#despite this they don't display it in public. not the scars anyway

[theokusgallery]

tw for implied self harm

do you think that nick and sunny would get matching "<3" scars/cuts

Oh yeah totally

I mean they have a weird relationship with their/each other's bodies and (if you've read the 15+ comic, which I assume you did considering your question, you'll know what I'm talking about) a weird relationship with cuts & markings. Specifically in relation to each other, and ownership of each other

Arsenic's thoughts are usually along the lines of "I want to mark him everywhere with my name and have it on display that he's mine and mine only, I want to kill everyone who isn't us because then no one could even look at him or think about him or exist to him but I need people to exist in order to see and acknowledge that he's mine, it's pointless to own him if there's no one else around who can, he's mine because he chose me among everyone else, he's mine mine mine and everyone else only exists to see that and know that I'm better than them and that they'll never have him"

Nick loves to leave his name everywhere on Sunny. It's not enough to say "he has a boyfriend/he's taken", the point is that he belongs to Arsenic specifically, and that no matter what he always will because there's literally branding all over him and not all of it will ever go away.

He is also very, very fond of the concept of matching with Sunny. Usually couples do this about clothes? But clothes are too superficial for Nick (and Sunny's too weird about clothes to ever change it anyway) and matching with their bodies feels more sincere/meaningful. For Nick though, no name, just hearts is fine — because they have a very strict power dynamic and they are not on equal ground. Sunny belongs to Nick, but Nick could walk away any second. Which means Sunny feels pressured to do everything Nick wants so that this doesn't happen. Making Sunny insecure about their relationship is one of Nick's greatest joys

[questioned-quetzalcoatl]

30 Days of OTP: Day 1, Holding hands

Rating: K

Verse: Canon

AN: I finally got around to doing the 30 Day OTP challenge after putting it off for so long fml. This should be updated pretty regularly though, got a break from College work due to being unwell. Yeah it's Covid lol ;~;

I'm probably going to come to regret this in a while, I hope I don't stress myself out doing this! But enjoy nonetheless! (ノ^∇^)ノ

Kainga isn't all that big on public displays of affection. But if he was to choose one he found the most tender and calming, it was holding James's hand.

When it came to them holding hands, they had a very noticeable hand difference. Kainga only noticed it when his fingers were wrapped around James's, and on this particular day he was crushing them with nervousness. Kainga holds his hand whenever he's nervous, James always knows to give him a reassuring squeeze when the other is shaking.

Kainga's hands are slim and rather elegant, sitting upon boney wrists that were flexible to a degree. Thy and skinny yet possessing a softer undertone, a lot like Kainga himself. It doesn't matter how feminine his hands may seem, the Tongan had an unruly grip to him. One James discovered the hard way. A grip that lets him know that he doesn't want the other to leave, with his malice-like hold on his hand. Just to let James know that he'd be in deep shit with him if he disappeared without warning.

Despite Kainga's rather feminine and slimmer build, he was anything but weak.

James's hands were rather different. James had well worked hands, muscular with a real farmers grip. Rough and tanned, often times wrapped in some kind of bandages or gauze to cover the wounds he had from various fighting or farming activities the kiwi liked to do. Kainga was always one to wrap up his scrapes and grazes, tightly yet comfortably, telling James over and over that he needed to be more careful. Cut and bruised with big tough knuckles, various dark hairs dressed the back of his hand. His scent from his hands being a foul one of dirt and sheep manure, Kainga finding it rather disgusting when he found small bits of it on his own palms. James would just laugh.

Other times their hands fit comfortably into one another. James refraining from commenting on how cold the Tongan's hands can get as their fingers intertwine. Kainga would just deny everything anyway, saying James's hands are too hot for his own good as his soft finger traced the rough scars and lines along his palm like a map. His undertone like sandpaper or a piece of old parchment, stories that lay forgotten. Marks on the base of his fingers from where Kainga had pushed back his fingers in response to James's being drunk off alcohol and his own ego after a rugby game win from his team. The crack of his knuckles and the whiny yelp of pain is always so satisfying to him as he felt like James had earned it, throwing him off his high horse almost instantly.

Only when James pouted at him for the rest of the night would he reluctantly apologize by giving him a kiss.

Right now, he needed his hands more than ever. He needed that reassuring squeeze and the tattered thumb that brushed against his knuckles. The warm sweatiness of the Kiwi's palms, ones he'd normally find revolting. But when he was shaking on the verge of breaking into a panic attack, gross sweaty and tender farmers hand was just what he needed.

