#and under all that face paint and prosthetics too

[moobrvoobl-moobmoob-oobmpoobroom]

no because Ariana Greenblatt shows the emotion on Ahsoka’s face so perfectly in every single scene: the confusion when she first looks around and sees the war, the frustration and anger when she’s arguing with Anakin, the pain when she holds the wounded clone’s hand. I don’t know, there’s just something so perfectly Ahsoka about it, she’s just a magnificent actress

[girlboypersonthingy]

i’ve never really asked before but i just read all of your sally face stuff and BFBSVAVAX so i was thinking….

(preferably afab) reader coming home tired and needy, walking in sal and their shared room sighing as they rip off their work shirt and stare at sal who’s practicing a new song. waiting for him to put his guitar aside they fall dramatically into his lap and start COVERING his mask in kisses, stopping suddenly to ask for a real kiss:3

just some fluffy stuff pls it’s been a LONGGGG few weeks:D

A D O R A B L E ! ! ! This week has def been a ‘I want to come home to Sal and collapse in his arms’ type of week for me like oof 😔…I’m sorry this took me a while to get to, I hope you’re alright. Hopefully you’re doing better by now and if not, plz feel free to message me and we can chat 🖤 thanks for requesting and enjoy!

Notes: fem!reader, this is really fucking silly I’m so sorry…

TW: a bit suggestive, lots of swearing, making out, spit/drool, boobs lol 18+ only!!!

Sal x reader- Hard Day 🌙

(Imagine Sal practicing this song while you read this 🖤)

“Fuuuuuuckkkk…” You groan loudly as you drag your feet through the doorway of the house, stomping loudly on each step of the stairs. As you near the door way of your bedroom, you see the light is on, the music is loud and you can hear Sal playing his guitar along to it, occasionally hitting the wrong note. As you step across the threshold of the room, you let loose a big breath of air as you slouch over a bit, catching Sal’s attention for a moment.

“Hey babe!” He shouts over the music while continuing with his playing. He was sat up on the corner of the bed, guitar in his lap, slouched over with his prosthetic still on. You couldn’t help but watch his fingers on the strings for a moment, black painted nails moving oh so smooth but still making little mistakes. “Hi…I’m so tired.” You say but it falls on deaf ears. Sal is just so close to nailing this one part of the song, he’s been trying for two and half hours now and he’s too close to quit.

Disappointed and a bit annoyed, you quickly shed your shirt and continue giving Sal a cranky but needy glare, only covered by a bra up top. “Sal!!!” You finally shout, making Sal look up, making his hands freeze for a moment. He quickly leans over to turn the music off, his blue hair swaying over his shoulders as he moves. “I’m sorry…uh hey…babe. You okay?” Just by the tone of his voice, the way he’s hesitating and stopping to lick his dry lips under his mask, you can tell he’s equally flustered and excited by your lack of clothes.

“No…I’m not…” You pout for a moment, sighing as you rub your aching temples. He sets his guitar aside and puts one hand out towards you, offering it as a comforting gesture. You gladly accept, grabbing his hand then quickly approaching him and sitting in his lap. “This week…was the fucking worst!” You cry out dramatically, turning to the side so he can hold you bridal style. “I just wanna stay home with you all day, every day.” Sal chuckles softly, one arm tucked up under your knees, the other cradling your back while his hand ruffles the hair on the nape of your neck. “Me too, babe. Me too…” He replies before he gently nuzzles his prosthetic up against your face, making kissy noises under it.

After enough of his cuddly kisses, you decided to return the favor, covering his mask in kisses. You pepper kisses everywhere, all over his prosthetic very quick and soft. Until finally, you pause and place a long kiss on the lips of his prosthetic, humming as a smile grows on your lips. “You know what would really make me feel better…?” You really drag out the words, using your best flirty voice as your finger traces the side of his mask. “What?” He quickly clears his throat, your faces only inches apart. His rapid breathing echos inside his prosthetic as his hand slides up to fully cradle your head.

“Kiss me for real…please?” Your flirty tone turns to a very soft, comforting type of tone, smiling up at him as you watch him blink down at you. There’s a pause, he hesitates for a moment before gulping nervously. Although you’ve seen his face many times before, mouth to mouth kisses were hard to come by with Sal. With a shaky hand, he grabs your own hand and guides it to the back of his head, gesturing for you to unclip his prosthetic for him. He was far too nervous to do it himself, he figured he’d let you set the pace.

To his surprise, you’re pretty quick with the buckles and the mask falls into your lap within seconds. Immediately, your lips meet, Sal uses that hand on the back of your head to push you into him further. As your arms snake around his neck, hugging him close to your nearly bare chest, his other hand is gently kneading your hip as you move your lips against his. The kiss began to rapidly pick up pace, his tongue occasionally licking along your bottom lip.

It was always a delightful shock when your lips or tongue would meet his teeth accidentally where they peek through his cheek and the corner of his mouth, now was no exception. Any time this happens, Sal usually shies away and assumes it grosses you out, especially when he knows he’s probably drooling. Expecting this would happen, you move one hand to the back of his head, matching the grasp he has on you to keep him engaged in the kiss.

A low moan comes from him as he deepens the kiss along with you, tilting his head and running his tongue along your own. Suddenly, clumsily, Sal grabs ahold of your legs and slowly lays back on the bed, pulling you along with him, trying to keep his lips on yours. He fails at this, your lips parting for a moment, him awkwardly shifting under you until he pulls you up closer to his bright red and slightly sweaty face. You can’t help but laugh, not at him, he’s just too cute when he gets like this,

A chuckle rumbles from his chest as he holds you closer, squeezing you tightly against him as he places a final kiss on your nose. “Are you feeling better?” He quickly leans back in for a few more tender lip kisses, smiling brightly as he pulls back. “Yes, sooooo much better. You know what would really make me happy though, Sally?” Your hands run slowly through his long, blue hair as he hums in response. “Hm?”

“Let’s do all of that again…but in a nice hot shower~”

Cue Sal getting a gruesome bloody nose as he glances down at your barely covered chest and thinks about having a shower with you. 🥴🖤

[lady-griffin]

Did Ekko Make Jinx’s Prosthetic Finger?

I’m curious what other people think, but I don’t think Jinx made her prosthetic finger. The only thing about it that screams JINX to me is the painted smiley face. That’s it.

It’s far too practical and simple of a design to be made by Jinx; seriously, if you remove the smiley face, you wouldn’t be able to tell this was her finger.

By comparison - Fishbones was a complete and total surprise to me when I first watched Arcane and yet I didn't question his existence for a single second; because of course Jinx made a giant shark bazooka. That makes perfect sense given everything we know about her.

With this finger though, I’m like... maybe she made it under these specific circumstances, but even then, I doubt it, because she’s so committed to her aesthetic.

She consistently goes all out, even when there's no reason to.

She individually painted each of her moth bombs, you know the things designed for the sole purpose of exploding. And yet, I'm supposed to believe she made her own finger and only drew a smiley face on it?! Really?!

Are we sure we’re talking about Jinx?

Jinx’s two guns from S1 are her most practical and aesthetically simple designs and even they have more flourish, I mean one’s pink for fuck’s sake.

So, if Jinx didn’t make her own finger, then who did?

Ekko!!

He's the only one who makes sense to me.

Now maybe this is just my delusional Timebomb wishing heart, it's certainly a possibility, but looking over the Firelights’ hoverboards, accessories, and home, Jinx’s prosthetic finger doesn’t look out of place.

There’s no perfect match to Jinx's finger; but overall, the design itself, plus the color and the specific way the metal looks worn and is clearly repurposed – looks very Ekko/Firelights to me.

To be clear, beaten up or repurposed anything (especially metal) is not an Ekko only thing, not by a long shot, as it’s found throughout Zaun.

It is Zaun.

Still, the way Ekko and Jinx’s aesthetics come through their designs and inventions, usually makes them very identifiable and this finger looks far more like Ekko, than it does Jinx. Even the color says Ekko to me.

Neither one exclusively uses a single color/type of metal, but Jinx tends to favor metals that are grey, while Ekko favors more bronze or coppery colored metals - like Jinx's finger.

The color is by no means a smoking gun, it’s just this bit of extra oddness.

It already felt super odd the design is so simple and practical but on top of that - she also didn't opt for her usual grey metals? Even in the smallest of details, this finger doesn’t feel like Jinx; and Arcane is so specific and detail oriented with its designs.

Now, obviously Ekko is not the only other inventor in Zaun, but I can't see Jinx using something just anyone made, let alone a new body part. Maybe she would for practicality’s sake, but as soon as she could, she would either customize it to her own aesthetic or just make her own.

She's so specific and intentional with her everything, so why would she make an exception for her new finger; something that's going to be attached to her body and used by her for a decently long time.

The fact this design seems to be Jinx's permanent new finger makes me assume whoever made it, did a good enough job that it met Jinx’s standards and they're important enough to her she was content to just draw a cute little smiley face on it and nothing more.

And right now, I only see Ekko being that person.

Also, I just think it would be really cute and sweet. Seriously, think about it –

Jinx: Look at what my boyfriend made me! *Gives you the middle finger*

[alextydaisuda123]

They sit like a trio without their prosthetics and talk about how they got their injuries. And you, too, are probably wondering how they got them. And here's how it was:

Noise, as was mentioned about him, he lost his hands at work. One of the workers gave him not a fake bomb, but a real one. He didn’t have time to react and the bomb tore his hands to hell. How then was the face not damaged? Well, he was wearing “protection,” a gas mask, and the goggles he needed for the scene. Because of this, he was absent from work until he moved into the tower. With all his work and care, his beloved Noisette helped him.

Vigilante, as was also mentioned, lost an eye at work. At night, he was chasing a petty criminal who robbed an explosives store, who shot him in the eye. Because of this, he managed to hide, but Vigilante never caught up with him and was left with nothing.

The situation with Pepperman is more interesting, since I didn’t even say the reason why he injured his legs. One day, he came to an iron bridge that went over the railway tracks to paint a landscape. It would seem that everything is fine, but that was not the case. It started to rain, and at that time an airship flew to this bridge and began throwing bombs on the bridge itself and on those who were there. Since the bridge was very old, it began to break down. Plus it was slippery, so Pepperman couldn’t resist and fell down. He miraculously survived, but to his misfortune, a large iron slab of the bridge fell on his feet, sticking into the ground. Despite his muscular strength, he was unable to remove the piece of iron. Due to the situation around him, no one noticed him and he lay there under the rubble of the bridge for 3 days, until Pizzahead found him, exhausted and wet under a three-day downpour, and cut off his legs completely in order to carry him to the tower.

