finaldisorder

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“Brendol Hux had it coming.”

A bottle of brandy in and Hux snorts a laugh at her comment, the air a rough exhale through the nose as he tilts his head back to down the last of his glass. Rolling his head to stare at her lazily, Hux offers a tight smile; she's the only one he's ever felt comfortable around, his best friend, his only friend. "And then some."

Rolling his shoulders in a slow shrug, the General shifts, slouching in his seat. "You helped make it all possible, and now look-" He waves a hand listlessly toward the panel boards of the bridge, blinking and the gentle ambience of buttons beeping echoing in the space around them. "We have it all- well, nearly all. When I'm Emperor-"

He trails off, reaching for the brandy to pour his third glass of the evening. Hux doesn't need to say anything more, he's ranted about it plenty. When he's Emperor, things will change. For the better. For him, for them. For the First Order.

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hello friends !!! i am coming back to this blog very soon, hopefully this week!! thank u for all ur patience while i sort shit out!! NOTE: i will be moving Malcolm Bright over to his old blog, and revamping it fully- his muse has been high again lately and i wish to indulge in his antics again. the blog itself will be under a revamp, as it is 4 years old, but please go ahead and follow him over on @brightwasright

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Billy's a smart boy, Martin can see that. Emotional intelligence was something to be spoken for, even for those who didn't experience emotions like regular and regulated people do. Academics weren't everything, although Martin did pride himself in his academia and vast vocabulary - but knowing how people worked and how to manipulate that to your advantage?

Martin settles in much more comfortably now with the killer across from him. It's soothing to be in the presence of someone who understands the sickness.

Reaching for the coffee, wrist chains bumping the edge of the table, brilliant blues flick down to the chain in question as Billy speaks. Keep him in line- Martin has picked up on Malcolm's many, ah- proclivities over the years. Tame when he was in college; exploration beginning with Vijay, if he recalls correctly. Which had pissed him off to no end the very first time he ever heard Vijay call his son 'baby boy' over the phone.

His upper lip ticks in annoyance, the action akin to a dog threatening a snarl.

"Mmh, well. I do hope you know what you're getting yourself into." He sips the coffee quietly for a moment, rolling his shoulders in a lazy shrug before leaning back fully. A scratch at his beard and he huffs a mirthless laugh. "Malcolm is a... sensitive boy. He's fully capable-" Martin doesn't need to explain - they both know what they're talking about now. Malcolm's a killer, he just needs the right push. "My boy just needs the right, eh- environment. What he needs is his father, but he simply refuses to make our meetings anything more than business."

There's the narcissism again. Malcolm needs him, not anyone else.

Martin didnt have to mention at all how Malcolm could be, Billy knew all too well. "I like to think i keep him in line but I too know parental relationships arent exactly normal for people like us. He picked up the coffee he brought them both and sipped his cup. Billy wasnt dumb. He could pick up on the jealousy and fought a smirk.

"Oh its going great. Happy to be out of prison. Took some getting used to though, wont lie about that. Still some days i miss the noise but thats besides the point. Malcolm is great. Hes a handful but hes not hard to put back in line with the right tools."

He cleared his throat and put the coffee down. " I take good care of him. He doesnt need it though. He definitely is capable of handling himself. You know that though." Was he insinuating that they both knew what Malcolm could be capable of? Absolutely.

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note to self: write psychoanalysis about martin's narcissism and how it manifests as possession over malcolm. dear ol dad's so threatened by his son's growing independence that he's going to do everything in his power to quell that, even from prison :/

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Chloë Sevigny as Jean

AMERICAN PSYCHO (2000)

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🍸————— closed starter: @ofmcck

Nothing quite like a night off. Not that she got many; Jack had been working her to the bone, no pun intended, and Sandie was desperate for a break. Normally, she would stay in. She would curl up in bed, stare at the far wall, fall into dissociation along with the neon blood red sign that flashes, flashes, flashes outside her window. Normally, she would scream and scream and throw the blankets over herself and punch and kick and smoke and drink.

