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fembutchboygirl · 3 years

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Happy April Fool's Day from the random-oc-question-fairy! May your day be filled with laughter and merriment! ~☆

What would be an effective prank on your character? How would they react?

Maia and Lucas fall for most pranks. Maia usually goes "Haha, you got me!" and then ruffles the prankster's hair, or something of the sort. Lucas takes it as a challenge to prank them back.

It's very hard to make Holly fall for a prank. She's very wary on April Fools, and always questions what the others say or do. But if she does fall for it she'll act very annoyed and say stuff like "ha, ha, just hilarious" "what are you, a child? Grow up" "wooow, you got me. Congratulations. Goodbye" and "this year's pranks are just getting progressively dumber". Wether she was actually amused or not is a mystery.

Spark likes to think ae's reeeaally smart and that ae dodges pranks like Neo dodges bullets. But really, it's not that hard to make aer fall for one. The secret is to make it seem like you failed at pulling a prank on aer so ae'll lower aer guard. As I said in a previous post, ae finds pranks hilarious and will definitely laugh with you at aerself. Maybe even congratulate you.

Caden will be very paranoid during April 1st. He will avoid most obvious pranks, but an easy way to get him is making it seem like you're on his side. He'll probably feel very betrayed, though, and will probably say stuff like "I saw it coming" til May.

#blue ocs #april fools #april fools special!!#thank you beefy!!#not me editing some of this stuff like 4 months later to fit spark's new pronouns

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monkeystrokes9 · 3 years

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I'm not a bad guy, really. I just get carried away. Trickster by trade with an unfortunate knack for choosing the wrong ones and taking them too far. A hot foot that sets a house afire, a pop out of a cake that gives some geezer a stroke.

Anyway, no reason to lock a guy up. But here I am with every other backfiring joker—pucks, reynards, zomos, Sly Peters and other assorted pusses-in-boots—in the high-walled and moated Mischief Correctional for Sly Crimes and Mythdemeanors, all because some judge is too humdrum to appreciate a nice fat kipper in the Magistrate’s sock drawer.

Medium security for most of us, excepting the bad’un witchipoos and sorcerers under Maximum in Spell Block #9, with potion detectors, etcetera. But here, life ain’t so bad once you get used to the Penrose staircases.

Naturally, the guards have absolutely no sense of humor. Everyone finds a way to cope. I bite my tongue a lot. The gremlins throw things. The leprechauns stay drunkenly morose on rotten-fruit toilet wine.

They call me “Shorty the Imp,” with a fireplug stature, and burnt-orange shag carpet sideburns down to my dimples. After a lifetime of pulling old age home fire alarms and squirting lapel flowers of Holy Water at the Archbishop, I’ve seen my share of shenanigans, but nothing close to what Guy pulled.

He was prodded into my cell one morning by a guard wearing an expression like Medusa’s stylist with a “Get cozy, bozos.”

“Name’s Guy,” the newbie said, proffering a shake, then yanking back his hand to slick his age-inappropriate pompadour. His lanky frame towered over me, eighteen hands high.

“Shorty,” I says, giving him a quick wedgie to show who’s in charge.

Guy was nicked after sending a wax impression of his arse to the Queen on the solstice. We hit it off like bacon and beans. A fair-to-middling cribbage player, quick with a knock-knock or off-color limerick (A cunning lass flying Aer Lingus…), and a good Guy indeed.

An odd duck nonetheless, forever pestering the library monk for old periodicals, back issues of Trebuchet Digest, Ming Dynasty-era Chinese phone books and such. His eating habits peculiar as well, with a partiality for biscuits—nothing but.

Guy would nibble a corner and squirrel away the rest, like winter was nigh. Never saw him eat nothing else, swapping his fatback and turnips for my biscuits.

Lichen climbed the walls as days passed. I worried about my new friend. He’d dieted himself down to a swizzle stick. “You getting ‘nuff to eat there, Guy?”

“Oh yes,” he’d answer with a toothy smile, “I’m getting down to fighting weight right proper.”

And then one night, long after lights out, as snorty snoozing wafted through the cellblock, I woke from a dream of making whoopee on a cushion by sounds of rustle and slosh.

I struck a match. Below, an avalanche of stale biscuits spilling out of his slit mattress, a rat’s nest of ripped periodicals, and Guy, elbows pumping, making a mush in the cell’s rust-tinged washbasin sink.

In a hop he blew out the flame, putting a gummy hand over my gob, finger to his lips. “Not a peep, sir. It’s been a swell little party, mate, but it’s time I skedaddled.”

My thick, flame-colored eyebrows are second only to my sideburns in splendor, and even in the shadows, Guy plainly saw them raise in query.

“Daddy was a yanker of chains and tablecloths, but Mum was a shapeshifter. Miraculously, it’s not on my record. These turnkeys keep shabby files. Here I am can turn meself into a kite string, sitting around here essentially free as a duck scoring one for the nobs. You’ve been a breath of fresh, Shorty. Good for the ol’ morale, what. So I stuck around. But now I gots to go.”

Digesting this news like a competitive turkey-leg eater, I choked on the concept. Shapeshifter. I’d heard of the species, but assumed it medieval bunk.

“Nothing gaseous of course. Solids.” Guy nodded toward the small floor drain twixt the sink and toilet, “And liquids.”

He gave my shoulder a squeeze and fluffed my pillow. “In the morning you’ll find a papier-mâché sculpture of me sleeping tight. Buy me some time to get downstream. But when the boys get wise, and sneeze powder hits the fan, be sure to tell them my little secret.”

Morning broke with a nightstick clanging the bars, shaking my fillings. I bolted upright, the pom-pom of my nightcap bouncing off the ceiling.

A handful of frantic guards conferred beside Guy’s bunk, alternating stink eyes from my sleep-wrinkled face to the body double of Guy. I peeled a crusty eye at the handiwork. A mite thicker than the real Guy, but the features were spot on down to the nostrils.

A guard cuffed my ear. “Awright, what’s this all about?”

I pointed to the thin line of water streaming from a rumpled pile of prisoner’s stripes to the drain. “Bars can’t hold a shapeshifter, Guv. You boys bungled it.”

I didn’t get a new roommate, but a week later, a note in my porridge.

Shorty!

Took me long enough to cook up the shapeshifter ruse but what a stroke of G. To think I could cover myself in flour-coated newsprint, play possum, and fool them into carrying me out with the rubbish. Stiffened in my shell there was risk of the incinerator of course, but the rats chewed me free toot sweet and I sprang into the world bare-ass and blinking like the day I was born.

Can you believe in this age anyone could actually swallow that shapeshifter hoo hah? (No offense.) Still, I’m flabbergasted the goons fell for it. Has somebody been reading too much Sir Terry or what?

P.S. I’m coming for you tomorrow night. No sense in a jolly chap as yourself left to rot when there are so many misguided pranks to pull. No fretting, I’ve got a plan. Stuff yourself in a pillowcase and keep an eye out for the laundry man wearing a funny nose and glasses.

We’re outta here.

Peaches and pints,

Guy

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