Such are the things. Oh wait, that's not all. It's funny, but all these situations were connected into one single chain of history, thanks to one person who traumatized these three.

[seiya234]

for @dril-cipher because this is your fucking fault. also @marypsue for giving this perfectly good ape anxiety.

-----

Ian looked around.

Well, this certainly wasn't his beautiful house, that was for certain.

It looked uncomfortably like one of the designs for Grauntie Carla's house that Worris did for MTM. He sat at a kitchen table that had clearly been handmade by someone who mostly knew what they were doing; the table had been sanded down and sealed, but the surface was still bumpy and uneven. The walls were dressed with plaid wallpaper and covered in pictures, paintings, taxidermied creatures both real and unreal, old bottles, and a Bobby Big Mouth Big Boi Big Bass that had been popular when his grandparents were alive. The rug underneath him was a t-shirt rug, but Ian never knew they could be made big enough to cover an entire room. There was a cup of coffee poured for him, in a cup that read "Eye miss you!"

Ian sighed. This place was practically crumbling under the weight of all the meaning.

"I am getting a little tired of the Symbolism Room," he muttered to himself.

"Have you considered that a plain, empty room is in and of itself also imbued with symbolism?"

Ian whipped around.

A cartoonishly tall man walked into the kitchen. He was dressed in all black- black jeans, black dress shirt, black belt with a small silver and turquoise buckle- save for the white priest's collar around his neck. He had hair just like Ian's, albeit curlier, bare feet, and-

"Antlers?" Ian asked. It was probably rude but he was getting really tired of the Dreams of Great Import so....

"A long story," the man said with a grin, sitting across from Ian at the table. He too had a mug, though his read "I'm horny!" He caught Ian looking at it and smiled wanly. "My wife loved puns, though to be honest this isn't a pun so much as a bad joke."

(past tense)

Ian took a drink of his coffee; it was aggressively mediocre. "Alright, can you tell me why I'm here, so we can resolve whatever emotional issue has come up again, and I can get back to my regularly scheduled nothingness?"

Ian's words didn't get the slightest rise out of the other man which was... concerning. He worked best when people were mad.

"Certainly. I'm here because you're scared."

"I'm scared of a lot of things, you're going to need to try harder than that."

The man paused to take a drink of his coffee, grimacing slightly at the taste, then leaned back in his chair. "I'm here because when you get into the groove for Mizar the Magnificent, everything feels right in a way you don't feel most other times. I'm here because sometimes you turn off your prosthetic because it feels... right to only have the one eye. I'm here because... despite everyone assuring you that Bill can't come back, that you can't bring him back, you know that's not true." Another drink. "It would just take you fifteen minutes, if that."

Ian felt the blood drain from his face, spread his hands on the table to keep them from shaking.

He hadn't told even Mira about the first two things.

"Congratulations," Ian managed to drawl, "you know my deepest, darkest fears. Have a fucking cookie." It took some effort but he pushed himself back from the table, got out of the chair. "I'm done with this little game, so snooze you later, hit the road Jack, GO-"

The antlered man held up a hand. It was wreathed in blue flame, like the fire from a room he tried not to think about, like Alcor's fire

(like MY fire)

like the fire he felt blazing in lieu of his implant.

"Who are you?" Ian asked.

"I'm Henry. Henry Pines."

"I- oh." Well that was all the wind out of his sails right there. "Okay, wasn't expecting you to actually just tell me that, I thought there would be at least another two pages of banter before we got there. Thanks?"

"Of course."

"Though that name means like, nothing to me."

"Ah. I should have k-"

Henry disappeared. Ian was still in the room.

A minute passed.

He drank his coffee, which was now getting cold and sludgy.

"Oh, sorry about that."

Ian jumped, again, and turned around to face Henry, who was still barefoot and all in black, but now had laundry hanging from his antlers. "Seriously, I know this narrative calls for jump scares, but can you try to stop that?"

"My apologies. I'm still being digested."

"Digested-" Ian paused.

The blue fire.

The antlers.

The girl told him about one night.

"You're... you're Paloma."

A flash of long dark hair and flowering antlers and back to the man in black. "Among many other names, but yes."

"So when you say digested..."

"Di-Alcor ate me."

"He what."

Henry very primly sniffed. "I can see how my phrasing can be taken as a reference to oral sex but could we please attend to the matter at hand?"

"Which is? I feel like we're wildly off track."

"Fair. More coffee?"

Ian held out his mug and Henry poured from a handmade pitcher that somehow managed to perfectly recreate the effect of googly eyes in clay.

They sat for a moment, and drank their coffee, which was slightly better this time.

Finally, Henry began. "M-Mira is pregnant."

"She is... Oh stars is this going to be a weird fatherhood talk? Because full disrespect, I've gotten one of these from Alcor and that was bad enough."

"What on God's green earth did Di- Alcor have to say to you about that?"

"I think he was trying to tell me I would do a good job, but he ended up damning me with faint praise for about fifteen minutes and then ghosted me so, a solid 3 out of 10, points for effort I guess."

Henry frowned. "I am a little concerned that my- that he hasn't learned any social graces or niceties in a thousand years, or has willfully forgotten them-"

"It's not that," and now Ian just felt... cold. Empty. "It's Bill. It's always about Bill, always fucking WILL BE-"

"Your hair is on fire," Henry calmly noted.

It didn't feel like it was. That probably wasn't a good sign.

"Every time I think we're done with him, done and gone, something comes up, and we have to have the same conversation over and over and OVER-"

Ian ran a hand through the flames on his head. "And the worse thing is, this time it's all me. I can't stop thinking about Bill. And the baby. And what that means. Maybe it means nothing. Or everything. And Bill, Bill is like an itch under my skin

(a fire)

and the more I itch it, the itchier I become, and I can't. Stop. Thinking. About Me. No. Shit, wait. Him. Do you See?"

The room was silent for a minute.

"I held a knife to her throat once," Ian finally managed to get out. "Infants, they're so, so much easier than adults. Their bodies are so soft and squishy." He looked at Henry, who had been patiently listening, hands folded, collar white as bone. "I have no idea why I'm telling you any of this."

"I have been told by my wife before that I have a 'secret telling kind of face.'"

"Sounds like something Mira would say."

Henry smiled wanly, but went on. "I'm here because I know what all of this feels like."

"I sincerely doubt that."

"No, honestly, I do. I thought you could use an ear and some advice-."

That old familiar feeling of squirrels eating his brain, of his heart stuttering in his chest, the great massive snarl barely contained in his skin up and out and "You have no idea what I need to keep inside of me."

Henry reached across the table, and laid a hand on Ian's arm and-

(ian was in a forest. it was dark and he tried to walk, tried to run, but he couldn't he was pushed down face first into the dirt from the feeling of anger, anger that at one point may have had a reason behind but that reason was long forgotten and now the anger was a self feeding, self regulating beast

ian was in a forest and he felt small, so horrifically small, so viscerally aware that there were things (people) that could hurt him, hurt him and even kill him, and nothing or no one in the forest would DO anything about it.

ian was in a forest and rising above him was a tree but haha not really that wasn't a tree that was a beast a monster a thing no it was

Death.)

-patted it gently.

Or at least, Henry would have if Ian was still sitting at the table, and not, say, with his back against the wall and his chair toppled to the side of the table.

"You're-"

"I was. He came from me. I birthed him."

Even shit scared, Ian must have given Henry a look, because Henry said "Metaphorically. I've never gotten the full details about how that works because to be perfectly honest, Alcor doesn't even know."

Henry got up, and walked around the table.

"Hand up?"

"You going to inflict yet another horrific mental scar on me?"

"No. And my apologies. I really need to be better about telling, not showing." Henry paused. "Or is it the other way around? I am a little embarrassed to admit that despite my occupation, I am not well versed in the mechanics of storytelling."

"It depends," Ian said, and let himself be hauled up.

"It's... hard," Henry began as they sat back at the table. "To have to control yourself. To feel like if you loosen that control for even one second, all hell will break loose. Especially when you have had all hell break loose before."

A dark look passed across Henry's face, and Ian remembered that there were limbs on those limbs in the forest.

A lot of them.

"I tried, for several years, to keep myself as tamped down as firmly as possible. And even before-" he waved a hand to indicate the antlers, the weird dreamscape symbolism bullshit room- "all of this, I kept fighting myself, every single day, to stay in control. Because control was all I had. Because control was the only thing that could save myself, could keep me from harming others."

"Okay, so what extremely traumatic life changing event happened to you that made you change your mind?"

"I won't bore you with the details, save to say I have never liked trophy hunters. But I realized in that time that my control.. it was brittle steel. It was weak from having to hold in so much, for so long, and then it shattered under stress."

"Okay, but most people don't have monsters tucked up in their souls."

"Fair but look. The point is, the power you have inside of you. It's not inherently good or bad- let me finish Ian Thomas Beale-"

(Ian's mouth audibly snapped shut)

"- it just is. Bill used his power for ill. Just because that power is there doesn't mean you have to use it. Or if you do, that it would be for ill."

"That's too much like temptation for me," Ian finally said, quietly.

"I know. I'm not saying you have to. Hell, I'm not even saying that this dream is going to magically cure you of your fears and control issues-"

"Because that would be too easy."

Henry nodded. "Oh of course. My apologies, I am all over the place today-"

"On account of being digested."

"Yes, lets go with that. No, I guess I just wanted to say, as trite as it sounds... try to relax."

"What if I hurt them?"

Henry rolled his eyes, which was a little incongruous with the impression Ian had gotten from him. "There is no universe where Ian Beale as he is now, would hurt Mira Ramachandran, or their baby. Honestly, you're more likely to hurt other people who hurt them, which probably is not great, but I am certainly not one to judge."

(so many limbs)

"I have literally been under tremendous stress my whole life, even before finding out about the past life murder triangle."

"Trust me, I know. But just... from one monster to another? It's okay to relax. It's okay to let that control loosen for a minute. The world won't end-"

"But it almost did. Twice. Maybe three times? It's hard for me to remember."

"But it didn't."

Ian... he must have looked as lost as he felt, because Henry smiled, sadly.

"I know you hear this from Mira, and from your friends, and even occasionally from Alcor, but I thought it would help to hear it from a stranger too."

Ian thought for a second.

"I think... it kind of did? Or maybe I'm just saying this to get out of this dream because I'm getting tired of talking. I don't know."

"You probably won't remember this dream up here-" Henry tapped his head. "-but you will here-" and he tapped his chest. "-and that's all that really matters to me."

"That's kind of corny."

"I was not a corny man when I was alive, let me indulge a little bit."

Henry leaned over, and gently kissed Ian on the forehead. "Keep her safe."