Tonight is different. She's feeling slightly energized, Lord knows why, but she isn't going to question it. Maybe it's because Jack had said he'd be going out of town. Just for a few days.

Sandie leans against the bar top with a lazy smile, doe eyes gazing up at the tender; one hand lifts to play with her hair, fingers carding through the blonde waves easily before she leans, the low cut of her dress pulled taut. The tender acknowledges her momentarily but turns to finish up a prior order. In her wait, Sandie glances to the side, smiling at the other seated next to her. This wasn't her usual spot to drink, but she wanted to avoid all clientele that she could.

"I'll have a vesper." She states gently, lashes batting at the tender as he finally turns her way. "And whatever my friend is having here, as well." She turns big browns to the other, painted lips curving. Body turns, elbows rested on the bar top with a feigned air of confidence. "I hope that's alright. You looked like you could use a friend tonight." A gentle laugh, hollow and empty, though friendly. "I know I sure could."

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"Mister Loomis!" He grins, all teeth, arms wide and welcoming. Damn, and he was a good-looking fella, wasn't he? A chuckle takes him, leaning forward to offer a hand in a polite handshake. Manners maketh man. "Oh-ho! Well, I'm so flattered! I did a lot of reading about your little, uh- spree. How fun! Costumes and all! It's a dying art, isn't it? Proper legacies."

His grin grows impossibly wider as he settles himself again, leaning lazily back in his seat. It's his cell, so of course he feels right at home. "The pleasure is all mine, really. Not just anyone can catch my boy's attention." He lifts his hands a bit in a placating manner, chuckling deep in his chest. "I know, I know. Sort of an odd way to meet the parents, but if I play nice then maybe Malcolm will be less, eh-" He rolls his eyes a bit. He doesn't have to say it. Bratty.

Another laugh leaves him, eyes briefly flicking around the cell before settling on the dark man across from him. Maybe there's a flick of jealousy in his gaze. "Mm, well. Good lawyers. Lots of money. A little bit of psychotic exaggeration. You're a free man now, though! And you're settling in with my boy." Mhm, yup. Jealousy. A narcissist's worst nightmare. "How is that going?"

:)) @finaldisorder

" Heard through the grapevine that you wanted to meet. Much to Malcolms dismay I'm sure, I've always been a fan. I remember hearing about you. I liked your method. I also like your son. A lot. So if he doesn't want me coming back, I won't. Just putting that out there." Billy said, taking a seat at the table between them. " Nice to officially meet you though." There was something relaxing about being around another person who was sick in similar ways. " Man your space is a hell of a lot better than the shit hole I spent my years in."

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Hey Martin - you're pretty hot

"Oh, sweetheart." He chuckles in amusement, head tilted and glee painted to every single inch of his face. Features scrunched in genuine enjoyment of the comment - although, he's a master at manipulating his own emotions. Knows how to play and fawn and feign. One arm lifts, scratches at the base of his skull. Plays with unruly and tangled curls at his temples before he's lounging back with a satisfied sigh.

The sweet, innocent, admirable aura he presents drops entirely. Hands rest on his thighs, palms flat and fingers drumming lazily on the soft cotton of his trousers. A huff of a laugh escapes him, the sweet smile once bright now shifting, snaking, into a curved and lascivious smirk. The laugh offered had been one that suggests he wants to say something else. Wants to scream in the face of the other that they're unworthy of his attention, his time, his eyes burrowing holes in their head.

His voice drops, a gravel timbre; a growled chuckle. "I know."

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Hey Martin, what do you think of Malcolm dating Billy Loomis?

"Loomis, Loomis... Ah! William Loomis, 1996 Ghostface killer, that's right. I did hear my boy was seeing someone, but I figured it was another of his wild sexcapades with someone from one of his, uh-" Martin stutters, head shaking and eyes widening slightly at the very stark and sudden realization that his son was ... well, his son was unwell. But all the Whitly's were. That's just what they were. Like father like son, like daughter. "Many clubs, if you know what I mean."

