#maybe i should flesh out my own ocs more

[iqmmir]

Sort of weird scrolling through my dash after losing interest in every single fandom ive been a part of and seeing all sorts of media I used to be into that made me so happy barely affect me now

[joequiinn]

As We Combust | Emperor Geta x Priestess!reader

Summary: The Priestess is the only one who can ever tell Geta what to do...

Warnings & Tropes: SMUT, fem reader, both praise AND degradation kink, fingering, oral (fem receiving), sub!Geta, dom!reader, 3rd person pov, historically inaccurate rep of Roman priestesses

A/N: idk I frantically wrote this in an hour like I was possessed. The Priestess is a character I've been working on since the trailer dropped - she's meant to be a reader, though in this instance the 3rd person pov sorta suggests she's an oc maybe she'll become that idk. Something about awful, cruel Geta becoming a pathetic sub for a woman speaks to my soul, so we'll be seeing more of these two in the future~~

W/C: 1,162

!!! MINORS DNI !!!

A blaze so high it lights the night / Long fingernails dug in my skin

Yourself so wet invites me in / Our lust increased feeds desire

As we combust, yeah we on fire / I feel you shake so deep inside

Oh scream my name and squeeze me tight / I'll do anything to make you come

“Look at you, being so good for me.” The Priestess praised in a husky tone, rolling her hips in time with the feverish lapping of Geta’s tongue. She watched through hooded eyes, lips parted with heavy breath, while beneath her the Emperor sat atop his knees, mouth ravenous as he licked at her core. The rumble of his moan vibrated against her sensitive nerves, causing her toes to curl as she threw her head back, “Gods, just like that…”

Her fingers pulled roughly at his hair, nails scratching fiercly against his scalp. Another elicit groan sounded from the Emperor, his own pleasure rapidly mounting as the leg hiked over his shoulder began to quiver. As one hand squeezed the soft flesh of the Priestess’s thigh, his other bounced up and down his cock in jerky, aching motions. He was so close now, the beads of precum wetting his fingers each time he squeezed the bright red head of his cock.

But the Priestess wasn’t there yet, and he knew she’d be displeased should his climax arrive before hers.

Practically whining as he extracted his hand from his pulsing cock, Geta brought that same hand to her slick lips, teasing them momentarily, only to have his hair yanked in disapproval - the Priestess wasn’t one to play nice when teased.

“Behave.” She gasped out, rutting her hips with a stutter against his open, drooling mouth. The command drew more desperate sounds from the pathetic Emperor, who promptly did as he was told and inserted two fingers between her folds, curving them once he was knuckles deep. The sound of intense pleasure that escaped the Priestess was a beckoning siren’s song to his ears, a wanton encouragement to bring her to the cliff’s edge. He dexterously sucked her clit while slowly dragging his fingers in and out, in and out, relishing in the sweet taste and quaking thighs of the Priestess now at his mercy.

“Yes, yes--!” Her pitch increased as she gripped his shoulders, nails so sharp that they broke skin. Her hips rolled with more and more fervor, her chest rising and falling in rapid shudders as Geta’s greedy mouth sucked and licked and nipped at her clit. His fingers slid faster and rougher, practically drenched in the Priestess’s desire as his knuckles slapped against her skin again and again and again. His cock was throbbing, desperate for relief, but he knew better - he knew that the Priestess must come first.

His jaw nearly hurt as he kept lapping her up, but the Emperor dared not disrupt his pace - she was so close, and he needed to watch her come. The Priestess’s leg tightened on his shoulder, her pussy clenching around his fingers, and in his need to make her come absolutely undone, Geta slid one more finger between her drenched folds, causing her toes to curl in eager surprise.

“Fuck--!” Her hands roughly grabbed at his hair, tugging as if her life depended on it. Her voice was a sultry, low moan as she instructed, “Look at me.”

A sound of desperation escaped Geta upon hearing her command; he opened his deep brown eyes and tilted his head back just enough to meet the dangerous, lustful gaze of the Priestess. His tongue swirled her clit, watching hungrily as her lower lip quivered, practically drooling on herself as she rolled her hips against his mouth. Sweat glistened down her neck and chest, highlighting the dip of her collarbone, the curve of her breasts - just the sight of the Priestess alone was nearly enough to ruin him, nearly enough for Geta to spill all over his quaking thighs.

The hooking of his fingers at just the right angle finally sent the Priestess over the edge, her pussy clenching selfishly around him, her eyelids fluttering shut as her head shot back; sounds of utter ecstasy leapt from her dangerous, sultry lips, the seductive call daring to beckon the attention of the entire palace.

Geta’s other hand held tightly to her quivering thigh, realizing with a gasp that he was too close, his coil unwinding to the sound of the Priestess’s gasps. His jaw quaked against her center as he withdrew his soaking fingers, roughly clenching his cock in his hand as if he could somehow control himself. But it was too late for the Emperor, the pressure of his squeezing hand sending him to the brink.

As his warm seed spilled out and drenched his already soaking hand, he withdrew his mouth from the Priestess, a near flustered look in his eyes as he watched the cum drip from his fingers and onto the floor, his moans loud and uneven as his chest heaved deeply.

Still riding out her orgasm, the Priestess clung to Geta for balance, her body shaking and shuddering as she saw stars behind her eyes while coming back down to earth. She finally met the Emperor’s gaze, taking a moment to drink in his dark eyes, his full lips, his flushed face; she realized, then, that he was staring back at her in guilty desire.

The Priestess’s eyes slowly crawled from his face to his leaking cock, staring with both satisfaction and disapproval as she eyed the puddle of cum between his legs. As her tongue traced slowly along her lower lip, her sultry gaze returned to Geta’s face, causing him to practically shiver in anticipation, a breathless gasp leaving his mouth.

“Look at the mess you’ve made,” The Priestess scolded as she caught her breath, lowering her leg from where it had been resting atop his shoulder, “You know better.”

He nodded quickly, his hair sticky with sweat as he watched the Priestess as if hypnotized. She smiled wickedly, relishing in just how pathetic Geta was for her, and her alone. She delicately but firmly pressed two fingers beneath his chin, tilting his head back as she leaned down, the two of them almost nose-to-nose as she assessed him with a dangerous gleam in her eyes. Her teeth were like fangs as she grinned largely and cruelly, looking between his face, his cock, and his mess.

“Clean it up.” Her words were but a hot whisper across his lips, causing the Emperor to shudder as she shoved his face back. She turned to walk from him, her strut slow and sultry as Geta stared at the shiny peach of her ass. She lowered herself into a chair, her stare commanding as ever as she raised a cruel brow, once more looking between him and the puddle of cum he let spill on the floor. She clicked her tongue in reprimand, “Oh, don’t start behaving poorly now. Do as you’re told.”