Ian realized, far too late, who he had been really, truly talking to this whole time, and it felt like his bowels were turning to water. But he managed to creak out an "Of course," before everything went dark.

---

The last few weeks had been hard for Mira, considering the massive amount of emotional labor she was doing for both her brother and her husband. Alcor was probably a lost cause at this point, but with Ian...

She sighed.

She understood, really, she did, but she was tired and-

"Hey."

She rolled over, to see Ian looking at her. "Hey back. You seem... relaxed?"

Ian smiled, and laid a hand on her stomach, which was still relatively flat.

"Yeah. I don't know I think... I think I've had my head up my ass for the last month, about all of this."

"You have."

"And I owe you an apology."

"Apology accepted if you can grab the peanut butter for me before I throw up."

"Of course."

Ian got up. He wasn't sure why it felt like the fire under his skin had died down, why it felt like he could handle his shit a little better today than even yesterday, but for once, he was not going to look this gift horse in the mouth.

[rubirenegade]

Experimenting with costume designs I might have preffered to the excellent work they did for The Lords In Black :)

(LONG POST WARNING: UNNECESSARY RAMBLINGS AHEAD)

I did find them enjoyable as heck and the performances were damn excellent, just wanted to try to imagine how I might have brought them to the stage to satiate my own desire for THE TERRIFYING LORDS IN BLACK

Clarification: I have zero stage experience so PLEASE, give me comments and ideas of your own to fix potential issues of my design, if this got your imagination going ❤️

Goals:

1. Maybe less comfy outfits, but not overbearing.

2. Closer to the dolls' design

3. Still on a budget: no crazy heavy dragging full suits like Ursula or Pinsir puppeteering.

4. Creep factor increase, meaning: Less visible faces! One of the creepiest traits for the lords is that they have no clear faces, making them uncanny and disturbing, lovecraftian and unreachable. Think the hive controlled people in tgwdlm or the giant spotlight eyes in Black Friday, gazing at you from a paranormal abyss.

5. Keep the things I liked in the originals, especially the acting.

Details:

1. Pokey: Singular Voice, keeper of many faces

having a mask under the mask he is holding will give him a more uncanny phantom-of-the-opera vibes and less visible facial expressions, leaving much to be desired

Also: more masks to cover his jacket, as his voice speak from many mouths.

Other idea: a Jacket made of realistic skins he stiched from faces (a bit much though, probably)

2. Tinky: horns is all you need

Curt's facial expressions are the exception to this "no face" concept. Just too damn good not to leave it as is. Goats horns will do as an addition, simple. Maybe face paint to have dark circles around his eyes, giving him a sleepless maniac vibes, could help- making his crazy eye looks stand out.

3. Wiggly: glowing eyes in the dark

The one I changed the most. I want to really FEEL the Wiggly from Black Friday. I want the glowing eyes in the dark, the creepy tentacles, the lack of a visible mouth under them.

A pair of glowing goggles will do, or two lightweight flashlights on some flashy headgear would do.

The mouth prosthetic might be a bit much, I'll admit. Maybe a mask, Scar-From-Twisted style, could work here just as well (again, this is a relatively short screen tim).

And claw hands and feet, for him to open all his deliciously loud screaming presents :) not critical, but adds dangerous vibes to our Wrath Fuel Frendy-Wend

4. Blinky: Eye think it should work

Big mask. Eye shaped. Done. (Again, Scar-masking could also work, probably even better)

(I assume that if its too hard to sing in the mask, another cast member could sing from backstage)

5. Nibbly: YUM YUM

Probably the hardest for me, it's just so damn good and Kim fucking nailed this. The giant lolipop and cutesie outfit are AMAZING and just easily floor me.

So, I went with simple facepaint to give her a giant mouth. Might not work in practice, but if they gave her a see through blindfold colored in her skin tone it might make her eyes vanish, leaving only the mouth to focus on. Maybe the hat goes town to shade her eyes instead. Anything to bring the mouth to the front and have the eyes disappear (decided now Im gonna painted that next)

Other ideas: blood smeared into a giant smile (might make mouth seem smaller though) or a realisticly painted giant mouth nask (which will make Kim's bite lifeless, so not a fan of it)

Conclusion:

I love these characters and brought my own idea of how to put them forth on screen to keep their lovecraftian horror vibes while keeping it realustic viable for a Starkid production. Hoped you liked it!

SUMMON US ONCE!

SUMMON US TWICE!

YOU GAMBLE IT ON THE ROLE OF THE DICE!

[mrmxlemons]

Funeral Cake (1/5)

Art the Clown x gn!Reader / Original Character | AO3 Link

EXPLICIT 18+ ONLY, this is a black comedy but it will feature heavy content. I would recommend checking the tags more thoroughly in ao3 if you want a forewarning of future tags to avoid triggers/squicks. Warnings at the beginnings of the chapter are only for that specific chapter.

Chapter 1: Wash, Rinse, Repeat

summary: Sometimes the best way to handle murderous demon clowns is to not handle them at all.

warnings: gore and blood, magical lore elements, demon Art the Clown, stalking, implied murder, minor wound kissing, minor sickness

It was Halloween, and you were dressed up as a clown. Albeit a sad one.

The frown on your face was exaggerated with blue finger paint, a tear immortalized on your left cheek in the same shade. The ensemble was the cheapest you could find at Party City, complete with Pom-Poms and a jester hat that jingled with every motion.

Not your best work, but by far from your worst. It was, however, one of those investments that you had to wear all day just to break even how much you paid, which meant picking up your clothes from the laundromat in full makeup and costume.

You’d had to throw a couple of things back in to cycle for a few more minutes, somehow still not dry despite having gone through a total of three times now. It was quiet except for the tumble of clothes and the soft pop music crackling through the speakers from the local radio station. Outside you could hear the bus taking off, the sound overshadowed by the soft gurgles of the child staring at you from over it’s mother’s shoulder.

The baby didn’t seem deterred by your appearance in its ogling. There was still a minute left on the timer. Bored, you look back to the kid and muster your best silly face, feeling as though you owe it a performance for attentively watching you, only for the chubby cheeks to screw up before a wail came pouring out.

The mother turned and affixed you with a scalding stare for destroying the peace as she pat the child, cooing to calm it down. You had enough dignity to turn away, blushing under the waxy white painted across your cheeks.

Sheepishly you shuffled to the machine, hastily swiping out your socks and throwing them in the basket you’d lugged with. Should’ve just hung them up back at your apartment. Now you have to walk two blocks with a bag full of laundry dressed like a clown, feeling like a clown. Whatever.

The makeup hides the way you mope after being silently tongue lashed, but it doesn’t stop you from staring abashedly at your shoes as you jerk for the door. Even when you see another pair enter your vision, black and huge, you can’t manage to stop yourself. It’s too late.

You collide with someone, and it’s like running into a brick wall. You make a sound of fear and shock and nearly collapse, barely managing to stay on your feet. The person you run into is oddly silent. If it weren’t for the sound of the plastic garbage bag in their hand shifting you wouldn’t be sure if you touched someone else at all.

The jester hat was akimbo on your head, you righted it. Luckily nothing had spilled onto the floor, but the person you’d run into sported an expression of annoyance that rivaled the scorned mother. He was, however, ironically enough, also dressed like a clown—just a far more menacing, creepy, and fucked up looking one.

He was a lot more committed to the look, edging equal parts into sinister mime territory with a cap that finished where makeup couldn’t reach, and a suit that glimmered as though it were made of silk. If you weren’t standing close enough to see the grit of the threads appearing in the basic cross stitch you might’ve thought he was a professional.

Even the makeup was clean. The eyebrows were penciled in, thin and looping in a tall arch, and on the tip of the long prosthetic nose was a single black dot. All of the lines were starkly separated, strong cuts of black and white that framed the whites of dark, soulless eyes.

The heavy gaze pinned you in place. For all of your attempts of quickly leaving, getting out of dodge had seemingly completely escaped you in that moment. You felt weighted down by the heavy, oppressive stare and the snarl on tar-black lips. And the teeth—

You really, really didn’t want to have to think about the teeth. You really, really just wanted to get home.

The words tumble out of you. You’re not even sure where they came from. “Nice clown costume,” you say, ���lot funnier than mine.”

You don’t find anything about his costume funny. Somehow you’re sure he can tell, with the way his eyebrows raise and lips start to slowly curl in a spine-chilling, too wide smile. His shoulder opens, and you can see the door behind him.

It feels like permission, and while you don’t necessarily need express permission from a complete stranger that you can leave, you feel better hastily sweeping past him with it.

You don’t look back.

Your cheeks are red. But you don’t look back, and you forget it all happened before the night is over.

—

You head back to the laundromat three days later. You’d gone out Halloween night and lost your hat, spilled a drink down the back of your shifty Halloween costume. So much for returning it.

Figured you’d at least try and wash it out before throwing it in the donation bin. But the laundromat was closed, there was caution tape all around the front door and the inside had been torn up. Weird, it hadn’t looked like it was about to undergo construction when you’d been there, what, less than a week ago?

You also didn’t remember the tiles being red, but you also had a really shit memory these days.

The nearest laundromat is another ten minute walk in the opposite direction. Not ideal but you’re already out, so you resign your fate and start making your way there.

The place is actually cheaper than your old mat of choice, but only by twenty five cents. And it’s completely empty. You push the change in and wait until the clothes start tumbling before you head for outside. Might go get a pack from the corner Bodega. Might just get some candy. You should really, really quit smoking.

You don’t make it to the door, and thankfully you don’t run into him like last time. You’re not sure your stomach could’ve handled it.

He stands in the doorway steadily dripping a thick, miasmas liquid that was so dark and pungent you nearly mistook it for something else entirely. Something that wasn’t very clearly blood.

The smell was unmistakable. You could taste it in the back of your throat—the tang of iron rolling gently down your esophagus until you choked on it.

And there is—there is so, so much of it. An ungodly amount. The black and white suit that you had only glimpsed before shines a bright and lurid red, staining the front and up the side in a wide gash. An arc. You almost forget if he had truly ever been a black and white thing, or if you had somehow missed this when you’d run into him the other day.

You hadn’t. You would’ve noticed this. Red splatter on his cheek, turning his hands a muddy brown. You wouldn’t have been able to run away from the smell without noticing, wouldn’t have been able to forget such a distinct, awful smile.

You hadn’t forgotten about running into him, no matter how hard you’d tried. He hadn’t done anything besides weird you out, but it was Halloween. Weird shit happened on Halloween. You chalked it down as that and got plastered, pushing him from your mind (even though he kept swinging back, a steady pendulum of obsession).