A pause, "So- wait, you're saying my boy and the Loomis fellow are- they're - ?" And it clicks - all of it connects in an instant and he very nearly fist-pumps the air. A glance Heavenward, brilliant blues trained on high ceilings for a moment as a bubble of triumphant laughter leaves him. "Oh, what an auspicious day! Loomis is exactly what Malcolm needs. An experienced man." In killing, that is. "Get him in here ASAP! I need to meet this man."

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Prodigal Son 1.11 alone time

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you are a STRANGER when i come home you'll never turn your dreams to GOLD

ind. & sel. multi-muse featuring muses and oc's from: nbc hannibal, prodigal son, marvel, horror media, & more.

novella / literate — 18+ MDNI high activity

RULES — MUSES

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💉————— closed starter: @themacabrebarbie

"Well, now. To what do I owe the pleasure of this little meeting?"

A glance over her shoulder as she enters the cell, and upon seeing nobody else behind her his eyebrows lift in genuine amusement; there's a slight hint of surprise there as well. Maybe it's admiration. Eve has dared to visit him without his sweet son, and he could not be more thrilled with this development. She's a firecracker, and he's eager to set the fuse. Watch the flame swallow her whole. Experience the explosion he knows he could punch from her with some calculated words and actions.

A toothy grin, fatherly, friendly, fond.

"Where's my boy?" He asks, innocence laced in his tone. He exaggerates his movement, glancing over her shoulder once more before dropping his gaze to her feet - he wonders how close she'll get to the red-painted line, index finger tapping on the arm of his office chair lazily before he settles more comfortably. Gaze leering, but of course, he's a man. Man-spreading like he owns the place, because well, he does. "You're not here alone, are you, sweetheart?"

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new muses added !!

these are all muses i have experience rp'ing/have had blogs for in the past, i had just left them off my roster !!

HORROR

Cherie — Run Sweetheart Run ella balinska — 23 — pre-law student "You will die knowing you surrendered yourself to me."

Sandie Collins — Last Night in Soho anya taylor-joy — 26 — lounge singer/call girl "That's a lovely name."

ANIMATED — PERSONIFIED

Shenzi — The Lion King shanola hampton — 31 — bar owner (the elephant graveyard) "Oh, I like that. He's not a king, but he's still so proper."

Tanner "Tramp" Moreaux — Lady and the Tramp pedro pascal — 42 — conman "Oh, now, now. Who could ever harm a little trick like you?"

Bojack Horseman — Bojack Horseman ewan mcgregor — 52 — hollywood actor "I have poison inside me, and I destroy everything I touch."

Sarah Lynn — Bojack Horseman emmy rossum — 31 — hollywood actor/model/singer "I am this close to falling off the deep end."

Rick Sanchez ( C-137 ) — Rick and Morty woody harrelson — 70 — scientist "Do you think if God existed he could do it? The answer is no. If God exists it's fucking me!"

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He coughs, wet and shallow. The world around him is blurry, and he can make out some shoes that look like his father's and maybe for a second he wants to call out for him. He wants to feel his father's arms circling his body, holding him and petting his hair to tell him it's all going to be okay. Malcolm can't recall the last time he'd felt his father's embrace. He can't recall a time his father had ever really done so, despite the fact he had, in fact, been a good father once upon a time.

Sat in his lap as a child in his office, dark basement illuminated by dim lights, folders and medical text strewn across the desk. His father's exuberance, his father's knowledge, passed on to the son, his prodigal son, his legacy. Only when Malcolm looks back these days can he see the grooming. He sees the killer that Doctor Whitly had tried to turn him into. He sees blood-stained knives, one in his hand, a grown man doubled over, sliced, stabbed, maroon flowing down small hands and wrists like rivers to stain his sweater.

'It's show time, my boy. Make your old man proud, huh?'

These are not his father's sneakers. That is not his father's smell. Malcolm coughs again, head lifting, weak and bleary blues focussing and unfocussing as Watkins crouches before him. He'd snarl if he could, the noise leaving him nothing more than a garbled, wet whimper stuck in his throat. He hasn't the energy to swat away John's hands. The cold air of the room grounds him slightly, the cooler floor beneath him, puddled, pooling blood is sticky but he focusses on the texture. The iron stench. He's bleeding out in this room, and though Malcolm has faced many a dangerous situation in the past, this one takes the cake.