With a gulp, Geta slowly lowered to the floor, tongue hanging hungrily from between his lips as he dared not break eye contact with the Priestess. Her mouth gaped in intense desire, her eyes a dangerous pair of daggers piercing into his own, “See, you're so, so good for me…”

[bamboozledbird]

IGNITE: A Teen Wolf S1 AU // Chapter 1 / Next

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Sheriff Stilinski, Reader (You) Pairing: Eventual Stiles x Reader, but man are we talking slow burn Word Count: 4.8k Warnings: Canon typical gore/violence, parental death (rip to your fake mom), descriptions of burning, depictions of depression (apathy, dissociation, 'numb little bug' vibes) Tags: Canon has been lovingly scrapped for parts, author is a chaotic bi and it shows, prolific overuse of the em dash, the slowest of burns i fear

Summary: You can always smell ash long after the fire is gone. Perhaps, that’s why you still can’t breathe without choking on the past. It’s been four years since your mom died. Four years since she burned alive. For years since you didn’t. You survived, but they must have buried your heart with her because you feel like something halfway between a ghost and a lamb for slaughter. 

You can’t wash the smell of hospital out of clothes, not really. Maybe, that’s why death and disease follows Stiles wherever he goes now. It’s been eight years since his mom died. Eight years since he didn’t. Eight years since he decided that he wouldn’t let anyone he loved die ever again. He survived, but Scott’s new-found abilities and the murky world they’ve been dragged into is making it pretty damn hard to keep his promise. 

Time never stops turning. The grief never dissipates. Children soldier on—but in a town where all the monsters under the bed are real and old family skeletons rattle in every closet, how long can two fragile, breakable humans survive? 

Maybe, the real question is how long will they want to? Chapter Summary: After your annual interrogation with Sheriff Stilinski, you meet his son who turns out to be very handy with jumper cables and incoherent babbling.

A/N: Does this look familiar? It should lmao. I gave into the peer pressure. All the messages and requests were too powerful. Here is a reader version of my ofc season 1 fic. Obviously some things have been removed to get rid of specific names/descriptions, so you want to read the full thing you can read the og version and check me out on ao3 (dork_knight)! For the sake of not clogging tags, I'll probably just do my reader version on tumblr and the full oc lore version on ao3 from now on. xx

Some say the world will end in fire. Some say in ice. From what I’ve tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire.

Before your mother’s death, you would have picked fire. Every single time. 

You never liked the cold; never really had to get used to it growing up in central California—but the crux of your argument, the twisted logic behind it all, was that most burn victims died from suffocation before they felt the flames. A small mercy, really, in the face of unspeakable tragedy. 

In the end, however, statistics were just numbers, your mother didn't die from smoke inhalation, and there was no mercy in burying a parent before you were old enough to have children of your own. Nothing ever ended poetically off the page. Death was just death, and it was always ugly. Someone should really tell that to Robert Frost, you mused, biting at a raw hangnail.

The medical examiner said the actual cause of death was pulmonary edema; at least, that was his best guess based on the state of the body. He didn’t say that she felt everything, her skin peeling back into her flesh, her flesh liquefying into fuel, her joints flexing into contorted pleas until the fire incinerated her last nerve ending. He didn’t have to; you connected those dots all on your own. You’d been twelve at the time, not an imbecile. 

“I’m sorry to drag you through this all again.”

You flitted your eyes away from the flickering lightbulb above Sheriff Stilinski’s head and met his gaze; it was nauseatingly sympathetic. Your responding shrug was a small, little thing—more like a twitch in practice, “Not your fault.” 

Your yearly visits to Sheriff Stilinski’s office were solely your father’s doing, even if no one wanted to admit it to your face. Most mayors would use their political power to get their child out of a police station, not into it, but perhaps he stopped being your dad somewhere between the funeral and now. 

“If you could start—”

“From the beginning,” you smoothed your thumb in small circles over the armrest of your chair, attentively tracing patterns into the polished wood, “I know.” This was, after all, the fourth anniversary of your first interrogation. You’d become somewhat of an expert at being a useless witness. You picked at your uneven cuticles before continuing, “Mom put me to bed around 10:00—which was kind of late for a school night, honestly, but she let me stay up to finish another chapter anyway.” The right corner of your mouth twitched for a brief moment, “Nancy Drew: Password to Larkspur Lane. I told her that forcing someone to go to sleep in the middle of a mystery was specifically forbidden in Geneva Protocol II.” Your mom had been far too indulgent of your lip on most occasions, but that night she didn’t smile at your snarky aside. She let you finish the chapter because she was too tired to argue; you could tell. At the time, you saw it as a victory. Now, it kept you up at night, the drooping lines of your mother’s mouth spilling over the pages of whatever book you were trying to read.

You bit down on your tongue when a stray splinter snagged against the soft pad of your thumb, “Dad was out of town, so it was just the two of us. Mom always put me to bed when Dad was gone; said it was the only way she could get to sleep. Had to make sure my window was locked.” You paused for a long moment: everything went dark after this. Your mother kissed the top of your head, murmured, ‘Love you,’ turned out the light, and then that was it. You woke up in the hospital, and your mom was dead. 

A bead of sweat dripped onto your top lip. The air in the Beacon Hills police station was, without fail, sticky with heat and body odor—and it wasn’t just the oppressive Californian sun. Even in the winter, a person could choke on the stifling warmth. Idly, you wondered if it was a matter of interrogatory tactics or budgetary constraints. 

“And then,” Sheriff Stilinski prompted gently, though you both knew how the story went from here. You had told it to him and a dozen other officials at least a hundred times in the last four years. 

You bit down on your thumbnail and winced when your teeth snagged on the tender nail bed, “And then nothing. I opened my eyes, and a nurse said that you found me on the front lawn.” 

“You don’t remember how you got outside?” 

You shook your head, staring past the Sheriff's shoulder. Large pieces of dust floated through the air, highlighted by the slivers of light trickling through the blinds. Suddenly, you had a newfound appreciation for the lack of fans in the room. 

Sheriff Stilinski cleared his throat and rubbed his hand over his jaw, “You don’t remember saying it was an angel?”

Blinking slowly, you looked at the grim line of the Sheriff’s mouth and gripped your knees tightly, digging your fingers into fragile skin until your wrist cracked, “I should, right? I was twelve. I should remember something—that’s what everyone thinks. That’s what my dad thinks.” Your eyelids fluttered to a tight close, and your voice went so quiet you could barely be heard over the hum of the copier outside the door, “He thinks it was me. That’s why he makes you question me every year.” Copper flooded your mouth as the soft lining of your cheek split under the brunt of your teeth, “He thinks you’ll finally figure out how I did it.” 