And he appears in front of you so suddenly, so starkly, that you almost wonder if you’d somehow summoned him. As though he was a figment of your imagination, a manifestation of your paranoia drenched in all the gory possibilities of what hid behind that horrifyingly exaggerated expression.

Panic courses through you like lightning, but instead of pushing you away it pushes you towards. Your feet move until you are right in front of him, hand outstretching.

“That’s a lot of blood, man.” Your voice is quiet when you ask, almost besides yourself, “Are you alright?”

You reach out against your better judgement, against any judgement, and touch a particularly deep bruising of crimson on the white costume. It looks clotted, and it doesn’t occur to you until the tacky, cold red touches your fingertips that all of this blood might not actually be his.

The realization makes you freeze. The sheer amount of blood on him would be enough to make any grown man go into shock, if it was, in fact, his blood. Yet here he stands, unshaken, with quiet and even breaths that make your own rapidly speeding heart rate feel like a drum in your ears.

Your eyes flicker up. The point of contact between you harrows at the hooded, knowing stare the clown gives you, the grotesque menagerie of black and white twisting into an inhuman smile with too-dark gums. His eyes are black, eclipsed of their humanity as they pin you into place, dead and starless. A void that rivals the night.

You stifle the urge to run as you withdraw your hand. Somehow you know as you look at him that if you turn and high tail it you’re going to enact a chain of events with consequences you’re not ready to consider. Set yourself up to be the perfect unwilling prey to a waiting, hungry hunter.

“Are you hurt?” More words spoken out of thin air, these far enough that you wouldn’t be sure you said them if the other party wasn’t mute.

The dead smile falls into a considering look, the eyebrows furrowing as if to say, do you think I’m hurt?

You know he’s not. You’re shocked when he nods his head in ascent that he is.

‘Liar’ sits on your tongue. Instead you ask him where, waiting on baited breath in and out of your mouth when he raises a single, bloodied finger.

It’s almost funny. No—it is funny, and you laugh. Just a little bit. Not enough to be mocking, but enough to show that hey, you get it. You get the joke.

Beneath a layer of dirt and grime on the very tip of one of his fingers is a small cut, barely big enough to qualify as a paper cut. When he holds it up there is blood beading along the seem, welling and waiting to get enough viscosity to pour down his finger. Become another inconsequential marking on the canvas of horror that is the rest of him.

The implication is nauseating. If that is truly the only place he is hurt then the rest of the enormous amount of blood painting him really isn’t his, and that warrants so much more concern than you’re willing to offer. Willing to consider.

“Does it hurt?” He doesn’t give you a response, he just pokes his finger up again, pouting in a way that reminds you of the clown face you’d worn no less than a couple of days before. “What, do you want me to kiss it better?”

You try to swallow the sick feeling even as you ask. Maybe you shouldn’t have, because the clown’s face splits into an enormous grin, surprised but happy, and then he nods.

Of course he doesn’t know what a rhetorical question is. But also, of course you aren’t going to be the one to tell him. If he wants you to kiss his finger you’re very damn well going to do it.

You look at his finger again. Gross doesn’t even begin to describe it. There is a definite red-brownish hue to the skin that looks too deeply caked on to be anything less than revolting, and a stain of similarly haunting color clings to the palm of his gloves.

Apprehension swirls in your tightening chest. You feel as though you are toeing a very precarious line between playful and something else by making him wait, but you can’t help but stare at your fate and wonder if there’s some other way.

You force steel into your spine and, without thinking more of it, you take his hand and press a firm, solid kiss to the cut. You can feel his blood and whatever else smearing across your lip, and before you can stop your tongue’s reaction it flickers out and catches the rest.

It tastes like rust, and rot.

Regret is the acid rearing in the back of your throat. You can hardly muster the ability to keep yourself from gagging as your face screws up in disgust. “All better?”

You can’t hide the expression from him, as hard as you might try to. Thankfully he seems positively tickled by the way you play along, his shoulders shaking and mouth falling open in silent glee.

The clown nods enthusiastically. You mimic the nod in a much less enthusiastic manner. Fuck quitting smoking, you really needed a cigarette now.

“Well, I’m just going to—to go around the corner, get a sandwich and some cigarettes.” You clear your throat, hiding the urge to gag. “Do you want anything?”

You don’t expect an answer, you only ask so that you can sidle past him without cause for alarm. The clown let’s you, though the cheerful countenance withers as he watches you curb around him.

Something painfully snags at your leg, the sound of plastic shifting pulling your eyes down to the large trash bag plopped nonchalantly at the clown’s side. Somehow you hadn’t noticed it before but now that you look you cannot unsee all the possibilities it’s presence infers.

Blood rolls off the large black boots and onto the linoleum floor. You can’t imagine why a clown would be carrying around a plastic bag brimming with things that poke sharply and rattle eerily when moved, and, to be frank, you don’t want to know whys or whats. You don’t want to know what’s in the bag or what caught on your pants.

You tug yourself free, unable to hide the terror lancing up through your tensed shoulders and stiff neck. Why would a clown covered in blood carry such a mysterious bag of things that poke and prod in the most painful way? Better not to know.

You hope, at least, that the acquiescence shines through your eyes. The clown tilts his head, the amusement slipping for a slippery and prying emotion you can’t pinpoint, but you can feel it trying to pin you in place.

“I’ll be back.” You say.

The pencil-thin eyebrows pinch together, the eyes glinting sharply. You’d better, they respond.

You walk past him, but it’s a farce. You’re not escaping. He’s letting you get away.

Why is he letting you get away?

He knows that you’re aware of what he’s done. Even if you managed to keep your cool well enough not to break down in front of him there is no way he couldn’t detect the apprehension rolling off of you. The pure, rancid fear.

You feel like a ghost, his eyes hollowing you out from behind until you’re out of sight. Then you’re leaning on the nearest brick wall, knees shaking so badly you nearly cave to the ground.

It takes every ounce of strength in you not to break down right there, to not start sprinting in any direction and never look back. To get the fuck away—wherever that may be. But even the minimal distance you’ve put between yourself and the clown brings no relief, and miles would do no different. Because the fact remains that you haven’t gotten away.

You have to go back. There’s no choice. If you don’t go back to him he’ll come to you, and with him entails an entirely new set of rules to abide by. Rules that he sets.

Rules to live by. Rules to die by.

You don’t walk to the closest station, even though you know it’s less than two blocks away. You don’t try and dial the police. You definitely don’t look behind you.

Somehow you’re sure that if you change the course of your actions because of him then he will suddenly become real. Right now he is just something you’re encountering, but the moment he enters your world, the moment you let this shift from a chance meeting to a confrontation, is the moment you go under the knife.

Fuck, this is so fucked. You couldn’t even think of eating a sandwich anymore. How long did you have before you had to get back to the laundromat? How long before he’d come looking for you?

A part of you fantasizes about this being something you’ve deluded yourself into thinking is real; the clown is really just a harmless, if a bit creepy man that doesn’t see a reason leaving Halloween to be the only day to dress up. Who knows, he could be a professional clown.

Its the same part of you that fantasizes telling the lady at the counter what you’ve seen. ‘There’s a clown covered in blood at Al’s Laundromat, he’s got a bag of tricks and I don’t think it’s the fun kind. Yeah, Al’s, right down the road.’

You ask for cigarettes instead, the long ones. It’s a lot easier to say that, a lot less words. Besides, you know he’s expecting you. You know what will happen if you don’t show up.

Your hands tremble as you light the tip against the struggling wind and make your way back to the laundromat. You want the life of the cigarette to be lackadaisical, to last you longer than the walk back to the laundromat, but you chase the buzz with quick steps. Antsy to get back.

Not eager. You don’t want to go back, but you don’t want to keep him waiting. It makes the buzz fade quicker than you’d like, the numbness slipping through your fingers before it can fully set into your spine.

You can see the sign of the laundromat gleaming in the sun, dim and dusty and likely filled with mosquitoes. People were walking by the murky panes of glass. None of them looked in. You almost prayed they would, just so you wouldn’t have to go inside. Likely they’d be better people than you and call the cops after seeing a murderer drenched in blood sitting inside, but who knows these days.

The panic trapped in the rib-woven confinement of your chest doesn’t ease as you take the final drags of your cig. The moment you’re in the line of sight you feel the eyes back on you, and it makes the end almost burn brighter, as if the cigarette is also too impatient to wait for you to return to the clown.

“The fuck has my life come to,” you grumble, stepping on the lit butt until it dithers out.

When you look up he is, of course, staring straight through you. You wave pathetically as if to affirm ‘hey, I’m back. Just like I promised!’ but the clown doesn’t look like he feels any particular way about it. In fact, his gaze is cold enough to make your stomach curdle, the hot ball of anticipation inside your gut hardening into the choking weight of fear.

Your fingers are slick with sweat as they press on the door. The clown is sitting in a chair conveniently close to where your outfit is still tumbling away in the dryer, and leading to him is a grossly vibrant trail of blood in the shape of comically large footprints

His expression doesn’t change as you drag you feet over to where he’s lounging, the black trash bag lopsided at his feet. Decay drips off him and onto the plastic seats, pooling in the curved bottom before dripping down the backs.

You change the clothes from the washer to the dryer. Thirty five minutes. How the fuck are you supposed to survive thirty five minutes with this guy?

If you sit right next to him you’ll get a proper whiff of his sins, if you sit too far maybe it’ll be your blood spilling on the floor. Not great options either way. Maybe it’s better to butter him up, though it’s hard to tell which he wants with the way he’s staring at you like he wants to skin you.

You choose what you think is the lesser of two evils and sit next to him, casual. You try not to let the look he levels you with steal your voice, not with the way his brown gunk-covered fingers tap impatiently on his thigh. Waiting for something to happen. Waiting for you to step over the line so he can do something.

The time left on your machine reads thirty two minutes. Fine.

“You got a name?” You ask after looking back at him.

He bats his eyelashes playfully, why, little ol’ me? The expression warms up as you enter the arena of the game again, his game, watching as he digs through the bag before pulling out a square piece of paper.

It’s a business card. Your breath stops in your chest when, for a moment, you wonder if you really had read this whole thing wrong—was he just a really convincing mime that you’d happened to run into twice, eager to share his business?

The thought is short lived. When you take the card you can see the printed text is scratched out sloppily with a crayon. In the margins is the scratch of sloppy, childish writing:

“Art the Clown,” you read out loud, voice quiet.

Art folds his hands in front of himself and presses them under his chin, once more batting his eyelashes at you as though to say, guilty as charged.

It’s a mockery of sweetness, especially with such disgusting yellow teeth baring themselves at you like a shark. At least he doesn’t seem angry anymore.

