#other people's OCs and pets

[hawberries]

icons and chibis from the last few months! i am working to step up the quality of my icons >:0

[art-of-wackylurker]

Hogsteeds are spreading to other planets, ladies and gentlemen

feat. @king-chaos-world's Nihlus after he saved the day and killed that bitch Palpatine and almost died doing so

[honeycollectswhump]

♡ general masterpost ♡

Holding Up The Sky

Although Atlas managed to escape his old Master a while ago, the past never really left him. The way to recovery is a rocky one, even with the help of his best friend Aveline. Especially once his old Master decides to show Atlas exactly where he belongs: at the feet of his owner.

The Ashtray

Ashtray is so, so happy to be one of his beloved Mistress’ possessions. Even though he can’t understand a word she says, he knows he wants nothing more than to be a Good Boy, and to be a Good Boy is to be an eager Ashtray. But no matter how hard he tries to shove it down, something makes him feel… wrong?

Misc. Writing

Things End | People Change Fanfic: Staining Touch Things End | People Change Fanfic: Healing

Whump Prompts

Obsessive Caretaker

[nrd-answers]

LIFE GONE DOWN THE [[Drain]] [[Drain]]? YOURE [[1997 Certified Residence]] FALLING INTO [[The H o l e]]?? I HAVE JUST THE [Lifeline] YOU NEED! DITCH [[One]] OF THE [Laws and Regulations] AND YOU CAN HAVE [[Freedom]] AND [Ascension not guaranteed]!

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[bmpmp3]

its important to watch a new movie or read a new book sometimes. largely because 1) its nice to experience all the art this world has to offer but also 2) you might be able to find new scenarios to imagine your OCs in

[tasmanianstripes]

Maybe it's the result of my main fandom for the majority of my life being one where canon just genuinely doesn't exist, where there are so many different canons and literally any sort of interpretation of a single character is correct and can range from a moronic maniac with a chainsaw to a depressed old asshole boss, but

Literally who gives a fuck about canon?

Especially when the character is practically a blank slate or if it's an AU

Like, I'm sorry, but if you're butthurt about a mischaracterisation of a fictional character in an Alternative Universe then I don't think you understand what an AU is

[imabiscuitinthousandworlds]

you know, as a writer, i want to include minorities in my writing. i want to write a whole lot of diverse and varied characters and if i'm not directly familiar with the minority/identity in question i do my research. especially on stereotypes to avoid and stuff.

and sometimes i see a post and i'm like????? like today there was this post with a sexy lamp test for disabled characters ("if you can exchange them with a beloved pet who needs expensive surgery rewrite your character as a person") and i'm so. i mean, it's a good rule of thumb and i did immediately check over the two ocs i created recently. but i am absolutely baffled?? who the fuck writes cardboard cut-outs for the sake of forced diversity???? how does this need to be said??? like for real??? (i don't doubt it. i wish i could, but. but i am so baffled and appalled and upset like how can you call yourself a writer if this is what characters look like to you)

but also especially because like, i created my characters specifically to include (physically) disabled characters. yeah because of another post that was like "you don't need any justification to break your characters' legs" and i went hell yeah, and also i have a post about crutches saved somewhere and i can make a kickass design (i did), and i made two OCs because one was an asshole and i didn't want zir to be the only visibly disabled person. So like, I made those OCs with the intention of inclusivity. But... they're still people.

They're still characters. Okay I already have the tendency to latch onto background characters too much but of course they're people?? They have different ways to cope with their disability and different reasons for being disabled. They have very different backstories and personalities. (They're besties tho and I love them).

Just. Even if I create background OCs with the specific purpose of diversity (at first, they still need a justification within the plot of course), I create them fully. I mean, is it even worth it if you're not going to treat the group you want to include as people?

Just like. This was mostly a rant because what the fuck man. ain't no way. how. why.

[echonidae]

a cellshaded portrait for Flyteck over on deviantart <3

[homoeroticvillain]

dan shows up to a crime scene ready to investigate all dressed up in a fun nerdy outfit and luci shows up in basketball shorts and miku shirt [but he brings coffee and is forgiven]

[shmorp-mcdurgen]

Are Mimics only a Silver Lining thing or are they in other places too?