You were scared to open your eyes as the silence stretched between the two of you. You’d danced around the subject before, hinted and spun around the heart of it, but you’d never truly discussed how it looked from the outside. Sheriff Stilinski had been kind enough to give you a few different excuses over the years: trauma, head injury, oxygen deprivation, just plain ol’ grief—but whatever caused your temporary amnesia wasn’t so conveniently explained. In fact, currently, you had no explanation at all. When you finally peeked through your lashes, clumped together with frustrated tears, you couldn’t quite figure out what expression the Sheriff was making. He leaned back in his desk chair and frowned, “I’m sure he doesn’t—”

“He does,” you cut him off. Your eyes went flinty, irises darkening to something far more ashen with the resolve of your anger. You never had any trouble reading your father’s face; the disgust was thinly-veiled between the flickers of fear. 

Sheriff Stilinksi leaned forward so that you had no choice but to look him in the eyes. They were kind—more tired than usual, but still kind. They always were. That was one thing you remembered from that day, waking up in the hospital to Sheriff Stilinski’s kind, watery blue eyes, just before the entire world fell apart. His voice was gentle, but firm, when he finally spoke, “I don’t.” 

You nodded numbly and pulled at a fraying string on the hem of your denim skirt until the thread snapped. 

“I mean it, kid. They couldn’t identify the source of the fire. They couldn’t even find an origin point; no twelve-year-old could pull that off.”

You chewed on your bottom lip, “Could anyone?”

Sheriff Stilinski’s brow furrowed, and his mouth screwed up into a crooked line, like he was chewing on his words and deciding if he should swallow them or spit them out. “I wish I had all the answers for you. I really do. Not knowing, it’s worse than any truth.”

You blinked up at him for a moment, once again taken aback by his raw sincerity, and swallowed hard. He wasn’t the one who was supposed to have the answers; he was the one who was supposed to ask the questions. There was one failure in his muggy office, and it wasn’t the Sheriff. “It’s okay,” you said quietly. “Not your fault.”

He looked like he wanted to argue the point, but whatever he wanted to say was interrupted by the sharp ringing of the phone on his desk. “I have to take this, but if you remember something, or if you just need to talk—”

“My dad spends a small fortune on a psychiatrist and a behavioral therapist for that,” you stood up quickly, shouldering your bag. You forced the corners of your mouth into a small smile, tight at the edges like a sheet that had been stretched too thin, “But thank you. For everything.” 

The Sheriff’s gaze darted to a framed photo on his desk. You had seen it before, on one of your many visits to his office. It was of a boy—his son, you assumed—he looked like he was around five or six at the time. He was grinning, wide enough to show off his missing incisors, and his fingers and wrist were stained cotton-candy blue from a melting popsicle. You must’ve been that happy once, right? In the beginning, everyone was unencumbered by the weight of imminent mortality. Maybe that’s what Sheriff Stilinski was thinking, too. He looked away from the photo and gave you a small smile, “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

You gave a half-hearted wave before wrapping your fingers around the strap of your backpack and walking to the parking lot. 

Outside, the sky was grim, a mocking reflection of the dour expression on your face. The spite in your eyes hardened when big, fat raindrops splattered against the apples of your cheeks. For a moment, you just stood there, glaring at the rain and cursing the cosmos for their utterly unamusing sense of humor.

A jeep pulled into the parking lot, and the squealing engine startled you back into reality. The search for your car keys was, of course, a considerable endeavor. Nothing could be easy. Not here. Not today. Not ever, you thought. A bit melodramatic maybe, but the weather was certainly ripe for a bit of self-pity.

You stacked your textbooks and binders onto the hood of your sedan, haphazardly throwing your jacket on top of the pile to protect your painstakingly penned Kafka essay from the rain. By the time your fingertips brushed against the cool metal of your car keys, your hair was damp and curling at the ends. 

The momentary relief was short-lived when you pressed the unlock button five times and the accompanying beep didn’t sound, not even once. For an absurdly long minute, all you could do was rest your forehead against the driver’s side window, breathing heavily until condensation gathered next to your mouth and the drizzle speckled dots onto the sleeves of your thin cotton shirt.

“If you’re trying to charge the battery through osmosis, it’d probably be more effective to smash your head against the hood.”

You jumped, and then flinched again when your keys clattered against the ground. You caught a glimpse of the phantom speaker in the side-view mirror; bizarrely, he looked just as surprised as you felt. You turned around, trepidatiously—objects may be closer than they appear n’all—and tried to swallow your rapidly rising heart. 

“Sorry,” the boy pulled the hood of his sweatshirt down and had the decency to look contrite, “big mouth.” He rubbed a hand over his chapped lips. “It’s a real problem. It’s so big, actually, that my foot just slides right in there like…all the time,” he gestured animatedly with a flat hand, a quick sliding motion, like a fish through water.

You blinked at him, slowly, and bent down to reach for your keys, “Might wanna see someone about that. Sounds unsanitary.”

“Eh, it’s hardly the worst thing I’ve put in my mouth,” he said, eyes widening into horrified round circles the second he stopped talking. A faint flush creeped up his neck to his ears, and your heart dropped back into your chest. Slashers and ax murderers didn’t blush. Probably. You hadn’t ever met one, but it seemed like sound logic.

“Choking hazard,” you hummed, leaning back against your car. Your fingers traced a small dent in the door, the cause long forgotten, “It’s definitely still a choking hazard.”

The boy grinned before fixing his expression into something on the cusp of severity, “I’m about 95.7% sure that anything bigger than a fist is completely mouth-safe.” He held up his fist and nodded sharply, “Make that 98.3% sure.”

“98.3?” your brow arched.

“Maybe even 98.9.” 

The buzz of a lamp post hummed above your heads as you stared at each other with little smirks until the quiet made you sink your teeth into your bottom lip and big-mouth drum his fingers against his forearm. 

“So,” his sneakers squeaked against the slick asphalt as he shifted his weight, “you need a jump?”

You pursed your lips and ran your eyes over the front of your car, “I might give osmosis another shot. 30 seconds is hardly a fair trial.”

“Of course,” he hummed, “you gotta be fair.”

“We are in front of a police station.”

“Well,” he scratched his cheek, “it’s not a courthouse.”

“Technicality.” You were slightly horrified when you finally noticed that you were smiling. The sensation felt like it had escaped straight out of the uncanny valley and latched onto your face like a parasite in need of a host. It only took two weeks for muscles to atrophy; years must have completely decimated the fibers in your cheeks. “I guess I could use a jump. If your offer was an offer and not a hypothetical.” 

“Smart choice.” The boy rapped his knuckles against the hood of your car and said, “Steel’s probably pretty low on the permeability scale.”

“As opposed to a skull.”

He snorted and then nodded towards the large lump of books and papers covered by your freshly dampened jean jacket, “You should probably move your stuff. Y’know, ‘cause of the very un-permeable battery.”

“There’s that,” you sighed and started stuffing your things back into your backpack, shaking it violently until your notebook finally slid past your chemistry textbook, “and flunking English isn’t high on my list of things to do this weekend.”