Tonga day, 4th of November had arrived as James and Kainga stood at Port Nuku'alofa. James had visited him for the occasion like he normally did. Although this time he was dressed in a badly worn, brightly colored Hawaiian shirt as if he didn't look like a complete tourist already. While the celebration was one Kainga enjoyed on the most part, what he didn't enjoy was giving a speech to the crowds that swarmed the Capital for the day. His anxiety of public speaking and all around introverted-ness had set in. He wasn't even aware of how hard he was gripping James's hand. James knew something was off from the start of the day when Kainga gave him no scathing remarks about how stupid he looked in that shirt.

He had squeezed his hand so tightly that James could barely feel his fingers.

In a way, James finds it sweet. Not the fact that he's panicking, but the fact that despite under all the stubbornness and short temperedness, Kainga did love James. A lot. So endearingly that he'd let him crush his all of his fingers.

When he's like this, he'll hold him tight. The blood pounding in Kainga's ears as all sense of hope for himself drifted away, the air itself around him seemingly overwhelming him too. If James wasn't here he'd have a panic attack. He quickly murmurs something hotly under his breath before tugging him down for a kiss, a full kiss where Kainga can taste the cheap lager from the airport in James's mouth. James's fingers had gone blue in his grip but that was the last thing he cared about right now. If he held him so tightly he knew he wouldn't let go.

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Chasing Providence {Dimitrescu/OC} Pt 1

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Pairings: TBA, at minimum platonic House Dimitrescu/OC, with some wlw side characters (also original, but not the focus of the story) Rating: T for mild violence and possibly triggering content Warnings: A character briefly threatens suicide as a means of prolonging a conversation (i.e. saying "if you don't listen, I'll ___") Additionally, this contains spoilers for Resident Evil 8. Summary: Months after being infected with a mysterious virus, investigative journalist Avaskian Caldwell is left with no choice: Xe has to get help, one way or another, from whatever remains of the Umbrella Corporation could be trusted. Or, perhaps, from the very person who started it all... Along the way xe'll have to get along with vampires, fight off would be hunters, befriend a hoard of cultists, all while performing the duties of an everyday servant. There's nothing xe won't try as xe's forced to chase providence. Notes: While this chapter features a somewhat talkative Ava, xe's normally selectively mute, and will be for the entire rest of the story.

1: Blood Runs Thick

“This can’t be it. No fucking way, bruv, are you sure you got the address right?” The journalist asked, eyes narrowed as xe stared out into the distant hills. One hand held a phone, currently without any signal, while the other kept a tentative grip on the van’s door handle. To their side was the driver, a middle-aged man with relatively little patience. When he replied, it was in a language the journalist didn’t speak, but could clearly understand as a swirl of profanity. “Alright, alright, I get it. Not like I could afford to pay you to take me back, anyway… I’ll just, uh, be going then. Try to have a nice day, eh, you old chap?” With that said xe opened the door, hopping out rather eagerly. After tucking xer phone into xer pocket, xe quickly gathered xer bags from the trunk, half expecting the man to drive off before xe had a chance.

Surprisingly, he stayed all the way until the journalist gave two hard pats to the van’s side. Then he practically slammed the gas pedal, speeding off in a whirling cloud of dust and kicked up rocks, promptly sending xer into a coughing fit. Curse these feeble lungs, xe thought, scowling. Absent-mindedly xe put a hand to xer throat, silently checking if xer, ahem, ‘wounds’ were still covered. Once satisfied, xe turned to the long, winding path into the village. Was this truly where the ever-elusive “Miranda” could be found? What in the blazes of hell was a scientist like herself doing here, in a mostly empty stretch of Romania? The thought sent a rush of anxiety to the journalist’s chest, as xe wondered if this “Miranda” would even consider helping xer. Xe hoped that, at the least, xer unique case would get her attention.

In the end, it took xer twice as long as expected to reach the village proper. There were no signs along the path, nor signs of life, other than countless dead birds, hung like falling leaves from every tree. Once, a display this gnarly would have made bile rise up in xer throat. But these days? After everything xe had researched? This was no hell, not when compared to the bombed ruin that was Raccoon City. Yet xe still cut xer hand when hopping the barbed wire fence, as if once again a rookie, too desperate for the truth to see the proper world. Fresh blood dropped onto the snow, but xe allowed xerself no wince nor complaint, instead focused on the figures moving in the distance. Strangers. Nay, sources. Someone would know something about the mysterious Miranda, even if they didn’t realize it.