They can be found elsewhere, but they originated in (theoretically), and are most common in Silver Lining, Colorado. However, after their initial discovery, they have been moved to certain places to be studied, or have been illegally introduced in other places in the world.

You can occasionally see mimics finding their ways on ships or planes, with one case of a mimic even using a cargo ship as a shell being documented!

[boygirlctommy]

i made 2 new ocs and i love them but one of them is going to die and im upset about it

[strange-ness-is-me]

my little goobers

the one with the ears is called Bryn(He/She/Xe) and the other is one of my friends ocs(his name is Spades and the creator is @razzoftherad).

Also the lion isn’t truly a lion, it’s a chimera

[cadaverjuices]

sane/insane

cast; hunter [he/him], septimus [he/him] word count - 3202 CWs// violence, blood, animal harm metaphors, religious themes, emeto, self harm stuff whump specific; BBU/pet whump, intimate whumper/carewhumper, whumpee is in love with whumper and vice versa, transman whumpee, gay whumper, and a female whumper is mentioned.

summary;

the overlap between predator and prey, what each does to quell traumas bygone.

A/N - originally two different short stories i wrote!! featuring worlds most fucked up rabbit boy hunter, and septimus. who multiclasses as a whumper/whumpee/caretaker because hes special [specially traumatized].

hunter stared as the blood ran down the drain, his body feeling faint, his consciousness feeling foggy like he was underwater- and even as the tap blares a loud sound as rushing water runs through it, he can’t focus on it, it becomes an inaudible buzzing in the back of his mind, muffled by the screaming of his body.

there's not much to be said about what he felt.

he felt scared, disgusted to the core.

he wanted to cry, scream, run away, but he stood still, staring absentmindedly at the blood being washed off of him, pouring down in a reddish-pinkish hue, pain searing all the way through his body.

how did they get to this?

why- like moth to flame, is he like this?

and as he coughs again, gagging a disgustingly wet and rancid sound as more blood pours out, he felt himself cry, a weary smile on his face, tears prickling at the edge of his eyes and pouring down.

it’s not the physical pain that hurt, but the images that haunted his mind.

septimus-

'gather yourself,' hunter tells himself, hand grasping his leg, his shoulder feels sticky, wet skin against a wet tile wall, 'what's going on?' he asks his own dazed, dizzy mind.

he’d been hurt again.

well, that one was obvious, wasn't it?

devoured like some sort of prey animal, he could feel the deep gash wounds scream in pain; twisting, churning like the waves of a deep red ocean, screaming for some sort of relief.

but it doesn’t come, it never does, no matter how far hunter thinks he gets in his 'journey', he is always back there again.

hurt and broken and on fire, no matter how good hunter feels in one moment, the next he feels just as empty, just as depressed as before, in need of that 'fix' again.

always the same, always the exact same empty feeling, the same depression, the same gnawing deep need for what he knows will set him free, and always... the same relief he gets from his 'fix', being hurt.

always the same relief he gets when he starts to boil with self-hate, bubbling out of him and showing its ugly face to all those around him, all those whom he should care about and should find comfort in, when they leave him.

alone again, pretty?

an echo of a memory within his mind, loving affectionate voice, juxtaposed with a face he knew did not mean well.

and then, it's always the same person- or same kind of person, that he always gets that final relief, that final comfort from, a twisted, dark, and sick kind of comfort, a disgusting kind, an impure kind.

septimus.

tall, beautiful septimus. looks of an angel, hands of a devil, he denies it every time. saying he's not worthy of that moniker, calling himself twisted and impure- it only convinces hunter more. scars on his back, yellow eyes like a cat at night, and black hair with yellow streaks, he always smiles like he's getting a twisted joy out of everything, as if he doesn't deserve it.

hunter’s fallen angel.

perhaps if it was someone else hunter would have to ask himself where he was, but he knew. nobody had quite the decoration like his septimus. holes in the wall, dust flies about glittering in the yellowed flickering lights, he sees discarded cigarettes and broken trash, there's some mysterious grime in the corners of the bathroom that he was being careful to not touch and of course- the piece de resistance.

blood covers from here to fro, hunter was far from the only bloody thing in this house he was sure.