You hand the card back to him, careful not to touch where the blood soaks through his gloves, before sitting down next to him. You try not to make it too obvious that you’re sitting as far from him as possible on the seat, but Art seems completely unaware of personal space as he leans in, thigh touching yours.

Wetness seeps through the place of contact. Iron is rich and burning in your nose.

You dig through your pockets and start talking as soon as you have four quarters in your palm. “Well, Art—if I were you, I’d wash that. Otherwise all the red is going to stain.”

You place the quarters into his palm, lean back in your seat, and close your eyes. You’ve got thirty more minutes, might as well try and fit a nap in. It’s not like anyone is going to bother you while Art is here, though that thought doesn’t bring you much comfort.

You count backwards from ten, breathing out of your mouth, and try to let the vibrations of the machines lull you to sleep.

[buccaneeering]

Silly questions about Julien and his mustache (because I love his mustache)

1) How did he come to own it? (Did he make it himself or perhaps buy it from somewhere?)

2) How on earth does he get it to stay in place?

3) Does he own more than one?

4) Has he ever experienced mustache mishaps? (Like it falling off in front of others, getting paint on it, ect.)

5) What are Erik's thoughts on the mustache, and does he know it's fake?

If you couldn't tell, it is one of my favorite parts of Julien's design, lol :)

1. He was allowed to keep it after a play he was in in his teen years!

2. Spirit gum! It's a sort of adhesive made to stick prosthetics onto an actor's face, and it holds up under stagelights. (It's so painful to get off without proper remover, though. Speaking from experience.)

3. No. He has kept this one in great condition, and it would be far too expensive to afford another!

4. It has had mishaps: he's not been able to find it before work and it sends him into a hectic, often tearful search every time, he's applied it crooked, or hasn't used enough spirit gum(which caused it to turn and slide), and I could imagine things like his fingers getting hung on it while he's trying to part it in the morning.

Thankfully, he got used to most of these in his teen years. He's practically a pro these days.

5. I don't think Erik finds out until late in their friendship... Julien is(obviously) very closed off about being a transman, not only due to his own insecurity, but the time period.

When he DOES tell Erik, or Erik finds out upon walking in on him... Well, you might imagine it calls for a conversation.

But, in the end, I think all is well(I mean, Erik makes a realistic mask/prosthetic so he can live a normal life in theory, so I think he'd understand).

Erik just wants to be loved, and wants to do the same.

Incredibly devoted.

--

GAH! THANK YOU ALWAYS FOR THE ASKS! 💛💛 I hope this helps(and I love the curiosity and questions!!)

I hope you have a good day. 😊

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

this is so self indulgent of me to ask but let me embarrass myself by asking for tummy kisses for Prem and Bug

FGSGHSH I LOVE YOU POSH. I'm sorry this took so long - Christ I feel so rusty - and the ending is a blunt as a gunshot, but I THINK IT'S CUTE and I hope I didn't butcher Bug too much 💖🥹

Prem is taller than Bug. That’s a fact of nature. Even on flat-feet, Prem’s a good five inches taller. But. Shit. She’s got this pair of five inch Louboutin heels—the fuckin’ sharp-an’-pointy kind, flashy black patent leather, with those retina-searin’ red bottoms Bug’d only seen in magazine pages until Prem had pulled ‘em out of her luggage. 

She wears them with a Barbie Doll heel foot on her prosthetic, walkin’ well balanced with a sleek, dark-oiled teak cane with the silver head of a mallard for a handle. Looks a bit vampiric, but not in a bad way. Sort of way that makes Bug’s mouth run dry, and reach for Price’s sipping whiskey to quench her pinching-parched throat.

“Mm?” the man hums, rubbing his recently trimmed beard, following her eyes, and then he gets that fuckin’ pinched up, pleased smirk on his face, like he knows somethin’ about somethin’. “Yeah. The heels always have me fucked up, too.”

“Piss right off,” Bug grunts, taking his glass in full, and he only chuckles to himself, joining her in watching Prem swim her way through the gallery show. Feels strange to Bug, a bit, to see Prem’s death masks mounted on black grids of metal, lit harsh and bright from above with studio track lamps—but by no means wrong. No, more was like seeing an old friend finally finding a place they belonged. Been on the woman’s ass long enough to get her to agree to a show. 

Prem—true to her callsign, Premonition, the woman that sees the future and all that lies hidden—must feel the eyes on her, because she turns her head to look over a sleek shoulder, and a smile warps her painted-burgundy lips. She lifts a hand and waves with a little wiggle of her ring finger, right at her.

Bug can just feel Price making that goddamned quokka face again, staring dead at the side of her face. She swills the giant cube of ice around the dregs of his whiskey, and she jabs him where it smarts, but only a bit, “Think Soap’s gone and let your mutt get picked up by the RSPCA yet? Or you think he’s still wanderin’ some back road like a bum?

Price shakes his head. “Nah. Dog’s fine, probably making moon-eyes at Bordelon,” he starts, but he shrugs his shoulders with a thoughtful look, “Soap’s probably up with Agnes trying to dust her crypt.”

“Oh, you dirty old fuck,” Bug snorts, pulling a face of disgust, “Agnes’s taste is so much better than that. Disgusting you’d even suggest that.”

“Mhmm,” Price purrs, leaning back against the bar, resting a hand on the small of her back, rubbing his blunt fingers into the small pad of soft pudge he finds there.

+

Prem is the one to pinch Price’s jaw, giving it a good jiggle around eleven, when the crowd’s gotten thicker with the hipster art scene rats, and she can no longer functionally give a fuck about showing face. “John. My darling. My dear love. My...sweetest, closeted Nine Inch Nails boy—”

“Fuck’s sake,” he grunts, jiggled.

“—can you please, please find us some good scran?” she finishes, leaning heavily on her cane, her weight bent toward Bug’s figure. He rolls his eyes, but there’s a smirk pulling at his mouth under the chops—just a little one, like it’s a bit shy of showing itself. Prem knows she’s won the moment she sees it, pulling him in for a *pap!* of a kiss before giving his cheek a chummy clap. “Good man, crack on.”

Bug slides right into Prem’s free side, sliding an arm around the woman’s waist as one of Prem’s snakes around her shoulders. “So, what was the trick for pullin’ that off, eh? He gives me all sorts a’shit when I try to boss him,” Bug laughs, sinking into the scent of Prem’s perfume.

“Y’just have to get his dick a little bit hard, that’s all,” Prem hums in return, waggling her brows. “You’re a dabhand at it, y’know? Just gotta harness it, eh.”

“Ooh, I’ll have to practice on that then, won’t I?” Bug is beaming, and she knows it. Doesn’t try to hide it, either. Neither does she try to hide the way that she keeps glancing at Prem’s lips when she looks up into her face, tugging her toward down the sidewalk in the direction of their hotel.

Prem’s eyes—already dark under the streetlamps, wet and deep like pools of ink—go half-lidded, and she dips her head, tucking her nose under Bug’s heavy mane of curls. Fuckin’ embarassin’ it is, how fast Bug grows wet between the legs as she feels Prem’s lips pressin’ slow and warm against her neck, where the print of her lipstick will remain hidden.

“Mm,” Prem begins to murmur, “wanted to do that feck-off bad all night. Kept seein’ you and John standin’ together, and don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Her eyes squeeze tight, still breathing against Bug’s skin. “Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about watchin’ you two fuck the daylights out of each other. Him on top, feckin’ you all slow, and hard—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Bug barks with laughter, shaking her head, yoking Prem’s throat loosely in her hand, pushing her back a bit, burning head to toe with a bright flush and a thumping desire that starts in her cunt and booms out to her fingers, toes and lashes. “Can’t even wait ‘til we’re back in the hotel, huh? We got you in that bad of a way?”

“Always!” Prem sniffs, grinning.

+

There’s only a single lamp on in the room, and Prem is wearing only her prosthetic, and her panties, with a tube of her lipstick tucked in the band. Demon of a woman had the gall to let Bug get all the way dressed down to one of Price’s black t-shirts and her drawers before she made her move. Bug had to admit, though—good fuckin’ move, that one. Might have to tuck it in her own pocket for later.

Bug snorts as Prem’s hands slide up to her hips, gripping the softness she finds there, and deeper, until her fingertips knead tight muscles. Bug’s hands slide directly to the woman’s neck, resting with her thumbs over the pulsepoint, urging her down to kiss, and Prem falls right into the trajectory of it.

“Oh, aw, feck,” Prem laughs, pulling back from Bug’s lips, and the remorse sounds utterly put-on, “I’ve gone and shitted up your face. Look at you, you’re all smudgy. Didn’t mean to do all that.”

“And you’re a shit liar, darlin’,” Bug tosses back, feeling wild as she runs wide-open, letting Prem move her back to the bed, urging her up onto the pillows.

“Yeahhh—you’re right.” Prem has the audacity to fuckin’ giggle, burying her face against Bug’s neck once again, sliding between her spread legs, her hands moving farther up Bug’s shirt, savoring the soft curve of her waist, the structure of her ribs. But, goddamn, does she touch Bug as if considering her angles and construction like a well fine piece of art, wanting to pick up the techniques to copy into her own repertoire.

Up trails Bug’s shirt, a slow and subtle climb as Prem cups her breasts, rolling her nipples beneath her thumbs, pinching and tugging them slightly. Her grin’s impossible for Bug to ignore as her lips press more and more burgundy prints into her skin, and they both just find themselves laughing for no reason at all apart from sheer delight.

Prem’s knee slides up, coaxing Bug’s legs further open, and Bug sighs heatedly with the move, letting Prem push her shirt up over her breasts. “You’re a wicked-ass little thing,” she accuses, and Prem nods in emphatic agreement as she begins to kiss Bug’s freckled sternum.

She's kissed Bug's breasts, teasing her nipples with her soft, warm tongue, leaving behind prints of burgundy lips on the areola, the bottom swells, the top. Made herself right at home, groping Bug's hips tight before she leans up enough up to smart-ass-casual swipe more color onto her mouth, leaving Bug squirming and laughing under her. It only turns into a cackle when Prem dips to her stomach, kissing a belt across her waist, her bellybutton (where she dips her tongue, causing Bug to howl a surprised laugh and buck), and just—all over.

Makes Bug's head swim, it does. “Think you're just showin’ off at this point, sweetheart,” she snorts, brushing her fingers over Prem's short curls, slipping down to draw nonsense over the nape of her neck.