His gaze flickered back and forth, rapidly cataloging every corner and crevice of your face. You tilted your head, brows pinched, and stared back at him with your arms crossed tightly over your chest. His eyes, you noticed, became a peculiar shade of brown in the yellow glow of the setting sun and the fluorescent light of the lamppost. More like honey, you realized, more like honey than irises. Something finally clicked behind them. "You,” he pointed aggressively, “you go to Beacon Hills.”

You pushed his finger away from your face with your own, “Safe bet, considering there’s exactly one option for the next 2,000 square miles.”

“You’re kind of a smartass, you know that,” he muttered. He struggled with the trunk of the jeep parked next to your car, cursing under his breath until he finally wrenched it open with an almost guttural grunt.

Your lips parted briefly, and then you grinned drolly. It was refreshing, not being treated like some fragile little creature who would buckle in the knees—or possibly set something on fire—at the slightest confrontation. “Kind of?”

“Total.” He nodded decisively before sticking his head and torso into the depths of his trunk. “Completely, entirely, and wholly a smartass.” There were various clanging sounds until he re-emerged with a pair of jumper cables, “Never noticed that in class. You don’t really…say anything.”

You bit back the snark poised on the tip of your tongue. When people looked at you, the only thing they saw was the worst thing that had ever happened to you. You were the daughter of the woman who burned to death on Cedar Street; your mom died, and you were there. It seemed like that was all you would ever be in Beacon Hills. 

In the grand scheme of things, it was better to be no one. 

High school had been your chance to slip into social obscurity—more kids, more drama, less discussion of homicide by arson—so you took it, wholeheartedly. You kept to the corners of classrooms, away from extracurriculars, and your mouth resolutely shut. 

“I try to exclusively bring the smart and leave the ass at home,” you finally replied.

The boy’s eyes drifted downwards for a moment, and his voice did a funny, squeaky thing when he said, “I should give that a go sometime.”

“10/10 would recommend. No one bugs you—and teachers never throw erasers at your face.”

“So you do remember me,” he grinned a little and rolled up the sleeves of his sweatshirt before unlatching the jeep’s hood and propping it open.

Slanting your head, you watched his profile. There were moles scattered across his cheek and neck, and his angular jaw clenched as he struggled with the knotted cords in his willowy fingers. “Vaguely,” you said faintly. It was coming back to you in pieces. That was life after twelve for you: bits and pieces. Everything was made up of the disquieting moments when you surfaced from the haze and into the present. It should’ve felt like a lungful of air, but it didn’t. It always felt like choking. 

He wiped his grease-smudged hand on his jeans and then extended it towards you, “Stiles.”

You took his hand, despite the strange formality, and shook it—mainly because of the black streaks staining his pants. “Y/N.”

His fingers twitched a few times when he connected the clamp to the coordinating battery terminal, and your eyes widened. You held your breath in your sternum until you registered that he hadn’t been electrocuted. He was just naturally tweaky, you concluded. It was either that, or he had jumped one-too-many engines in the last 24 hours…unless it was hidden option C, and he was actually tweaking. Unlikely, given he was on his way into a building teeming with cops, but far stranger things had happened in Beacon Hills.  

You sighed a little as you listened to the rain patter against the asphalt and the roof of your car, rubbing your palms over your arms until the goosebumps prickling along your biceps receded into your skin. Stiles looked back at you again, and his mouth wormed its way into a little frown. His head disappeared into his trunk, and after a moment a lumpy maroon mass hurtled towards your face. You caught it before it could smack into your nose, and you clutched at the soft material until you realized that the projectile missile was actually just a sweatshirt. 

Stiles was staring at you when you looked up from your hands. A small, unsure…something squirmed over his face, and you felt a little stupid, just standing there, hoodie limp in your arms. It happened a lot—more than it should after so many years. The invisible quicksand materialized in the strangest, most insignificant moments. You blinked, completely brainless, at simple questions, stared aimlessly into your closet until your second alarm startled you into snatching the first shirt you came across—clasped at a stranger’s hoodie until the rainwater pooled on your lashes dripped into your eyes.

Robotically, you thrust your arms through the sleeves and tugged it over your head, “Thanks.” The sweet scent of grass clung to the fabric, and there was something earthier underneath it, something like evergreen. You smiled slightly, combing your baby hairs behind your ears, “I guess I forgive you for attempting to blind me in the process.”

Stiles’s shoulders unwound as he scoffed, “That was an excellent throw. First-line material, honestly.”

You looked at him and tilted your head, eyebrows crawling towards your hairline, and Stiles sighed loudly, “Okay, so I’m not an ‘athlete’ or whatever—but I’m working on it. You’ll see—you’ll all see.”

You hummed softly, unconvinced but grateful enough to not comment further. Another bout of silence fell between you, but it wasn’t so restless this time—even after Stiles torpedoed his body through his passenger seat. He fought with his keys for a while until the correct one slid into the ignition. 

The jeep’s engine hummed pleasantly in the background as you let out a soft sigh, dropping your head back against your car window. The rain had stopped somewhere between trying to unlock your car and now, but you couldn’t quite recall when. The chill wasn’t so bad, you realized, without your foul mood casting a shadow over your head.

Stiles landed back on his feet and leaned against the jeep. You could feel his gaze on you again. A tickling sensation trailed down your spine as you fiddled with your keychain. You took a step backwards and bit your bottom lip, “I should probably try start my car…y’know, before you throw something else at my face.’”

He nodded, taking a step towards his jeep, “Solid plan. A tire iron was next.”

You slid into your car and stared at the steering wheel, forgetting to laugh at his joke. You wrapped your fingers around 10 and 2 and silently called upon every deity you’d ever heard of to end your suffering. Stiles seemed nice enough, but you seriously doubted your smalltalk capabilities were up-to ‘ride home’ standards. Perhaps, you should revisit your resounding dedication to atheism, you thought, as the engine sputtered in protest a few times and then came back to life. 

Stiles flashed two thumbs up through the window. The smile on his face was positively goofy, but his dismount from the jeep was somehow even goofier. He stumbled over his large feet a few times before regaining stability. You bit back a smile when he shot you another thumbs up, this time through the dash as he removed the jumper cables from your car’s battery.

He wiped his hands off on his jeans again; at this point, you were convinced that they were beyond saving, but Stiles didn’t seem concerned. He tapped against your window before stepping around the open door, “You should probably let it run for a while. Take the scenic route home; enjoy all the Beacon Hills hotspots open past 8:00 pm on a weeknight. I personally recommend the Rite Aid or Walmart.”

You snorted, “Maybe I’ll swing by the Preserve. I hear the woods are especially beautiful in the foreboding darkness.”

“Don’t.” Serious was an odd look on Stiles’s face. You decided that you much preferred the goofy grin. “Don’t go anywhere near the Preserve. It’s officially cordoned off—totally locked down, quarantine-zone-central. Something about flesh-eating, parasitic plant life.”