He's not certain he can make his way out of this one. Not on his own. Wary eyes flick around the room impatiently, not exactly looking for an exit, as he knows there is none, but looking for the hallucination of his father. It's the only solace he has had in the silence before John began to speak, and that makes a guttural laugh leave him despite himself. The laugh comes wet - another cough is soon to follow.

"Angus Barbieri," He starts, a slight wheeze to his voice; strained though sure. Confident, though he's shaking. "1971. He survived for 382 days without solid food."

It's a quip with the intention to simply argue; to give himself more time to think. Anger filters through him now. It crashes like a wave. He has already been through trials. Plenty of trials. He's a non-believer. A recovering Catholic. Malcolm himself spent three days without food and water, locked in that closet, screaming for help, please, somebody help me, please!

Malcolm allows the silence to linger, blinking lazily up at the towering figure crouched before him with a sigh. The sigh is petulant - a childish huff, a bratty disregard for politeness and etiquette that he'd been raised with. A thick swallow, a wince as he tries to adjust himself a bit, and he glances at the blade glimmering near him. "Have you an arm like that of God, or can you thunder with a voice like his?"

The Book of Job had been the only scripture Malcolm thoroughly enjoyed; however, he had often disagreed with the atrocities. Job's trials due to a fucking bet with the Devil. He stares the Devil down now, and that irks him, because he rather thought himself the son of Satan himself already. This wasn't a trial. This was a misstep.

Malcolm finally growls. It's time to switch things up; he'd already started.

"What reward do I receive for being a dutiful follower?" He sneers, hands shifting so he can brace himself against the cold floor. He attempts to sit himself up, kneeling before John, body hunched with the pain and an undignified whine leaving him as one hand shifts to cup the stab wound on his abdomen. "I think your Lord might be a little disappointed that you're trying to play Him right now." Despite the very fact he kneels before John now in contrition.

"Tell me, John. That voice in your head - what does it say?" He's trying to be attentive, but the blood loss has him swaying. He nudges the chain, head lolling back in an exaggerated flinch, exhaustion making every movement feel like he's wading through thick water.

@finaldisorder plotted starter

Seeing Malcolm again after so many years had been what some would call a coincidence. John didn't see it that way. He saw it as the divine will of God; first as a test to his commitment to his mission, and then as a calling to make Malcolm his disciple. He had left breadcrumbs for Malcolm to follow, a test of his own to see if Malcolm was dedicated and once he knew that he was, John had moved onto the next steps of his plan.

Killing Malcolm would have been easy, too easy, and the voice that guided John told him Malcolm was meant for something more. John would have to move on from his personal mission; possibly forever, but something greater awaited him once Malcolm reached the end of his trial. John was sure of it.

Malcolm still had some fight in him. Good. John liked it that way, it showed him that this mission truly was righteous, and that showing Malcolm the path towards his own mission was the correct choice. It wasn't without its own challenges, John was also being tested in these trials. Malcolm was strong, he was resisting this journey he had been set on. Frustrating as it was, John was trying to see the positives; it just meant that once the trials were over, he wouldn't falter or back down from their mission at the first sign of trouble.

He wished Martin could see the metamorphosis his son was going through, he was sure his former mentor would be proud of the work he was doing. The fact that Malcolm would also pay penance for betraying and dishonoring his father was just an added bonus. For as it said in Deuteronomy; 'Cursed be anyone who dishonors his father or mother.'