he always has wondered, where does that blood come from? as far as he knows septimus doesn't really have any friends, with or without quotations.

when he feels a hand from behind rest upon his shoulder, he knows he's right.

from the corner of his eye, he sees him kneel, a hand squirms its way under his chin and sets itself upon his cheek, he burrows into it as he's pulled to look at the man himself.

septimus.

on him there is blood, his clothes are frazzled, hunter sees the parts where his hands were probably just pulling at, and in septimus' hands, he holds a bloody sheet.

a gentle voice, “don’t go ruining this place again, hunter.” it speaks, smooth, soft, and yet unsettling; a coldness creeps in like a morning breeze, so gentle, but hunter feels himself freeze in fear at it, like a rabbit caught by a hawk, he's smiling at hunter, a thumb caresses his cheek, in his eyes, hunter sees the unimaginable adoration he holds for hunter, a sick kind of love.

his voice turns mockingly upset, “you know i can’t keep on cleaning up after your mess, you just need to be still and nothing like what happened last time will happen again.” it says, so chillingly sweet, like a toxin making it way into hunters gut, making him shake, he feels lips against his other cheek, a kiss.

“come on, answer me.” he says, voice lower, tightening jaw and a hand tightening on his neck, nails prickling at his skin like knives, threatening to tear in at any second.

he doesn't think septimus is aware of it, even, as his brows furrow- desperation, hunter has seen it a thousand times before.

just as broken as the other, just as desperate for affection and approval as the other.

it's frankly pathetic; for both of them.

hunter nods slowly, half-lidded and exhausted, feeling the pressure release from his neck, and sees as septimus goes to stand up over him, “good.” a breathy, disgustingly cheery voice says, a short laugh, breathy, “good, yeah, good.” and hunter is pulled up, feeling himself stand on shaky legs, held lovingly like fragile glass, but nails dig into his skin like rodent caught by bird.

hunter takes a shaky, painful breath, and leans away from the blood puddle from where he sat, being pulled away firmly; gently by septimus, feeling how he clings onto him, grasping him, squeezing him just slightly enough that he can feel the stinging of the gashes at being pulled at, he slowly looks up into the mirror, seeing himself, bloodied and torn apart like wet tissue paper, and septimus behind him, a crescent, crude smile on his lips, eyes staring back at hunter, poking at hunters skin, pulling at the skin, opening up those wounds he himself tore into hunter, there is a sense of pride he shouldn't perhaps have.

artist and his work?

a hand slowly travels up and grabs hunter's face, this hand more covered in blood than the last- he shivers at the wet feeling the blood gives on his skin, feeling sick as he feels himself tense up, but he stays still, nails gently poking at his skin as septimus twists his face to look at him.

“hunter.” he asks, a quiet and smooth voice, nose against his, his thumb caresses hunters face slowly, “you know i love you right? that this is out of love, right?” and, as hunter breathes slowly, shakily… a little smile creeps on his face.

the fix.

cure for his sickness, he lets himself be covered in worse disease, a shaky, weak breath from him- it's an intoxicating feeling.

“of course.” he says, septimus stares at his face for a second longer, absorbing the moment fully, a gentle kiss onto hunter’s bloodied lips, and he backs away, letting hunter go, his tone suddenly shifts, colder, disinterested. in his eyes, hunter sees how he stares off into nothing yet again, always only focusing on the candle as it's burning, moth to flame alike.

“i’ll go call that doctor guy for you, you seem to have had enough of me now.” he mumbles, "you'll be fine in here yourself, right?" he asks, eyes digging through hunter, seemingly looking through him. hunter nods and then watches as his beloved fallen angel goes out of the bathroom, leaving hunter alone.

rabbits are not supposed to love hawks.

hunter stands, feeling himself wave from side to side as he stands, and then starts to cry, there's an exhausted smile on his face as he slides down.

it hurts, oh it always does.

it hurts so damn much, and yet he can’t stop coming here- and no matter how hurt he is, no matter how much pain he feels, no matter how broken he gets, it's still never enough is it?

he still returns to him, or others. he still comes back to be broken, torn apart.

and god, each time after- through the bewitching words septimus weaves, like blades through his skin, he’s always left feeling as if nobody will ever truly care for him that way again, obsessive sick love.