So the journalist made haste, approaching as casually as xe could, considering the heavy traveler’s bag on xer shoulders, and the sturdy cane xe walked with. It was the latter that caught people’s attention first, as it click click clicked against the stone path. Before long there were several pairs of eyes on the journalist, some of them bearing thinly veiled hostility, others filled with nervousness.

“Who are you?” A man growls, stepping in front of a woman (his daughter, based on similar features, age difference) as he does. One of his fingers jabs into xer chest, daring them to take another move, carrying an unspoken threat within it. For a few seconds xe simply smiles at the man. Somewhat amused, xe hoped that xer natural charm would win the day, despite a quick glance telling them that most of these strangers were armed.

“I’m a journalist-” xe started to say, until the others moved their hands towards their holsters- “or at least I was, once. But I come asking for assistance, kindness from my fellow humans,” xe said, gesturing widely with xer arms. This made the others present pause, though the journalist wasn’t immediately sure that xe hadn’t just misspoken. Romanian was not xer first language. Or xer second, come to think of it. Oddly enough, however, it had clicked rather quickly in xer brain, as if xe had always been meant to speak it. “You may call me Avaskian Caldwell. Or just Ava, or just Kian, or just Vas, depending on your mood. Ah, but that hardly matters. I am here… to find a woman. Someone I have heard much about, a, how do you say… ‘marvel’ of science? They tell me she is called ‘Miranda’. Have I come to the-” xe do not get to finish that sentence. Before xe can understand what’s happening, someone has grabbed xer by the throat, attempting to life xer into the air.

For once in xer life, xe’s glad for the ‘extra insulation’.

“Fuck you, outsider, you don’t deserve to taint her name with your foul tongue!” The man shouts, squeezing xer throat, urged on by the jeering crowd. A smarter person would have been rather concerned at that point. But the journalist- Ava, as xe said- was not known for xer cleverness. That did not, however, stop xer from exhibiting cleverness. Taking advantage of xer ridiculous arm joints (which may or may not be doubled, possibly merely weird as fuck), xe reached into xer bag, ignoring the crowd’s scared reaction, retrieving an evidence bag. Inside of it: several broken vials, each marked with a symbol of terror. This is not a place of honor the symbol screamed. To the villagers, it meant something else, something older. To Ava? It meant the prophet of death, it meant Umbrella.

“I come bearing the sign of your village. I come bearing the scars of your Goddess,” Ava proclaims, raising the bag into the air. As soon as xe does, xe is released, the man scrambling backwards. Others turn away, some leaving, a handful gathering to pray. ‘Twas an odd display, but one that Ava preferred over a public execution. Only one person dares to approach: A woman, likely mid thirties, with dark eyes and darker hair. There’s a clear caution in her movements, as if it was taking all of her courage to not flee. “Do you perhaps know how I may reach Miranda? I am in dire need of her knowledge.” At this, the woman flinches, though her gaze lingers on Ava’s throat. It’s then that the journalist realizes xer collar was undone, exposing xer strange, ever-bleeding wound. The stranger does not speak until xe has covered the deformity.

“One does not simply reach Mother Miranda. But there are ways to get her attention, to ask for a, hmm, blessing,” she explains. With a sigh of relief, Ava starts to celebrate, eager to find a cure for what ailed xer. But the woman wasn’t done speaking, and her next words cut a thick line through xer hope. “It may take a few weeks, maybe less, but we can ensure your prayers are heard. Mother Miranda always rewards the faithful. Even those who start out as outsiders. In the end, all are welcome here, if they keep the faith in our Mother.”

“No, no, that won’t do!” Ava snaps, far harsher than intended. The woman flinches again, and xe starts to pace back and forth, trying to release xer pent up energy. “There has to be another way. Faster, more direct. I don’t-... I might not have time to wait. Please, please, anything you can do to help, even if it’s just pointing me in the right direction…” A gulp, eyes shining with unshed tears, a quiver of the lower lip. Falsehoods alike, directed for an honest purpose. Miranda was xer only hope for information- and, perhaps, for salvation. But the latter had never been Ava’s true priority.

“There might be one way, but it is dangerous. You’d be more likely to die on the path than reach your goal, if I am honest. Yet… if there is anyone in all the village who can grant you the audience you seek, it would be one of the four lords. If you are certain-” the woman could only watch as Ava nodded furiously, silently begging- “so be it. Follow me, but do not say I did not warn you. I do not want your spirit coming to haunt me for my act of pity.”