“As completely real and unobtrusive as that sounds,” you drawled, “don’t worry about it. Literally every single person in town knows about the body they found in the woods.” It was bound to happen, small town and all—and ‘woman dies in deadly animal attack’ was the most interesting thing that had happened in Beacon Hills since the intersection got a Target two years ago. “I’ve seen every installment of Friday the 13th and The Blair Witch Project. If I’m going to be murdered, I refuse to also be humiliated by a cliché C.O.D.” 

The manic expression on his face softened to a relieved smile and then again to a little smirk, “So what’s a certified fresh murder, then? Not that I doubt the depths of human depravity, but I think society killed off originality a few centuries ago.”

You thought back to a house fire with no origin, accelerant, or discernible cause. Apparently, not. “You know what they say,” you sighed, “life finds a way.”

Stiles tilted his head, “And death.”

“And death,” you agreed, staring at a small chip in your windshield. The cracks had just begun to spiderweb out from the pit. 

Stiles looked like he wanted to say something, and he looked so much like the Sheriff with his face twisted around thoughtful contemplation that you couldn’t believe it had taken you this long to make the connection. The boy in the photo had grown up. How unfortunate for him. Stiles swallowed whatever it was that was lingering on his tongue and shut your door. He leaned his elbow against the window frame and cocked his hand in a stiff little wave, “Seeya at school. I’ll bring something fun for target practice—maybe grapes. You like grapes? Don’t answer that—I’ll surprise you.”

You put your car in drive once Stiles was safely a few feet from the wheels and gave him a dry smile, “The anticipation is killing me.”

What a scary place to be, you thought as you watched Stiles disappear in your rearview mirror. Anticipation. Hope. Life. You were chronically good at surviving; cockroached your way out of every horrible thing life squashed you with. Lately, all you could do was cling to your heartbeat and the warmth of your skin, until you were barely more than roadkill. A walking carcass was a far cry from living, but death would not stop for you, so you stopped looking for him. You kept treading water, took your pills, stopped existing—you were a lot like Schrödinger’s cat that way: too stubborn to live, too stubborn to die. You didn’t know what to do if someone unsealed the box and forced you to choose. That was the trouble with possibility; it required far too much uncertainty.

Your dad’s SUV was parked in the garage when you finally pulled into your circle driveway. It was a rare sight; your dead battery had disrupted your usual routine. You were supposed to be safely tucked away in your room after an early dinner—take-out usually, sometimes a quesadilla if you were feeling exceptionally inspired—by the time your dad got home from work. It was dysfunctional in every sense of the word, but it was the only way you could function in the same space. 

He used to stare at you from the other end of the dinner table: not eating, not speaking. The only way you knew he was alive was the slow rise and fall of his chest. After a while, he moved dinner to his office. ‘Working dinner,’ he’d say in passing, ‘budgets are due.’ Eventually, he stopped coming home altogether. It was better that way, you thought. You loved each other better from afar, where the power of nostalgia could cloud all the present unpleasantries. You wondered what he saw when he looked at you now. You wondered, and you desperately didn’t want to find out.  

You shouldered your backpack and made sure your car lights were off twice before quietly creeping into the mudroom. You could hear the buzz of the microwave as you toed off your sneakers and tried to discern the smell emanating from the kitchen. Something with garlic and tomato. Bona Vita, probably. Your dad loved their al pomodoro. 

You tried to make yourself as small as possible as you skulked into the kitchen, shoulders hunched to your ears and grip tight around the strap of your backpack. Your dad’s back was to you; you could see the wrinkles in his collar from where he tugged at it when he was agitated. He stopped stirring his pasta once you reached the island. 

“Did…” your dad trailed off for a moment, still facing the kitchen counter, “did everything go alright with the Sheriff?” 

You shrugged even though he couldn’t see you, “I guess.”

“It’s just,” he rubbed at his jaw and looked down towards the oven, “it’s almost eight. I was wondering…worrying.”

He still wasn’t looking at you. You stared at the back of his head and sucked your bottom lip between your teeth. Look at me. Your brows pinched, and your back molars ground together. Look at me. 

“I called him. Sheriff Stilinski. He said that you didn’t speak for long.”

“Didn’t have anything new to say,” you shoved your hands into hoodie pockets, realizing belatedly that you forgot to give Stiles his sweatshirt back. Another problem for another time. 

“That’s not what I—” your dad grasped the lip of the counter and hung his head like it suddenly weighed too much for his spine, “I was wondering what happened to you.” 

“Oh,” you shifted your weight onto your other foot, “dead battery. I think it was the door light.”

Your dad nodded a little, “Do you need someone to pick up your car?”

“Got a jump from a friend.” Not a friend, not really, but you supposed it was the closest you’d come to one in the last four years. That was just a little too sad to say out loud. 

“Good.” He nodded again, “Good.” 

You nodded because it seemed like the only thing to do and slipped towards the hallway. You’d taken no less than five steps out of the kitchen when your dad said, “You could call me. Next time, you could call me.”

Maybe. Maybe you could if he would look at you.

[willowedhepatica]

Here's my humble offer to @lovelooksgudonu for the comic she drew about dark!ava. Of course the credit goes to her (and simplykorra) for parts of the dialogue she wrote, (I wanted to stay true to the source material)

Her art is absolutely amazing, go check it out if you haven't! (I hope this is okay, I got inspired)

—

The first thing that hits her when she wakes up is the stinging smell of sulfur. The distant remains of the fight that carried through in ash and dust, leaving her dazed and bewildered.

Ava had struck her in the back.

She hadn't even hesitated.

A chuckle comes from somewhere behind her and Beatrice shifts, the movement sending a sharp pain through her wrist and left arm. The rope is tied harshly, digging into her skin and keeping her there.

"That hit really did a number on you, huh Bea?"

Ava walks in front of her, brown eyes piercing. There's an easy smile on her lips, almost teasing, as if she found this situation amusing.

Beatrice leans forward, her voice hoarse. "Ava-"

"No. Don't give me that look." She cuts off, a sudden shift by the downturn of her mouth. She walks closer, leaning down to look at her properly, tied to the chair and bruised. "I've been merciful towards you, after all. Haven't I?"

Her hand comes up and takes a hold of her jaw. "You should be grateful."

The touch turns on several signals in her body at once. She sucks in a breath, the alarm battling with the craving of wanting more.

She hadn't felt her touch in so long. God, she'd missed it. Yearned for it.

But this wasn't her. This wasn't Ava.

"Snap out of it."

Her hold shifts, forefinger etching into her skin. "What was that?"

Her hands shake. They curl into fists as she looks up at her, meeting her eyes. "Snap out of it!"

Ava hums and for the first time Beatrice finds that she can't read her expression. Can't find any trace of the woman who showed emotions like the glow of a sun, drawing everyone in by her mere presence. She only shifts her hand, cupping her cheek as her thumb goes over her lip.