he doesn't know what septimus would do if he told him how much he adores him.

he doesn't know how he would bear with never seeing the worst of his coping mechanisms ever again.

but it's the only thing that keeps him feeling sane.

lower than dirt, lower than worms, there he is.

it’s not that he didn’t love hunter, oh he loved him. but an animal untrained is unrestrained in its behaviour.

a sharp beak picks apart fine rabbit bones, it’s instinct. it’s all he knows.

affection is something that cannot be afforded to morons, where his hands trace only bruises are left- his existence was bloody destruction, tearing apart the things he wishes he could care for whenever he is left without a muzzle around his head.

restraint was not something that he was ever taught. joy was not a privilege an animal like him deserved.

every feeling of joy, affection, and love was counteracted by a feeling of anger, disgust, and most of all; hatred. hatred for hunter for instilling the feelings of sin within him, a hatred for himself for daring to feel that way, a hatred for what was lost, what was never given, and what he cannot do.

contradiction was something he knew very well. the contradiction of being desired yet never loved, the contradiction of wanting love but not being able to give it, of being trained like a refined pet and yet rabid like a feral dog.

the things he would do to fix himself. pull out teeth, rip out nails, but nothing could ever kill the filth that was weaved finely into his entire being, a silk of only the worst he could do, never anything good coming out of him.

oh, it wasn’t that he hated hunter, no. it was that he hated himself.

to have someone who still accepted him was something he hated, something he wished would not happen, he curses anyone who forgives his sin. but he still never refuses it; a feeling of being starved, he longs for someone to treat him normally. but he can't treat anyone normally himself, the hands of a sinner. bubbling up.

it always ends the same.

bloody hands, bloody apartment, the taste of regret at the back of his throat and yet intoxication at the only affection he could afford. bloody love, the sign of the heathen he was always meant to be. created to hurt, created to suffer, created to destroy.

he wasn’t human anymore, he was something else by now he was sure of. sins pile up and twist one's form. maybe he never was one.

hunter didn’t- hunter did not come to him for love. no, he came for… other reasons to be sure, but septimus didn’t mind being used, even pain and fear, tears rolling off one’s face, could feel like being loved after being starved of it, he knew that very well himself.

so when he was asked not to tear, not to hurt, but to restrain himself, he was… anxious, afraid.

sweetness from each kiss hunter gave him, he didn't know how to reciprocate that, his hands wrap around hunters wrists, loosely as to not make him bleed as he always does.

refreshing intoxication emanates from hunter as his warmth does, to be so gentle with a monster was a virtue he was so jealous of.

disgust builds up at the back of his throat.

rotted bile, rotted mind, rotted morals.

unreciprocative trash

hunters voice was quiet, painfully kind as he speaks, “septimus?” he mumbles, and even though he doesn't answer hunter continues, “this… this might be really out of nowhere, i’m sorry..” he whispers, and as septimus hears the way that hunters voice gets choked up he wishes, he could tear flesh from bone, his throat hurting as if a ball were stuck in it, constricting flesh around the obstruction.

constricting hatred around the obstruction.

“i just- i... i like this, i think” he said, and the bile growing in the back of his throat couldn’t be more distracting, this wasn’t right and it wasn’t something that should happen “i like us, i love us like this-” and before he finishes the sentence septimus steps away.

he hated this. he hated himself for the way he acted, when he leaves he doesn’t say a word.

he almost wants to laugh at the irony of it all, something once so holy, so pure- now twisted.

wingless angel, the means he would go to so that he could feel human. but he still wasn’t one despite it all, even when tearing feathers from flesh, flesh from bone, his wings removed from his body by his own hands, he only turned into a monster. a snarling rabid beast.

the memory of hunter running his hands along the scars on his back crosses his mind. 'how did this happen?' the rabbit asks, he had never answered, it's not that hunter wouldn't understand, more than anyone else he would, but it's that he still felt shame- he still wanted to be more than...

more than a pet bird.

he had seen a beautiful girl once; from afar, a long time ago, rabbit ears on her head, a tail behind. hair and fur like acorn brown silk, soft and warm, eyes deep, dark shades of a midnight hue of brown.

