Works in communications and turns into a mechanical sundew. Very pretty house plant :3
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lizzie-wendigo · 2 months ago
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Well, since I officially presented my AU, I want to introduce my OCs that will have interaction with Dib as the protagonist.
Some extra facts about them:
Eddie:
Eddie is a hybrid of a powerful human witch and a demon worshipped by a cult.
In that cult, Eddie is worshipped like a prince, but his mother is fed up with his behavior, so she somewhat limited his powers and forced him to do something useful with them.
Dib was performing a spiritual ritual to acquire a "familiar spirit," and upon completing the ritual, Edgar's mother condemned him to be Dib's familiar for an indefinite period of time.
As a familiar spirit, he acquired the physical form of a bat and now lives with Dib and his family.
In his bat form, he can speak, but Professor Membrane apparently doesn't take Eddie's words seriously.
To others, Eddie is seen as "a pet." No one believes Dib when he says he's his "familiar."
At first, Eddie was just a playboy and more like a roommate because he refused to obey Dib, but little by little he began to feel a protective instinct towards Dib and Gaz, to the point that he sees them as younger brothers.
While he's a familiar, he won't be able to acquire his human form at will, only in certain isolated and necessary cases.
She loves shrimp and is somewhat fanatically attached to them.
Being half-demon, she has a certain aversion to some rituals and customs (perhaps holy water).
She spends her time giving Dib advice, some useful, some stupid.
She gets along well with Gaz, although he's sometimes afraid of her. He even protects her sometimes.
Sam:
Sam is a 30-year-old single man with a shop selling imported spiritualism products.
He's legally blind, but sees the world differently. He can perceive auras, energies, and spirits.
He obtained this gift at 15. When he was young, he always had a special gift for perceiving auras after a ritual in the cemetery. He literally went blind, but his gift evolved into the gift of mediumship.
By possessing the gift of mediumship, he has helped some people communicate with spirits, souls of deceased people, and even have brief visions of people's futures.
He can also master atrial plexus travel.
He had a girlfriend who was unfaithful to him when he obtained his gift, and he went blind.
He also possesses some clairvoyance, which helps him read tarot.
The rituals in his shop include tarot reading, predicting some things about the future, and medium sessions for communication.
He became Dib's friend, helped him with a seance, and understood Dib's vibe. He describes him as "a cool schizophrenic."
Of course, he believes Dib, and Dib even frequents his shop to obtain mystical materials for various adventures.
Despite being a witness to everything Dib does, no one believes him because he's "a crazy blind man."
He has a laid-back hippie attitude, and let's say he loves incense, but he smokes cannabis occasionally.
He's a fan of very exotic food. He can often be seen eating food with insects; he's not disgusted by them.
He allowed Tak to work in his shop and gave her asylum. He did Dib a favor, as he's aware of what's happening to her.
He develops a friendship with Tak in the process, describing some human attitudes.
-------------------------------------------
Bueno, ya que presenté oficialmente mi AU, quiero presentarles mis OCs que tendrán interaccion con Dib como el protagonista
Algunos datos extra sobre ellos:
Eddie:
Eddie es un mestizo de una bruja humana y un demonio poderosos al que un culto adora.
En ese culto, Eddie es adorado como un principe, pero su madre esta harta de su comportamiento, así que limito algo sus poderes y lo obligo a hacer algo util con ellos
Dib estaba haciendo un ritual espiritual para poder adquirir un "espiritu familiar", y al persivir el ritual, la madre de edgar lo condenó a ser el familiar de dib por un tiempo indefinidio.
Al ser un espiritu familiar, adquirio la forma fisica de un murcielago, y ahora vive con dib y su familia.
En su forma murcielago puede hablar, pero al parecer el profesor membrana no toma en serio cuando eddie habla.
Para los demás, eddie pasa desapercibido como "una mascota", nadie le cree a dib cuando dice que es su "familiar"
Al principio, Eddie era solo un vividor y más como un roomie pues se negaba a obeder a dib, pero poco a poco empezó a sentir un instinto protector hacia Dib y Gaz, al punto que los ve como hermanos menores
mientras sea un familiar, no podrá adquirir su forma humana a voluntad, solo con ciertos casos aislados y necesarios
Adora los camarones, tiene cierto fanatismo a ellos.
al ser mitad demonio, tiene cierta aberracion algunos rituales y costumbres (quizas agua bendita)
se la pasa dandole consejos a dib, algunos utiles, otros estupidos.