Beatrice can't suppress the shiver.

"Would you betray them for me?" Ava mumbles, face so close, breath skimming over her cheek, nail digging down into the flesh of her lip. It splits open with a sting of pain that slowly makes the blood spill out and drip across her jaw.

"Ah." Her voice cuts out and Ava's smile grows.

She leans even closer, teasingly drawing her nails over the part where her throat meets her jaw. "Yes?" It's a whisper. It's a lure. Her lips tickle against her own and she forces her to meet her eyes as Ava sinks down fully in her lap, keeping her jaw in a tight grip.

"You never were very talkative." She mumbles, her other hand trailing down her collarbone, her chest.

Beatrice tries to prevent the swelling in her chest, the pleasant tingling in her body over finally being touched.

"Let me make it easier for you." Ava continues, "if you say yes, I'll reward you. Shit, I'll even give you a little treat. If you say no however..." Her hand stops at her shoulder, eyes distant. She looks up at her. "What will it be?"

Beatrice thinks back to Camila, who had stayed up several nights in order to figure out Ava's position. She thinks about how much she's grown, how much she's overcome, how much they've gone through together.

She thinks about Mary and how she would scowl at the situation, telling her to not even dare make that decision.

She thinks about the OCS, the order she practically grew up in. It shaped her to who she was today. It took her through some of the worst periods of her life.

There had been so many sisters before her that had laid their life for the cause. For them. For her. She can't toss all of that away.

"I can't..."

Ava's jaw tightened. "Right. How could the perfect sister Beatrice ever do such a thing?"

"That's not-"

"Quiet."

Beatrice shuts her mouth. It's automatic.

The sharpness in her tone keeps her on edge.

"Maybe you'll come to better thoughts if I alleviate your pain a little." Her eyes fall down to her wrists where Beatrice is tugging against the restraint. "You'll never get anywhere like that."

"I'm fine." Beatrice bites out.

Ava tsk. "You're being stubborn." She brings something out from her pocket and her weight shifts in her lap by the movement. "I know you hurt your wrist in our fight, this will help."

She brings the pill up for her to see.

"I won't..."

Before she can finish Ava presses her thumb against her lips. This time they part open by the force and she continues by dragging it against the ridge of her mouth, scraping across the clench of her teeth. "We may not be on the same side yet, Bea, but that doesn't mean I want to see you hurt, baby."

Beatrice doesn't answer. In a way, she can't. Ava is still keeping her in a vice grip, a glint in her eyes that tells her she's planning to do something Beatrice won't be able to stop.

At least that part was still familiar to her.

Ava plops the pill in her own mouth, voice husky as she slowly inches forward. "Don't worry, I think you'll enjoy this technique..."

Before she knows it Ava's lips press against her own, mouth hot and tongue nudging to get more access. Beatrice gives in with a slight whine, feeling the pill slip inside. She swallows it and everything else falls away as Ava answers by pushing forward, body rising and kiss deepening. It's electrifying in the worst possible way.

"Mmm, see, the way you respond tells me you're not as restrained as you pretend to be."

Beatrice whimpers.

She wants more. She needs more.

She can't.

Finally - far too soon - not soon enough, Ava pulls away, resting her forehead against her own. She exhales, open-mouthed and smiling and when she speaks she's grown considerably softer. "The medication won't kick in for a while, would you like me to distract you some more?"

“Ava… please…”

She traces a path down her cheek. “Look how red you are, don't tell me you don't like this?” Her fingers skim across her ear as she tucks away a strand of hair that had gone loose. “Don't tell me you haven't thought of this ever since our time in Switzerland.”

Beatrice looks away, teeth clenching.

“Hm? Not speaking?”

“That's okay, let me show you just what I've been thinking about during my time across the arc.” Her hand leave her cheek and nudges at the end of her shirt. “You remember that night when we got drunk at the bar?”

Beatrice watches as her hand slip under the fabric and graze across bare skin. Her stomach ripples by the touch.

One nail starts to press down ever so slightly.

“Bea, answer me.”

“Yes- yes I remember.”

She smiles, satisfied. “I remember it too. I've had a lot of time to replay that moment.” She leans closer, close enough that her lips skim over her ear. “A lot of time to let it derail too.”

Ava doesn't wait for her to answer before she continues, nails scraping lightly across her skin. Like a game. “I thought. What if Beatrice noticed me? What if she knew that when I looked at her all I wanted to do was to let her pin me against a wall and fuck me.” She glances down to their position. “Looks like things have taken a slight turn.”

“Ava.”

Ava tuts. "Not yet. It was my turn, remember?”

If Beatrice knows Camila correctly, she's searching for her. She will find her eventually. She just needed a little more time, a little more information…

She shifts. "What more?”

“Excuse me?”

“What more have you thought about doing?”

Her eyes glint with slight surprise and then approval. “I'm so glad you asked.”

[sehtoast]

A Good Punishment is its Own Reward (Homelander x Reader Smut)

18+

Word count: 2k

Fic Directory

Summary: Homelander doesn't take too kindly to being smacked on the ass- in public, at least.

Warnings: Vaginal sex, oral sex, fingering, semi-public sex, getting weird with the web holes again, spit

Reader is written as a trans man but is kept gender neutral save for two or so gendered terms. Reader is written in the spirit of my spidersona oc

You knew not to tease.

After all, it was like dangling meat in front of a tiger that’d been starved. But, in the end, could you really complain? Once the aches had faded and he settled against you, could you really complain?

Not at all.

That’s why, as the meeting of The Seven adjourned and Homelander walked past, you took a quick swat at his ass.

The look he gave you sent a chill down your spine, tingling in your core. It wasn’t like you did it when the team would see.

“Hehe,” you chuckle. “Sorry babe, it’s just looking extra smackable today.”

He approaches you in a slow gait, hands behind his back, leather gloves creaking with the restraint he was so carefully exercising. Despite your own superpowered strength, he has you at his mercy in a fraction of a moment. A gloved hand gripping your neck, tilting your gaze up to meet his.

Those beautiful blue eyes that took you back to the clear, summer skies of your youth– that warmed you all the same.

“What, exactly, made you so bold today, hm?” John purrs, teeth bared as though he meant to threaten his prey.

You’ve nothing to say as his free hand snakes down the length of your spandex covered body, moving to press his palm against your heat.

“I could smell how fucking wet you were during the entire meeting…” Homelander murmurs in your ear, breath hot against your flesh as he blows on it. His hand remains at your neck, squeezing to punctuate his words. “Do I really work you up so much? You want me so badly that even corporate bullshit gets you soaked? So long as it’s coming out of my mouth?”

He relishes the way the emotive lenses of your mask mimic the way your eyes widen, though he finds it infinitely more delightful to utilize his x-ray vision to peer through to your reddened cheeks, the way you bite your lower lip in anticipation. You nod breathlessly, and he’s upon you immediately, tearing the mask from your head, tongue parting your lips, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit through your suit.