and just when he finds himself starting to get lost in them, he feels his mistress' heels click on the floor, and he stands upright again, looking to her with a practised 'loving' smile, but his eyes were empty as he stares at the woman.

she runs hands along the white dove-like wings he once had, that he swears he can still feel burning in pain, and he tells her every sweet nothing she wants to hear.

his mistress.

he was below even a doormat.

today that beautiful 'girl' had sat before him again, now a boy he feels hopelessly in love (?) with. his hair and eyes as beautiful as he remembers, now close he can look at every freckle on his face, like stars to the dark sky in his eyes, he has piercings and tattoos now, and on his body septimus could trace a thousand scars with a thousand stories.

some like his, some by him, some for other reasons.

but he can't take what he dishes, unending adoration, unconditional love- from him, sick and twisted, but from him... like sun rays kissing his skin.

the scars on his back burn.

vomit sits below his face, cast out like the feelings he was not worthy of, that he didn’t deserve to experience. the disgusting taste covers his mouth, and the acid makes his throat burn, he lets out a groan as he stares at it in disgust for a few seconds before going to wash his face.

cold water makes his face numb, but he still feels the nails he drags across his face.

he hates how his body rejects normality.

but no matter how much hate he bears, no matter the tears he sheds, no matter the blood he draws out of himself, it’s never enough to cleanse him of that instinct to destroy; to hurt.

there's a knock at the door as he bites into the skin of his arm, hunter’s voice rings out, “are you okay?” he asks, distress in his voice, “i heard gagging?” and septimus only glares at the door as he doesn't answer, a familiar liquid warmth running down his arm, iron taste in his mouth.

then, there’s a long silence, a silence where septimus feels the way tears try and pour out of his face, and how his breathing tightens further, choking silently with his hatred of himself, his weakness, silently suffocating any of the tears that he may have shed.

“i…” the voice is quiet, septimus thinks that hunter is leaning against the door now with how his voice is muffled, “i’m worried. i.... care about you, okay?" a pause, he cringes at it, he feels like hes being lied to- that's why there's that pause, if it were truth it would simply come out, "can you let me in?” he asks, and septimus feels the shaky breath he lets out, panic makes his skin feel as if pins dig into it, he hits the wall with his uninjured fist.

a nervous smile crawls onto his face as he feels his chest rise and fall faster and faster, “and i don’t. only love you for the blood you spill, fucking leave.” he says a fearful chuckle escaping him.

his body burns with adrenaline. fear, anxiety, and hatred, all in one disgusting mixed concoction. he hears the slow- and then fast footsteps as hunter walks away, the closing of the door, and when he does he pulls his head back slowly and suddenly, harshly, bangs it against the door.

surely, it was hard enough to leave a bruise.

and as the pain on his head pulses he slumps down, his tears and hyperventilated breaths finally coming out, like a waterfall, a wash of relief over him, the stabbing of hatred and guilt piercing his heart.

and then he hits his head against the door again. and again. and again. and he continues doing so until his breathing calms down.

unholy mind and body joined together, the twisting of a dove, the beast he is now doesn't deserve love like what hunter wishes to give him- it’s better to hurt himself than to let him ‘love’. put your hands inside the cage and you know what you’re gonna get, to get your fingers torn from that is a question of one’s own stupidity, a stupidity that was like a grace to him, but to open the cage was too reckless, even the beast knew that.

the hunger for what he doesn’t deserve makes him feel almost insane, despite his knowledge that he only feeds and does not reciprocate.

regret does make him feel insane, however.

the knowledge he hurt hunter is something he's not surprised by at all, and yet still wishes would not happen, but beak and claws do not love like mouths and hands, an animal like him just wasn’t made for love.

you cannot do something over and over and expect a different result.

you cannot do something over and over and expect a different result.

[ihateclaws]

Wondering what nickname(s)/pet name(s) your ocs give and get from other characters!

[shreksstepfather]

Are my OCs too edgy? Maybe. But at least they look cool, right?

[dingoat]

A little thankyou scribble for @queen-scribbles! Mando babe Eisza and best boy Spike. I have a few bigger more polished pieces that have been sucking up my time and focus lately so it’s super nice to have a handful of things to work on that can be a little more loose and experimental!