—————————

“An unexpected guest? How… delightful. Do tell me why you even bothered to drag this miscreant before me, Cynthia?” Lady Alcina Dimitrescu asked, with a scowl, staring down at the fragile human in question. Of all the things she had expected to find, once her head servant called her, this was not one of them. An intruder would have been more likely. Perhaps even more fun, if Alcina felt like letting her daughters join in the resulting feast. But this ‘thing’ was hardly worth her time. They were short, although admittedly somewhat plump, with a scent that implied illness. For once, she could not pinpoint the exact disease by smell alone. Not that she cared, really. ‘Twas simply… interesting.

“Please, allow me to introduce myself. You may call me Avaskian Caldwell, and I come with an… offer. With mutual benefits, I assure you, Lady Dimitrescu,” the journalist answered, giving a deep bow. Despite xer manners, Alcina seemed unimpressed, even irritated by the display. Still, she gestured with her right hand, encouraging xer to get on with it. “I am in need of a meeting, specifically one with the much beloved, dearly respected Mother Miranda. In exchange, I offer two things: The sweat of my brow, and the blood in my veins.” Much to xer displeasure, Alcina replied with loud laughter before fixing xer with a hard stare.

“Pray tell, little thing, what makes you think I won’t simply take your blood now, hmm?” She muses, cackling again, ignoring the way her servant flinched at the sound. But Ava did not waiver, instead simply reaching into xer sleeve. Slowly xe pulled out something metallic, speaking firmly as xe did.

“For one, Mother Miranda would certainly dislike losing out on this opportunity,” xe started to say, unable to stop xerself from smirking. Then the knife fully exited xer sleeve, dancing in the light, before pressing against xer own throat. It was certainly a unique threat. Instantly Alcina rises to her feet, only pausing when she realizes that she wasn’t the one in danger. “Secondly, my blood is worth more if I am alive. You see, I have a wretched ‘condition’, which does a handful of lovely, lovely, life-threatening things to this poor vessel of mine. But someone as intelligent as yourself could find plenty of use for my so-called ‘illness’. If you give me a chance to explain, that is.” Though she does not sit back down, or even nod, it quickly becomes clear that Alcina did not intend to interrupt. Yet. “Grand, grand! I do appreciate it, my Lady. Now, let me just grab the research I brought with me…”

Never once lowering the knife from xer throat, Ava digs into xer bag, forced to briefly clip xer cane to xer belt. Then xe retrieves a closed manilla folder, carefully handing it to the giantess in front of xer. Wordlessly Alcina accepts the item, opening it to peruse its contents, only pausing to put on a pair of reading glasses. A minute of quiet passes before Ava continues xer explanation.

“I heal faster than anyone else on your staff, guaranteed. Hell, I cut my hand down in the village, on some damned wire, and the wound has already closed back up, good as new. That means, of course, that if someone were to let’s say… remove some of my blood, well, it wouldn’t take too long for me to get more, now would it? Obviously there has to be some biological counter, some form of payment for my ability. The rule of equivalent exchange, and all that, yes? As it stands… I eat an extra slice of bread a day. That’s it. Nothing bad enough to cancel out the boon of my blood. My… extensive reservoir of blood. Interesting, yes?” Ava says, still as charming as ever, despite the indescribable terror in xer chest. If there was one thing that xe had learned as a journalist, it was how to hide xer fear. Which was plenty useful, in the current situation, especially when Alcina flips a page to reveal the one downside to xer condition.

“Don’t tell me you came all this way to try and deceive me. Here I was, beginning to think something of you, and you hand me a sheet that says it clear as candlelight: Your blood is dirty. Infected. I won’t be drinking it anytime soon, nor would I even consider allowing it to be used for my family’s wine!” Alcina is essentially yelling at this point. But Ava only takes a step forward, smile present but trembling, and gestures for her to turn the page. With narrowed eyes she does, quickly reading through the notes. Once, then a pause, then once more. Finally she closes the folder, setting it down upon her desk. “Fascinating. You are indeed a… unique case. I cannot guarantee you a meeting with Mother Miranda, and even if I do, it will be because of your condition. She will use you, as is her divine right to do, likely without ever once considering attempting to cure you. But if you are determined to meet her, well,” Alcina leans in with her own grin, sending chills down Ava’s spine, “I will not stop you. Here’s hoping you manage to give me plenty of blood before you ‘expire’. Cynthia, show her to the servants’ quarters. I expect her to be working by tomorrow morning. Dismissed.”