“Oh, no,” Prem hums, and Bug can feel her grin as it meets her hip, “am just stallin’ for…”

The door of the hotel room groans open, and Price's heavy steps are unmistakable alongside the shuffle of a paper bag in his arms, and the wrestling-out flap of his fleece lined denim jacket snapping. He doesn't stop what he's doing, but he sure takes a long look, and Bug can't help but grin wide under crinkled eyes and stick her tongue between her teeth as she gives a little wave. “Hi,” she says, simple as can be. 

Price drops the bag on the empty dresser— they'll find out in an hour or two he'd somehow managed to find cut italian hoagies by some miracle—and he sits on the other bed, looking at them as he unlaces his boots. Prem kicks her feet up in the air, crossing them at the ankles while she pressed her cheek to Bug's belly. 

“Am I early or late?” he grunts.

“Course he don't wonder if he's invited,” Bug teases, but she continues to smile. They've all three caught each other in compromising enough positions to play grab-ass about it—Price is the only one that acts caught when it happens. 

“Actually,” Prem sighs, rising to her knees in a well practiced movement, sliding forward to kiss Bug's lips as she goes, “you're right on time.”

Prem's got the audacity to sneak launch a playful clap between Bug's legs—over her soaked, but clothed crotch—earning herself one wicked bark of indignation and a swat at her arm for making Bug's neglected pussy throb. But Prem continues regardless, ordering lightly, “Get your shite-arse over here and eat her. Poor thing's tremblin’.”

[omies-odd-writing-spot]

Doom prompt 08: Store

ended up not being exactly what was meant on the prompt. Might try redoing this but still, have a Valen on earth!

.

8: “One of the Argenta end up in a miniatures store “

Valen tilted his head, looking at the storefront as he considered going inside. It was one of many places he had to have this moment of debate on going in. The once Commander was walking past the store and paused again at the last second. Looking through the glass to see something that looked semi familiar. 

Valen finally recognized it as being like the figurines Lily had. Sea creatures around reefs or stylized waves. He knew it was just a few pisces his charge had, most showed signs of being broken and fixed several times. The Argenta man reached out to touch the glass lightly with his prosthetic hand. He looked up, thinking as he scanned the now street, then down to himself.

The armored man shook himself, getting the worst of the demonic blood off himself before stepping back to the main door. He tapped it, surprised that it opened easily with a little bell chime and Valen had to duck to get in. Standing still in the store as he took in the layout as he looked for any corrupted. There were signs of some sort of struggle, leading from inside to the deep towards the door that Valen stood at. 

He knelt, carefully, having to be so careful with his natural bulk compared to humans to find the splatter of blood had long since been dried out. The edges of his armor could catch on all the… small things. No one had been here in months, so Valen looked around again.

Glass, clay, metal, wood, all the little things and trinkets.

It was a painful reminder that the humans were, mostly, as far as Valen could tell in a time of peace. Able to afford to spend resources on arts, to give in and spend errand resources to hobbies that were not all dedicated to their warriors. 

Valen lifted his right hand, touching a tiny… cat figure on a shelf with others. It reminded him of Lily’s feline pets. Even curled up like they did in her room or the ‘cat room.’

He had to ease himself slowly through the narrow aisles, Valen slightly regretted his choice now to come in. He did pause off and on to pick something small and slip into his subspace like storage, thinking of the small humans on the Fortress.

Valen paused, looking at what looked like a display of Wintherin-like creatures. Some were pretty close to what he knew all too well, but the heads were wrong. Too small and the wrong kind of horns. Or the body was too thick around the forearms and chest.

It made him wonder if something was missing in translation from the Argenta group the humans were descended from, to now. Or then, before the hell invasion.

Valen picked one up, pale and pearl like with hints of blue on the Wintherin like creature. Holding a chest with painted clay pearls. His gaze softened under his helmet, thinking of the old Wintherin his wife favored so much. That was slid into the hidden storage as well, it was not quite the same shape of a proper Wintherin but the color was almost perfect. He looked up, carefully stepping over to this side of the window display, finding not just the… then…

Shark.

That’s what Lily called it, some sort of ‘hammer’ shark that was curling up a coral spire. Valen very carefully picked it up, humming in appreciation at the craft used in this piece. It was surprisingly hefty, being the length of his forearm, but there were so many little details in it. Smaller than small fish in the reef. All painstakingly painted by hand, little imperfect details that proved it.

That was safely stored as well, before Valen paused to look at a glass sculptor on this side of the display. For a confused moment it thought it was a gorgon sitting up on a flaring shell or waves? Then Valen saw the flowing fins on the slender lower body. No details of face but still alike enough that it gave the impression of the long hair as the odd little creature held up a glittering, gold marble like pearl. It was the only color in the clear glass.

Valen was not sure what to think, he never saw a being like this, it was impressive skilled work… and he did not like how it reminded him of his charge’s possible fate.

The argenta man carefully set down the glass sculptor, saddeningly needing to make his way out. Not making much sounds as he looked at this still place. Valen stepped back out onto the street, he had things to do, supplies and materials to get for hopefully keeping the Fortress free of the Maykrs influence.

[zarvasace]

Wooden

Gen, 700 words, Wind & Wild, disability AU, AO3 link here

Today was a bad walking day for me so I wrote :) Usual disclaimer, I don't have this disability, but I have something similar ish. The descriptions are from my own experience and may not be accurate.

(@arecaceae175 the day's pretty much over, but I hope it was an okay day in the end! Your comment earlier gave me the bug to write this one.)

---

"You're limping," Wild says. At least he has the forethought to keep his observation quiet. 

Wind still scowls. "If you haven't noticed, I'm always limping a little. It's not exactly easy to walk on a wooden leg, Wild."

"No," Wild says, and Wind isn't sure what part he's rejecting. "Your walking isn't always even, but that's not a limp. You know what is, though? Whatever you're doing right now."

"I am not!" He is. He knows he is. He's usually one to walk near the front of the pack near Warriors and Wild, or at least the middle, but he's drifted to the very back today. He's been trying to keep up. 

Everything just… it hurts. The end of his left leg is a little achy, and his knee feels cold. He can't actually feel his prosthetic, he knows that, but little bright sparks of pain shoot up his left leg whenever he takes a step. That's not even accounting for his hips, which feel overworked and numb, and his right foot, which is tired from all the weight he's been putting on it all day. 

It's a bad day. His world has been narrowing to the road in front of him as he's been focusing harder on just keeping up with the group. 

And, despite Wind doing what he could to pretend he's fine, Wild had noticed. Of course he'd noticed. 

"We can stop," Wild says, even quieter. 

Wind shakes his head. "We're almost to the village Twilight mentioned, it isn't worth it." He knows he's not the only one who'll appreciate a bed underneath him soon. If they stop for a few minutes, they'll just be delaying sweet softness by that much more. 

"You could climb on my back," Wild offers, which is very nice of him, but it just makes Wind scowl more. 

He narrows his eyes at the dirt in front of him. A pebble just the right size to kick passes, but Wind's too focused on moving his feet to branch out like that. "Thanks. But I'm okay."

Wild shrugs. "You have about thirty seconds until someone asks if we need a break."

"What?" Wind looks up, and sure enough, they're walking about four yards behind Legend and Hyrule, who've definitely noticed them lagging. They're walking a bit farther behind Four and Twilight than they normally would, perhaps to disguise the distance Wind's fallen behind. 

Wind groans at himself. They can't even see the village yet. His limp is becoming more pronounced with every step. He's not sure if he can make it on his own, his legs feel like they're entirely made of wood, numb and heavy. It's just a matter of time before he stumbles. 

A faint noise makes Wind look back up at Wild, recognizing the sound of the slate activating. Wild's switched out his usual blue tunic for a leather vest that doesn't cover his stomach, which now features purple body paint. 

Wind stops to stare in confusion. And perhaps a little jealousy—the outfit looks ridiculous, but in kind of a very cool way. 

"Boosts my strength a little," Wild says by way of explanation. He smiles a little and counts under his breath. "Eight, seven, six, five…"

"Fine!" Wind huffs. Wild has him by the throat, metaphorically speaking. Wind won't force everyone to slow down for him, and Wild provides a convenient way of doing that. 

"Fine," Wind says again, setting his hands on Wild's shoulders and hopping. Wild's elbows lock beneath Wind's knees, and he jogs to catch up with the group just as Twilight pauses and looks back at them with a question in his expression. Wild had been right on the money with that timing. 

Wind doesn't quite have time to erase the pain and frustration from his own face, but he does his best to smile as if he and Wild are doing something dumb for a dumb reason rather than what they're actually doing. 

Twilight clearly doesn't buy it, but he doesn't speak up or make them all slow down. He smiles back, rolls his eyes a little, and goes back to the conversation with Four. 

"Mission accomplished," Wind mutters to Wild, relaxing a little more in the hold. His legs don't hate him quite as much anymore. It's good to get the pressure off. "Hey, Wild?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Thanks."

Wild doesn't answer verbally, but he doesn't need to. 

[courier-roku]

Favorite Colour

Summary:

Everything about him reminds Solas of her

Or

Solas being weird about Rook because he pines Lavellan.

Tags under post:

The Lighthouse has a small office area connected to a bedroom of a particular member of the Veilguards, the small study has a doorless balcony, looking over the ever-changing sky and a view down at the Courtyard. Solas visited this part of the Lighthouse often, almost a habit in fact.

"Good Morning Fen."

As if on cue, a dark haired man dressed only in their purple sleeping robe entered, a hand over his mouth as he yawn, holding a mug in his other hand. The smell of faint floral aroma in the air as the man approached him.

Solas looked to the side, to the man's face especially. He is not used to put a face on Rook, now that they had revealed his face to the whole team. Even shocking Varric and the Scout.

The man, Rook looked older than his years. Handsome, yet drawn and haggard just like what Solas assumed if the man's father is in his 30s. His short dark hair is a fluffy mess, the slightly pointy ears almost covered by it, he just woken up after all. Faint red paint job streak across his face. There are visible dark spot, bags under his eyes, Rook has been giving it all to help him, and sleep is luxury he couldnt afford at times.

"Good Morning, Rook." Solas replied "Did you have a good night sleep? " The elf asked, more as a small talk. Rook leaned against the railing, resting his elbows as his lips touched the edge of the mug. His eyes looking out the horizon, cheeks slightly puffed as a smile formed above the edge of the ceramic after drinking. "I had never experienced something like that before, is that what dreamers experience in their sleep?" Rook asked, his voice coming out gruffly. "More or less, being in the Lighthouse might have effected your focus." Solas replied, Rook nodded in understanding. For the elf, this scene is all too familiar to him, green eyes bright as the Fade staring at him amazed, her cheeks would flush from being embarrassed for being childishly excited about dreaming lucidly.