Crouching before Malcolm, he pointed his knife at him; more as an extension of is own hand (and a warning against trying anything stupid) whilst he lifted up his shirt to check on the stab wound. All things considered, given he'd not had any medical treatment, it wasn't looking too bad. ❝ You know— ❞ Standing up, he stepped back a few paces and sheathed his knife, teeth showing in a condescending grin. ❝ Our Lord managed to go for forty days and nights in the desert without food or water. Those were his trials, so I'm sure you can last a while longer. ❞

He scratched his beard, wondering how long it would be before he would actually have to give Malcolm some water. He didn't want the boy to die before he'd completed his trials, and with the blood loss he's sustained, was still losing, that window of time had been reduced. He might not be a doctor, but he had learned a lot from Martin, so he had a good idea of the time pressures he was facing. ❝ The sooner you stop resisting, the sooner you can be rewarded. All this resistance is only hindering your progress. ❞

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🌶️

It's entirely high school, he thinks, shifting himself just a tad to press himself against the junction where her thigh meets her groin - but he can't help it. The very second she adjusts her hips, he's pressed against her, finding any form of friction, hoping to give her some in return. He's quick about it, but he reels himself back just as swiftly, biting his bottom lip in slight frustration. He wants it, God does he want it. But he wants her comfortable more.

Tim can take his time. He's waited patiently for years, he can wait a little longer. He's happy to, if it's what she wants.

Her teeth on his lip now though makes it much more difficult. He's a gentleman, but she has a way of making him want to throw all caution to the wind. He's breaking his pledge for her already - what was the tiniest amount of pushback? No, no. Tim's a good boy. It doesn't stop him from eagerly licking into her mouth though, after her teeth release his lip, the ball of his piercing tapping the flat of her tongue.

"Mh, years. So many years. High school, maybe longer." He's leaning into her touches, a needy dog tilting his head into her wandering and gripping fingers. A groan follows when she shifts again, throat tight with a forced swallow. Keep cool, keep calm - nevermind, she's pulling away a bit to remove her shirt and he's practically whimpering at the sight. "You're a work of art, Sidney." he breathes, one hand lifting to play along the strap of her bra.

An audible swallow, and he meets her halfway when she moves in to kiss him again. His hands shift, one snaking up behind her back to smooth his palm along the soft flesh he finds there; the spans of her back, the smooth slide along her shoulders and down to play a fingertip or two along the swell of a breast.

Despite his best efforts, his hips cant up again, arousal pressed against her with an open-mouthed groan. Jaw slack and eyes down a moment to stare at her, drink her in, he's a man starved and he could salivate at the sight. He thinks about drawing her one day, if she'd let him. Lay her down on his bed, wrap her in red silk, sketch her, paint her, she belongs on gallery walls and Tim wants to be the one to pin her there.

His fingers grip her hair for a moment, caught up in his fantasies; he whispers an apology into her mouth, never hurting her, never wanting to harm her in any way. "What do you want, babe?" He whispers again, mouth leaving hers only to trail kisses along her jaw and down her neck. "I'll give you anything. Everything."

🌶️

If she was honest, she didn't expect to find herself in this position ( no pun intended ) with Tim, but it was safe to say that she wanted to savor the moment, draw it out as long as they possibly could before they go any further.

a returned ' it's okay ' in response to his apology, her neck tilting back just enough for him to have better access to warmed skin, soft moans in response and muscles slightly flexing where his hands began to linger. It was obvious how painfully aroused Tim was, it brushed against her leg every moment he pulled her close for another heated kiss and god, did she find that hot.

Dull pulses could be felt below her belt, causing her to subconsciously move her hips at nothing in particular to get some relief from some sort of friction

Sidney caught her breath once more as Tim pulled away to remove his shirt, immediately back on her in seconds. " Yeah?~ " Sidney whispered back, gently tugging his lower lip between kisses and teeth, keeping mind of the piercing that resided there.

" How long, mh?~ " another purr in her voice, topped with another flex of her hands in his hair.

Sidney definitely felt the heat residing off of Tim's bare torso, or rather it was a mix of the both of them bouncing off each other, she wanted nothing more than to remove her own shirt to cool just a tad, knowing Tim's fingers lingered on the hem, she pulled away only slightly to remove her own shirt tossing it who knows where, leaving the brunette in a pretty little maroon number, immediately back on Tim and his addicting kisses.

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Malcolm Bright in Prodigal Son 2x3 - Alma Mater

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Tyrell Wellick Appreciation Week - not Friday - Most Empowering Moment

But it almost disappears in the background along with everything else in the world. And in that moment it’s just you and absolute power.