You moan into his mouth, hips bucking toward him for more.

“John…” you whine, and you feel his lips curl into a devilish grin.

He nibbles at your lip, and suddenly you’re being manhandled onto the conference table, his hands splaying across your upper body, thumbing at the spider emblem on your chest.

“I think you owe me, now…” He growls. “For taking without asking.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” You bite your lip, cunt clenching around nothing as his words settle deep in your core.

He stands expectantly, hands on his hips as he waits for you to pay what you owe.

Your hands are at his belt immediately, dropping the metallic article to the floor without care– for you’re far more invested in stripping his pants away. You slip your hand between the band of his red briefs, simply taking him in a hold for a moment as you wrap your arm around his neck to tug him in for a kiss.

Your tongues dance as you begin to stroke, his cock twitching in tandem with his little moans. It’s enough to drive you insane, but you’ll find your sanity once more when he’s had you in every way he wants– every way you want.

"You like that, don't you baby?" You whisper in his ear teasingly.

His hand is at your neck again, and your breath catches.

“Maybe we should put your mouth to good use,” he rasps, tongue darting out to lick the shell of your ear. “On your knees, little spider…”

You obey, hopping off the table to kneel before him as he shimmies his pants and underwear to his ankles.

“That’s it…” he groans as you grasp him, tongue darting out to swirl the bead of moisture from the head of his cock.

Your free hand strokes at his thigh, the softness of your touch mixing with the heat of your mouth as you take him in, dragging your tongue along the underside of his shaft as you swallow every inch of him. He hisses, and your pride swells.

As does your audacity.

You trail your hand along the curve of his ass, then swat it down in a sharp smack, gripping a handful of the soft flesh to knead.

Your hands are trapped in his grip in seconds, and a leather glove has you snatched by the hair, pulling your head impossibly closer until your nose is buried in the thatch of hair at the base of his cock and you’re gagging around him.

“Thought you’d be fucking cute with that, huh?” He snarls, hips snapping forward to fuck your throat. The hand in your hair jerks your head back and forth, using you to his heart’s content, groaning with each deep stroke.

“Gonna make you regret it,” he promises with a sly smile, ripping you off his cock to stare at him with your lidded eyes, drool dripping off your chin. “Look how fucking messy you are for me. Can’t get enough, can you?”

He grips his cock with the hand that previously held yours captive, and he smacks the length of it on your cheek, dragging it across your lips to paint your face with your own spit.

Your tongue darts out, desperate for his taste once more, but he pulls your head back, cock just out of reach of your wet muscle.

“Bad boys don’t get what they want. Only I get what I want.”

Suddenly, he’s dragging you up from where you knelt, hands seeking out the zippers to your suit– somehow patient enough to strip you properly. He took you in another kiss, strings of your saliva connecting you as you parted.

“Open your fucking mouth,” he commands.

So you do, and he’s using his grip in your hair to tilt your head back to spit in your mouth.

“Swallow it.”

You obey, gulping loudly, and the devious look on his face only becomes more wicked.

“Such a fucking slut,” he praises as he works your suit down your body. “Look how fucking wet you are.”

He’s right, too. As he pulls your underwear down, your arousal clings to your clothes.

You want to say something quippy, to tease him, but your thoughts melt away as his leather clad fingers swipe through your folds, dragging your wetness up to your engorged clit. Your head falls back, and he’s nibbling at your neck, licking and sucking marks onto you– claiming you.

“All for me,” he lilts, tongue dragging up the column of your neck. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you whimper, hands gripping in his hair, tongue painting your flesh like a brush on canvas. “Yours…”

As the word leaves your mouth, his fingers sink into you, curving right away to find that spot that drives you fucking wild. His fingers squelch each time he drags them out and slams them back in, fingerfucking you with delight as he watches how your face contorts in bliss.

“Johnny!” You cry out as the pressure builds, hips bucking to chase the sensation, almost there, almost–

“N-No!” You whimper as his fingers leave you, and he’s chuckling.

“Didn’t I tell you? Bad boys don’t get what they want.” He shoves you back to lay on the table, hands gripping your wrists to thumb at your spinnerets.

You yelp at the sensation, still infinitely grateful for his fascination with your previously undiscovered erogenous zone.

“Do you deserve to cum?” Homelander asks, leaning over you with predatory eyes and mussed hair. You swear you see a flash of red in his pupils as he licks the tip of one of his sharp teeth. “Do you deserve to have me fuck you?”

You nod furiously, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him in against his own strength.

“Please…”

He brings one of your wrists to his mouth, dipping the tip of his tongue into your widened spinneret, making you howl, your back arching as the sensation shot straight down to your cunt.

“I could take you apart so fucking easily,” he proclaims proudly. “I could have you any way I want.”

Homelander rocks his hips, sliding the length of his cock up and down your slit. You can see the way his control falters for a moment, pleasure clouding his focus. His brow furrows and his expression softens, and you seize your chance.

“C'mere…” You coo.

As he leans down, you nudge your forehead against his.

“I love you so much, y’know…” Your eyes shut, and you plead through your needy haze. “I need you, baby. I need to feel you in me."

Always so brittle when it comes to affirmations of love, Homelander presses a kiss to your forehead and grips himself, the head of his cock nudging at your sopping entrance.

"Mm," you hum, leaning up to kiss him properly. "Please, Johnny. Please take care of me…"

You can practically see the nickname push him over the edge, and he sinks inside in one push. You swear you can feel him throbbing between your walls, his little moans quivering in the air.

"Damnit," he groans as he bottoms out, gritting his teeth to stave off his release. As he takes a moment, you reach for his hands, slipping the gloves off, exposing him to the world.

To you.

He moves to lean over you, peering down with something utterly carnal in his eyes as he starts to move.

His thrusts start slow, mind still addled from your declaration of love. It always was the most perfect way to pull him back to earth.

You grip at his forearms, his hands grabbing you firmly by the waist as he lets loose, pace increasing by the second until he's driving into you like a madman.

"Fuck!" you hiss, your body jostling with every thrust. Your mind hazes, and you submit to however he wants to use you– pleased that you got what you wanted.

His grip leaves your waist, slender fingers wrapping around your throat, a palm over your mouth to quiet you.

He doesn’t quite know why he stifled your noises, only that the sick sense of control he got from it brought him to the brink. To know he could control you, down to even the sounds you made, was nothing short of fucking ecstacy.

“The only thing,” he pants, “I want to hear out of that fucking mouth is my name. Do you hear me?”

You nod, eager to please him. As he lets go, you make sure the first thing you do is moan his name into the air like a prayer.

“Mmm, fuck!” He pounds into you, fingers traveling down to toy with your clit. He spits on it, using his saliva as lube to glide across that tender bud, relief coming to him as you throw your head back.