Se lleva bien con gaz, aunque aveces el le tenga miedo a ella. incluso tambien aveces la protege
Sam:
Sam es un hombre soltero de 30 años que tiene una tienda que vende productos espirituales importados.
El es legalmente ciego, pero ve el mundo de otra forma, puede persivir auras, energías y precenciar espiritus
obtuvo este don a los 15, cuando el era joven siempre tuvo un don especial para persivir precencias después de un ritual en el cementerio, se quedo ciego literalmente pero su don evoluciono hasta tener el don de medium
al poseer el don de medium, ha ayudado a algunas personas a comunicarse con espiritus, almas de gente muerta y e incluso tener visiones cortas sobre el futuro de las personas
Tambien puede dominar los viajes atrales.
tenía una novia que le fue infiel cuando el obtuvo su don y se quedó ciego
Tambien posee algo de clarividencia, lo que le ayuda a leer el tarot
los rituales de su tienda incluyen, leer el tarot, predecir algunas cosas del futuro y seciones de medium para comunicación
Se volvió amigo de dib al ayudarlo con una sesión de espiritismo, además de entender la vibra de dib.
El lo describe como "un esquizofrenico buena onda"
Por supuesto que le cree a dib, e incluso dib frecuenta su tienda para obtener materiales misticos para diferentes aventuras.
A pesar de ser un testigo de todo lo que dib hace, nadie le cree por "ser un ciego demente"
tiene una actitud de hippie relajado, y digamos que ama el incienso, pero fuma cannabis de vez en cuando
es fanatico de la comida muy exotico, a menudo se le puede ver comiendo comida con insectos, el no les tiene asco
permitió que tak trabajara en su tienda y le dio asilo, le hizo un favor a dib, ya que esta al tanto de lo que pasa con ella.
Desarrolla en proceso una amistad con tak, describiendo algunas actitudes humanas
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yourlocalmooninite · 4 months ago
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Qweepa OC: Plexus (qweepa belongs to @rollerskatefish )
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asogizer505 · 4 months ago
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limbus oc drives me nuts
i decided to make his other eye slightly viewable
no, i still dont know how to color his hair AAAAAAA
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paintedbutton · 8 months ago
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OC in Fifteen
I was tagged by @writernopal and @floralmusings to do this, and since I haven't started on anything new yet, I figured it'd be a good time to go back to the defunct project runaways draft, that I equally love and loath. So these are all from Fox.
Rules: Share 15 or fewer lines of dialogue from an OC, ideally lines that capture the character/personality/vibe of the OC. Bonus points for just using the dialogue without other details about the scene, but you're free to include those as well!
“I wouldn’t,” he said around the cigarette.
“You touch him, you’re dead,” was all he said and the door fell shut behind him.
“Break every bone in your body,” Fox said, just as Cristoff dropped his hand.
“Two options,” he offered. They wanted drama, he might as well give it to them. “You try and get what you really want, and this all goes to hell, or …” From the smirk on the man’s face, this was exactly what he’d wanted.
Afterwards, Fox said, “Don’t call me a fucking dog again.”
“And I know a fucking security system. Add more people, shit gets messy. You want mess?”
Fox sat down on the other bed, cross legged. “Divorce.” And then, because that wasn’t enough explanation, “And daddy issues.”
Fox shrugged. “Easy.” What he wanted to say was that Cristoff was barely breathing, that he was holding on by a thread and Fox hated it. That he’d do anything to make it better.
“Nova’s gonna throw a fucking party.” Then, a tug in the back of his head. “Get the damn elevator started and we cross the easiest one off the list. Find a place and see how much I can take.”
“Your type?” they guessed. Fox couldn’t keep the snort in. “No.”
“No mods,” he said. Cipher and the woman looked at each other.
“No fucking time for that. You do it or I make you do it.”
“No,” Fox said, “You’re …” “Your friend?” Cristoff guessed. Because he was. That much was indisputable. When Fox chuckled, it was humourless. “Enough.”
“One day you’re sitting in a cell unless they break your bones to see when you’ll start to feel it, the next … doors open. You get told to get the fuck out, tell nobody what happened to you, what you are or where you came from, supposed to somehow exist in a world that doesn’t give a shit about you. Pretty nice of it, since youre not allowed to give a shit about anything either. That’s about it.”
“That’s the problem.” That hit somewhere deep, close to the solar plexus. Maybe he should defend himself. “I should’ve killed you.”
I really should get this wip sorted at some point, or it'll never stop eating at me ... Anyway.
Tagging: @winterandwords , @laisley-writes , @glbettwrites , @revenantlore and whoever else wants to join in!
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