Rook reacted mostly the same, yet in a calmer manner, it is more of the man's ego than anything, but he does seems genuinely grateful. Some mages think dreams arent the most comforting thing to look up to every night, Rook is the same as them.

"I do apologize, i didnt know you reacted strongly of my presence during your slumber." Rook let out a small chuckle, retracted the mug from his lips as he faced Solas "Countless dreams of demons, i would strike immediately given the chance." The man rubbed his thumbs gently on the side of mug "Thank you for restraining yourself then." When Rook away once again, Solas kept his gaze on the human-half elf to be exact, mind wandered but fixated on one thing.

Everything about Rook reminded him of her

When Rook and him are on bad terms at first, he didnt think there could be something between them, regardless if it is friendship or fondness towards the human.

Because he is so much like her.

At first it was the way the man in forced to use other than his blade, the way he slamed the greatsword and would kick the enemies as before recovering, It is a rusty move, but it is a learned one. She is always been a curious person, and so did he. He is a gentle soul, trying his best to save everyone, so did she.

The elf might have been reaching, but there is a a feeling in his gut. And it was proven when he finally put a face on the silver helmet. He saw someone else, yes- he looked like so much like his father, and Rook barely looked like her. But he is hers, because she said so.

She looked at her child, glossy eyes with visible wrinkles under it. Her prosthetic hand cupped the human's cheek, the same look Solas saw when she mourns the loss of her lover, guilt aching her very soul. The elf wished he could comfort her the way he wanted to, but who is he to her? Rook's strong reaction to him could be considered one of the few version she could have reacted to seeing him again. Rook spats, hate in his gaze, Rook only respected him because Varric told him to get along with Solas. To not further complicate things, but that is all in the past.

"Something wrong, Solas?"Solas blinked, he didnt realize he is out of it for a while, the elf noticed how Rook looked at him, red bright eyes staring at him worriedly.

"No matter da'len. Since i am here, would you like to discuss something?" Rook straighten his body, retracted from the railings "Wait, hold on lets talk in the courtyard, i want to show you something." Solas watched as Rook patted his shoulder before setting down his mug on the desk, quickly making his way to his bedroom.

The elf looked out the balcony, tint of green under the artificial sky. It is his favorite colour.

[becomedecay]

❀ *◦ tobias forge. cis man. he/him. heterosexual. ⇝ hey, isn’t that torbjörn 'tor' engström, also known as rune? i think that the forty year old from laholm, sweden works as a frontman for the heavy metal theatrical band mortis & amateur stage actor at single carrot theatre, but outside of that people describe them as hiding behind a mask hoping secrets do not fall out, the echoing of a choir in the emptiness of a church, a pentagram hastily scrawled onto torn and crumpled paper, a plant withering under the scorching sun as it yearns for a taste of water. i hear they are often overcompensating & mournful, but they are also known to be sensitive & trustworthy. consider giving them a visit at their home in room 13, the black dog motel and get to know why they’re called the forever-dying priest.

more details below , cw: pregnancy, marital issues, separation, depression

THE HEAVY RIFFS OF A GUITAR PLAY THROUGH THE NIGHT, HIS VOICE POWERFUL AS IT CASTS OVER THE CROWD.

once again, a sold out show is played and torbjörn is dressed to the nines in the costume of the frontman; in this iteration, he is known as RUNE, the priest and overseer of the band MORTIS. he's been long dedicated to his craft, overwhelmingly so to the point that he's hardly been home. his wife understands, she recognises that what he's doing is for their sake. he tours the world and plays show after show so they can have a steady income & comfortable living. he's making a name for himself and establishing a legacy.

he thought she'd always be okay with it. heléne had vocalised her support for so long, that tor had neglected to check in to confirm that it was still the case, when she announced their pregnancy she expected him to come home, to put the latest tour ( which at the time was for the frontman persona of sten, rune's possible father and predecessor, in the band's lore ) on hold and return to her side to see it through.

but he didn't want to let anyone down. he didn't want to disappoint the fans, his band mates who relied on the tours for further income, and his wife. so many people depended on him in that moment — and here came the first pangs of despair. his unsteadiness allowed the depression to creep in. it crawled and latched onto his brain and sent him down & down. eventually, he compromised with keeping the tour in europe—explaining to western fans that something had come up for sten, holding him back. the fans didn't mind this so much, a slither of lore sent them into a frenzy trying to piece things together and they quickly came up with their own theories as to why sten wouldn't be going far beyond his home country.

seeing what the fans were saying gave tor inspiration to use the cut-short tour to put a gentle end to sten, to give way to a new persona who was more youthful in personality. this was just his way of trying to cope. any time a frontman died, it was for a personal reason. to cope with the loss of his father, he'd ended sten's own predecessor NARFI, a man with little care for his subordinates—a gangly & elderly looking man, yet a steady fan favourite. how he coped with trauma was certainly interesting, but it helped. the fans understood what the death of a frontman meant.

on the final day of the european show in sweden, he had sten playing his final song and then the spotlight hit, shining a warm light upon him. the act played out as god's light seeing him. he falls to his knees, clutching at his chest. he doesn't want to accept it. they have an oath to the satanic church of worship that they will walk with Him when the time comes. and he does not delay in coming for his soul. he smites god's light, the stage falls dark and when it's re-illuminated, he is gone.

all that sits is a glass coffin on the stage with a prosthetic doll that looks like him. a younger man with his face painted bright shades of white complimented by black walks onto the stage. it is here the fans get what they want. FATHER, YOU'VE LEFT ME TOO SOON. HOW AM I TO CARRY THE FLAME FOR HIM?

and there, it ends. the fans get a glimpse of rune, sten is dead and the tour is ended so he can rush home to his wife. the next six months are bliss, little astrid is born and he dotes on her whilst recording the next studio album. torbjörn starts to settle into his new life, but the depression still eats away at him. it leaves him sunken, obsessively reading over things and diving into his work. those first six months seem so far away now. as astrid gets older and heléne gets disillusioned, the family begins to crumble.

they agree to a mild separation run. they live alone and attend marriage counselling for astrid's sake. there is always hope that things will get better. tor continues to invest his time into mortis, rune becomes the cute, angelic frontman everyone adores because of his antics. his on-stage presence is worshipped and finally, tor finds his footing. this is the frontman he wants to keep for as long as he can. because he knows that the death of rune would signify something so much worse.

just as their marriage is back on track, heléne moves back into the family home—it sinks in. she doesn't seem the same. she's making frequent business trips for her work, gone for weeks and at times MONTHS at a time. is this how she felt? he asks himself. it makes sense to him now what he'd been doing to his wife. what he was going to do to astrid.

on her sixth birthday, she wakes up to find heléne gone. she wakes up her dad and asks him where mama went. panic hits him like a train, heléne's belongings were still here, but the important things like her purse and passport were gone. checking their shared online banking, he saw that a plane ticket was booked, and upon closer research it's determined that they were for the states. were things that bad? he truly thought they were on the right track.

two weeks go by and he's frantically trying to piece together what to do, all work is on hold, astrid's crying is a constant echo in his head. heléne's been avoiding him, but one evening their call connects. her voice is different, almost static. she tells him she's returned home, where she belongs. that she's needed.

it doesn't make sense, none of it makes sense. he knows what he has to do—he feigns interest to the band about doing a us tour to make up for what happened before, and they agree without much argument. he'd requested that they go to alaska for the final show, pointing out anchorage as the last stop. that took a lot more persuasion, but when the band relies on him for survival, they can't do much to say no.

they ask about astrid, will she be coming too? she has to, she has no one to care for her, plus she'd get to see her dad doing what he does best. the tour starts without a hitch and when they arrive at anchorage, alaska for their final show that's when he tells them. he's here for heléne. she just upped and left one day without telling them why. understandably, his bandmates are pissed. they argue, over & over about the level of betrayal he's pulled on them. there was no anchorage show. it was never going to go ahead. he just wanted a way to get here without arousing heléne's suspicion.

given the way things have gone, tor & the band decide that for now, whilst they stay in anchorage they'll put a brief pause on things. if they decide to make the parting a permanent thing, so be it. but for now, MORTIS are on hiatus. they all go their separate ways, with tor taking up residency in the black dog motel with his daughter. he gets her enrolled with the local school as a temporary student, though something in him tells him that this isn't temporary.

heléne's still not been seen, but he knows she's here. it's his gut instinct. she's around. but she isn't herself.

[bellasdragons]

NPC Descriptions

Here are the descriptions I could find for the Trading Post and Grand Exchange dragons (and Sage).

While the Grand Exchange ones have descriptions (will update with Sage's other seasons too as they come up) I couldn't most of our main crew - if you can find them please let me know and I'll add them (with credit of course!)

Under a cut because of length:

SUSIE "An image of Susie, a female Coatl dragon. Susie sits among a garden of hearts and flowers. She crochets a string of hearts in her wheelchair, using the thread lovebirds have brought to her. As a Coatl dragon, Susie has a short snout, curled tail, and a feathered crest and wings that connect to her body alongside some swirled bony plates. Susie has a leopard ice primary and pinkish wings that end in short stripes. She wears enormous spectacles, a red heart bowtie, and a purple coat and skirt with many white petticoats. "

PATCHES "An image of Patches, a male Pearlcatcher dragon. Patches holds up his pearl using a prosthetic arm and is surrounded by a treasure chest, parrot, cannon, and ship’s wheel. As a Pearlcatcher dragon, Patches has two horns down the center of his forehead, a mane that runs down the length of his back, and long ears. Patches colors most closely resemble a maroon speckle and garnet freckle. He wears a mix of a corsair’s hat and a privateer’s jacket, both of which are mended and have seen better days. "

JOXAR "An image of Joxar, a male Mirror dragon. He tosses a prismatic token into the air, and sits in front of crates of goods. As a Mirror dragon, Joxar has two pairs of eyes and a twin crests/horns that flare out to either side. Joxar has a sky primary and brick secondary, and does not sport any gene patterns. Joxar wears a floppy festive crown, a scarf, a short vest, and a jester’s adornments on his legs and tail. "

ARVELLE "An image of Arvelle, a female Ridgeback dragon. Arvell is holding a twin-headed spiked flair and standing atop a mound of broken weapons. As a Ridgeback dragon Arvelle has a protruding nose and chin, long curved thumb claws, and spikes running down her back. Arvelle has an off-white body color with a greyish pink belly. Her claw tips are crimson and her wings are a reddish brick color. She wears a set of well-used armor. The armor’s most notable piece is the helmet, which sports a large crimson plume of hair and fiber that trails down her neck. Arvelle is well-muscled and scarred. "

HIGGENS "An image of Higgins, a male Nocturne dragon. Higgens has a dry expression on his face, stands upright and holds up a platter of mimic powder. Behind him is a haunted looking Victorian building, and next to him stands a chest that opens to reveal teeth and a tongue. As a Nocturne dragon, Higgens has a bat-like nose, a chin frill, and an array of short spikes that run down his neck. Higgens has a charcoal primary and blackberry secondary, and does not sport any gene patterns. "

MARVA An image of Marva, presumed to be an Imperial dragon. "Presumed", because there is no dragon stationed at this shop at all! Instead, a whimsically-painted cardboard cutout of an imperial dragon stands among cardboard cutouts of April Fool's day familiars. Many of the cutouts display visible tape holding them together, and some paint appears to have been spattered. The largest cutout of the Imperial dragon is of a dark purple imperial with light purple wings. It holds a star wand and wears a star cape and top hat, and has a big smile on its face that nearly splits its head in two.