Although Ava could not help but twitch at the Lady’s choice of pronouns, xe had expected this. Eventually xe would explain the indefinite nature of xer gender. Or perhaps xe was doomed to die a horrific, tragic death long before xe ever had the opportunity. Either way, xe could not help but feel a small sense of elation, pleased to have made some progress towards xer goal. Three steps forward and two steps back was still, cumulatively, a step forward. In time, xe would likely come to regret this series of choices. But who among us could say they held no regrets at all? And if, in the end, this storyteller came away with one hell of a story… wouldn’t that outweigh the regret? Even if Ava did not know it, xe would one day learn a valuable lesson from the strange family xe now worked for: Blood of the covenant is thicker than water of the womb. Oh, and what a lovely covenant it would be.

[trondopeacekeeper]

𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙙𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙨𝙢𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚?

Musky essence. Some traces of desert anise. Sweat. Blood.

𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙙𝙤 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙚’𝙨 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚?

Rough and dry. Claws are wrapped with bandages, covering the calluses and scars. Without them, you could feel the roughness and warm of the scaly dragon skin.

Naturally, Trondo is extremely hand skilled and when he wants, the blood stained claws can also dispatch a incredibly softness and gentleness.

𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙙𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙪𝙨𝙪𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙚𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙣 𝙖 𝙙𝙖𝙮?

MEAT.

Trondo likes all kinds of meat and usually eats what he hunts. Peacekeepers animals are his main source of food: goats, vultures, rabbits, lizards...But he is not opposed to a big T-Bone steak (his favorite!).

𝘿𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙖 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚?

Not so much. Having a raspy and deep tone of voice which when singing shakes and does falses tones is not the perfect one for giving a concert... Depending of the song, of course (would be amazing listening to that gruffy voice singing some heavy metal songs, wouldn’t you think?). For this reason, Trondo sings only when thinks nobody is around or feels very comfortable with the situation.

(Or when he is drunk surrounded by his Peacekeeper’s friends, lol)

𝘿𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙗𝙖𝙙 𝙝𝙖𝙗𝙞𝙩𝙨 𝙤𝙧 𝙣𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙤𝙪𝙨 𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙠𝙨?

Killing Gnorcs for bloody and hateful revenge can be considered a bad habit?

Anyway, yes.

As for Trondo's bad habits, we could say that he sometimes likes to drink (if he is depressed and you see him in a dark corner, completely drunk without saying a word, better stay away). Another one is when he is in destructive mode, he triggers like a tornado and does not care about the damage he can create around.

Also when he is nervous, you can see his fists closing tight and sharp-dragon nose twitching without control. 

𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙙𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙪𝙨𝙪𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 / 𝙬𝙚𝙖𝙧? 

His clothes are usually minimal, ragged and stained with dirt or blood. Many are the dragons that complain about his half-naked walkings through the Kingdom...

The truth is that this dragon cares little about fashion, fancy clothing and etiquette. Trondo’s usual clothes are the bandana (his firma), a brown feather-rimmed cloth around his waist, the straps across his chest and the bandages on both hands and feet. Although his wardrobe is not very large, Trondo has other outfits besides the military one. We can also find a ninja suit brought from the Fireworks Factory, a desert-colored cape to chase down his enemies and a questionable trashy outfit for the modern times.

𝙄𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙖𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙚?  𝙃𝙤𝙬 𝙢𝙪𝙘𝙝?  𝙃𝙤𝙬 𝙨𝙤?

Good question. It’s complicated and it depends of the situation/the person. Trondo struggles with commitment and relationships

Non-romantic: He would try to not display public affection gestures to the person he cares about in front of others and surely would be extremely ashamed if his bad boy reputation is compromised for that. Quite the contrary would happen if he's alone with that person.

Romantic: Yes, actually he’s quite affectionate! But getting to the point where the terrifying Trondo melts into a sea of ​​purrs and sighs...Wow, the creature creating those effects on him has to be a truly unique one. When this dragon feels enough confident and loved, would love to show to all the people around how amazing his partner is.

𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙙𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙨𝙡𝙚𝙚𝙥 𝙞𝙣?

He can fall asleep in the strangest positions, although one of his favorites is to nap on the floor with his back against the wall. Of course, don't be scared if you ever see him asleep while standing up...

C𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙧𝙤𝙤𝙢?

Depending on his mood. He's like a ninja when wanted, silent and dark, acting with extreme sneakiness. You would probably hear the most subtle and distant sounds before than Trondo getting close to you. Despite this, he is also known by the boisterous, vocal and effusive ways of expressing his needs when happy or angry. A dragon of contrasts.

Of course this changes completely if we talk about other kind of activities...

Tagged by: @thekrakenguard

Tagging: @nomadriver @luteoflaughs @spxcemuses @coca-cola-sweetheart anyone who wants to do it :3