AVERY "An image of Avery, a male Wildclaw, looking anxious in an office overflowing with paperwork, medals, and trophies. From behind the cluttered desk peeks a Skycat with long ears and wings. As a Wildclaw dragon Avery has three pairs of horns around his face, a feathered crest, and stands upright on a pair of legs sporting hooked claws. Avery has an algae jaguar primary and a peridot blend secondary. He is wearing a scroll case sling, a pair of spectacles, and a bowtie. "

GLASS & GLOSS "An image of Glass and Gloss, a nonbinary Aberration dragon. They smile viciously and hold open their tattered cape, displaying an array of gene scrolls. Behind them, vases an boxes are overflowing with similar inventory. As an Aberration dragon, they have two heads with rounded and swept back horns, twin tails, and tattered wings. They have a flaxen swirl primary, goldenrod weaver secondary, and soil fangs tertiary. "

SAGE (SUMMER) "An image of Sage, a female dryad. Sage reclines against her tree her hand raised to tease and grow the dandelions. Behind her the land shows the gold colors of summer. As a dryad, Sage resembles a human with leaves and bark growing from her hair and body. In the summer, Sage has deep brown skin with gold undertones, a golden crown of leaves, and a white and green leafy dress. "

GALORE "Image of Galore, an adult male Guardian dragon with speckle spruce primary and chocolate blend secondary genes. Galore is perched upon a pile of coins, gems, a chest, and other treasures. He is wearing an ornate, yet aged, cloak and beard tie. A large wooden staff with a loose leather strap grip is leaning against Galore’s side. The apparel Galore wears and his staff are unique to his character and are not standard "

[bridgyrose]

A Running Summer Au Ruby And Summer Meet Like Yang And Raven Met In Canon

“Mom!” 

Summer dropped from a tree branch and smiled a bit at her daughter. “Ruby, you’ve finally come to me.” 

“I’ve come for answers, not for you,” Ruby answered as she made her way closer to Summer. “Uncle Qrow told me you were out here.” 

Summer’s smile dropped as she managed to get a better look at her daughter. Her left arm had been replaced with a mechanical prosthetic painted in black and green, scars lined her face and neck, and silver eyes now looked more like a dulled gray, youthful optimism no longer shining through. “Answers, huh? Just… answers? I thought it was about time for you to want to be with me. Where we can be safe.” 

“I dont want to be safe, I want to know why you left! Why you couldnt stay home and instead watched me from afar! I know you’ve been following me.” 

“Of course you’re just like them…” Summer sighed and motioned for Ruby to follow her deeper into the forest. “If you want answers, then you have to humor me and spend a little time with me. I want to get to know my daughter-” 

“You could’ve gotten to know me by staying with us!” Ruby said angrily as she followed Summer. “What’s so important that you had to stay away from all of us? Yang is out who knows where with Jaune, Ren, and Nora. I lost an arm when Beacon fell! Does any of that even matter to you?” 

“Of course it all matters, I had to stay away for you all to be safe!” Summer quickly turned towards Ruby as she yelled, wisps of silver flame rolling off the edges of her eyes for a brief moment. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then continued walking to a small hut in the forest. “I needed to keep you all safe from Salem.” 

“Who?” 

“From what I know, she’s an immortal being who now commands the grimm. Ozpin’s been at war with her for centuries… millennia… At least, that’s the story he told us.” Summer opened the door to the hut and paused at the doorway. “I was hoping I could keep you all from getting involved. However, if Qrow sent you to me, then I dont think you can stay away.” 

Ruby followed Summer into the hut, her prosthetic shaking as she put her hand against the door. “I dont want anything to do with Salem, I just want answers on why Beacon had to fall.” 

“And to get those answers, you have to know who Salem is. She’s the one behind it all.” 

“Why?” 

Summer picked up a tea kettle of water and placed a hand under it, gently heating the water with a little fire. “Sit, eat, rest. I’ll tell you more in the morning.” 

Ruby frowned and folded her arms in front of her chest. “And why cant you tell me now?” 

“Because you’ve had a long day and there’ll be a lot to go over. Besides, whether you know it or not, you’re a target too now. You need to know everything so you can make the right choice.” 

“To abandon my family like you did?” 

Summer shook her head. “To live, or to sacrifice yourself.”

[nomoreluckystarz]

Pride's a Death Sentence (pt.2)

Angel, that was her name. Or at least that's what is written in the registry.

Astro, was the name of the young lady they found in the carnage.

She doesn't even look a bit like her; the red of her hair was dark, hers is a bright vermilion. Her eyes were filled with sorrow, hers are widened, soulless, like a doll.

But what if... It was her after all?

She's missing that same arm. The same one he hides.

No, Leonardo would never accept it. But eventually it could backfire to deny he was her mentor, her "father"...

Her killer.

-----------------------------

"Everyone, silent! Do you all realize we're hanging on a thread? There's no time for setbacks! All of you, get it together, we're leaving tomorrow morning!" The Leader in Blue says, setting his prosthetic arm on the table as his eyes squint in frustration.

The room goes motionless soon enough, the fear lingering with each second that passed by. 

To leave the next day out to the dangers of the apocalypse was without question a reckless course of action. Part of Leonardo’s tactic is to resort to get the help of the Hidden City and thus, increase the number of their army, but there was no sign of the city being anywhere soon to be found. 

Leonardo doesn’t have anything else to say; there was nothing coming to his mind, not a single solution or new plan to fight the Kraang. Ten years passed so fast; the grief of thousands of families, the broken hearts of past lovers, the cries of the Apocalypse generation children under the rubble and the limp arms of their mothers and fathers, those glimpses were still haunting.  

Leonardo is the man to call for things of this sort. He's in charge, and he is the one who promised people that the war would end soon; despite he's supposed to be a leader, he never learned from his mistakes. The tapping of his three calloused fingers against the red wood table, a pair of fatigued eyes leering across the room; the feeling of a million eyes staring at the abyss of who he is.  

He sighs. “You’re all dismissed”. 

The set of broken sai hung on the wall, a torn red bandana next to the picture of his long gone brother in the middle of the room, next to the picture of his long gone brother.

What would Raphael do?

The former leader of the Resistance– well, not the leader, but surely people respected him and trust him more. The Resistance had no choice but to start looking out for him now that Raphael was gone. 

"Goddamn..." He sighs as soon as everyone leaves the meeting room; deep inside he's nothing but the scared teen who sent the world to this misery.

He's staring at the picture again; the vivid image of his older brother torments him every day, when he's out on the battlefield, when he is in a meeting, even in his sleep.

The multiple Kraang crawling behind his shell, squirming with their disgusting ooze across his face, asphyxiating with a smile on their faces, pulling from his strong limbs one by one. The sky was painted red, that grim night only three of the Hamato brothers returned home, barely making it.

His calloused skin and the chipped piece over his shell; Mikey's limping that lasted for at least three whole weeks (news flash, it actually wasn't temporary); Donnie's battle shell completely torn to junk, the tentacles made it to, what's by nature, his weak point. A big nasty trace of scars across the keratin of his shell— inflicted by his own dear brother, if it wasn't for the girls' distraction they would've lost him too.

Well, he did lose him. But not to the Kraang, it was his own loss.

The Resistance is not big enough to have two leaders in charge, especially if the one challenging him was his, quote, twin. He's no longer his family, just a lame excuse of a brother, that traitor. Giving it all to the magical nonsense; for someone as smart as him, he sure made the stupidest decision ever. 

And then... He lost her. 

He will never forget her voice filled with pain. 

The same way he lost Raphael, but this time the blood was on his own, fucking hands. He made sure it was well hidden between his brother and himself.

But the truth always prevails, doesn't it?

A dreading gasp. 

---------------------------------

Leonardo's just falling deep into his thoughts, again. Shaken up by his younger brother, who went to check in after spotting him frozen up like a corpse. "It's getting worse. You should seek some help, Nardo". Mikey sets his cloak to the side, placing it over him as he was holding his battered hands into his; the box turtle smelled like the candle's citrusy scent. Leo's dilated eyes became softer, letting go for just a second. To remove the prosthesis that covered his...

Stump? No, there wasn't a stump in sight; Leonardo's right arm was in one piece, but compared to his left one, it was all covered in old burns, and wounds inflicted long ago, the most remarkable time being the night they lost Raphael to The Bite. 

Michelangelo's magic could be used to heal it all; "You shouldn't be punishing yourself for any of this".

But Leonardo's stance concerning supernatural phenomena is strong.

"And you should stop killing yourself with your powers. Don't act like I haven't spotted a new gray section in your locks, Hermanito". 

The prosthesis even made a yellow mark across the metal, to be matching with his left one, intact. It also looked a bit too much to Raphael's arm, so people just started assuming it was in his honor, and not asking Leo personally any further details.

After all, talking about losing a family member it's never an easy topic. He wishes he could stop lying to people; the war's most likely not going to end soon, but someone has to keep their hopes up. Someone. 

Someone else than him. 

Mikey approached him; a hug can't heal everything, but at least for the next ten minutes of silence, they could move on. Leonardo's right arm couldn't feel anything with all the dead debris surrounding it, but his left one started to brush his little brother's hair, it is amazing how long and well-kept it was despite all the dust and filth from the outside. 

It was just the two of them. They don't have anyone else besides April, and Splinter, although he's been getting very sick lately. So they have to get mentally prepared to assume the worst. 

"Leo..."

Mikey whispered. He held his hands as another butterfly emerge from his palms; the glow in this one was a light purple, with beamed in sync with the Clan brooch around Leonardo's belt and Mikey's cloak.

"I sense him again... I thought Astro would know what happened to-"

No.

Leonardo's too prideful to ask for help.

But Mikey knows he must step in to try and find a way to win this war. And it all starts with the robot girl he rescued, and vanished as soon as she woke up from her hyper sleep.