“John, oh f– I’m gonna–”

You clench around him, vision tunneling as he keeps the pace with both his hips and fingers. You cry out, each breath spent on his name as you crest higher and higher, bliss overtaking every molecule of your body.

You feel him coming deep inside of you before anything else. Before the whimpers of your own name meet your ears, before his head falls down to rest in the crook of your neck as he ruts through the waves of his orgasm. He’s warm, his breath is hot, and the cock twitching and spurting inside you is delicious.

You come down from your haze first, and you take the time to press a kiss to the side of his head.

“Heh,” you breathe a laugh. “Maybe I should smack your ass more often…”

Despite his groan, you feel him smile against your neck. “Keep it up, and you’ll get much worse.”

You pull him impossibly closer, limbs wrapped around him as his body lays limp against you. Above, Homelander finally cracks, and a lighthearted laugh leaves him. His fingers card through your hair, and he presses a kiss to your cheek.

“Babe, if that’s your threat, I’m gonna do it as soon as we stand up!”

He can hardly wait until you get the bright idea to spank him again.

[monsterkin-culture-is]

Im not good with asks but please may we have some zombie kin help? I've just been struggling with it grrrr , thank you . -📼

Sorry for the delayed response!

This is my first time doing kin tips so it might be a little hit-or-miss but see if any of these are helpful! I'm assuming this is in the context of ways to combat dysphoria/incorporate your kintype more into your daily life.

Raw Meat Diet: Obviously human flesh and raw meat isn't a viable option here unfortunately. @/forests-creatures created a good list of alternatives: Beef jerky, rare steaks, safe raw salmon & dried fruits. For sweet options, I'd say the red tongue-staining lollipops could work, as well as pink or red chocolate & red popping candy. Please research that what you're eating is safe beforehand! Tumblr is not a reliable resource.

Sunglasses & Sunhats: This tip was inspired by a similar vampires list! I'm not sure if your specific zombie kintype has a sensitivity to sunlight or is associated with the night but if so, incorporating sunglasses or tinted glasses into your day-to-day wardrobe might be an option! Sunhats don't blend in as well in the winter but there are rain & sun hats such as Tilley hats and other alternatives which you could use instead.

SFX Makeup: I used to do a lot of this a few years back! I absolutely encourage you to learn special effects makeup to create wounds or even just look a little more corpse-like. This is definitely not for the day-to-day but it's a fun hobby if you're okay getting a little messy! It can also lead into a potential career path. You can do some pretty effective stuff with some fakeblood, toilet roll, glue & foundation so it doesn't always have to be pricey. It's almost halloween so it should be the best time of year to gather supplies!

Apocalyptic Wardrobe: Ripped jeans are your friend!! I know not everyone loves skinny jeans (I certainly don't) so don't be afraid to find an old/cheap pair of cargos or wide leg trousers and make your own tears with some scissors. I'd recommend arm/leg warmers & fingerless gloves, which shouldn't look out of place now we're coming into autumn. Handkerchiefs can also look a lot like bandages. If you like to present more femininely, then messy ribbons & colourful braids in your hair can give the desired vibe.

Try Meditation: Zombies are sort of known for their head-empty, distant feeling from being undead so a healthy way of manifesting that could be through meditating! It's definitely a challenging skill to build but following a youtube guided meditation is a good place to start. I honestly wouldn't be surprised if there were themed ones! (Maybe that's a new business idea for me... horror meditation...)

Go on a walk/hike: This is a common kin tip via the idea of connecting with nature. However, I think it works especially for zombiekin because you can recreate that feeling of solitude from the apocalypse.

Onto the more generic advice! I always recommend making a moodboard for your kin, which you can then use as the cover for a kin spotify playlist. Watching movies of your kintyoe is a common recommendation. In this instance I'd say include other apocalypse films/tv too!

A generic but less common tip is (if it's your sort of thing) make an oc/kinsona for your kintype and play as them in a game or roleplay as them online.

I hope a couple of those ideas were helpful! Let me know if you try any. Also thank you for your other culture-is submission, I'll add it to the queue!

If I have completely misunderstood your ask please send another one and I'll see how I can help!

[dystopyx-blog]

IDEAS FOR TWST OCS:

I have a few

they are in their very baby stages of creation, not at all fleshed out. Really these are just ideas for ideas. all character ideas are beast men. Not on purpose, just how things turned out.

CHAR 1

Name: [name pending] AKA “Dummy the Clown!”

Twisted from: Dumbo

gender: tbd, prob male

school: prob royal sword

dorm (if applicable): First idea is for a dumbo character because,,,,,,,, clowns

just an absolute baby

floppy lil fella, melts like puddin in your hands under praise/affection

Self image issues out the WAZOO. Copes by being a clown. Because as a clown, they have more control over how people perceive them. Yes they’re a goofy little failure, but this time it’s for comedy, and not because, well… they’re a failure. They’re a performative failure, playing up every single little mistake or incident, like “whoops, silly me, oh I’m such a goober!” Internally most of those mistakes are like a fuckin dagger to the heart for them. can you imagine,,, cute lil elephant beast man,,,, with big ol floppy ears,,,,,,,,

Secretly loves being called cute, because at least “cute” is positive

Prob goes to Royal Sword.

CHAR 2

Name: tbd (thinking Georgie but that might be too on the nose)

Twisted from: Georgette from Oliver and Company

gender: tbd, but thinking genderfluid

school: tbd

dorm (if applicable): if in nrc, definitely pomefiore

Only the vaguest ideas for this one, but I neeeeeeeeed a Twst oc based off of georgette. yall don’t even fuckin understand, “Perfect Isn’t Easy” is literally my all time favorite Disney song. did you know none of the songs from that movie are on Spotify?? Fuckin criminal. There are covers, Annapantsu covered “why should I worry” and someone named Sienna? I believe? Covered Perfect Isn’t Easy but you don’t UNDERSTAND, GEORGETTE WAS VOICED BY BETTE MIDLER I NEED THE ORIGINAL ON SPOTIFY I NEED ALL THE OLIVER AND COMPANY SONGS ON SPOTIFY— Y’all it’s not even a good movie and I fucking hate Charles dickens, why tf am I so attached to this movie???

oh yeah

Georgette

so I need a twst oc based off of her. I’m imagining a fabulous little genderfluid beast man. Bitch def in pomefiore. Georgette isn’t technically a villain but hear me out hear me out

I want the fab poodle and Ruggie to kiss 😳

in the movie, Georgette ends up with the scruffy little Chihuahua

I am imagining Georgie here being a fuckin 5’12 god/dess in massive heels, towering over a scruffy lil man. maybe even Epel, fuck if I know!

CHAR/s 3

Name:

Twisted from: the fuckin vultures from jungle book

gender: male

school: nrc

dorm (if applicable): savanaclaw

You don’t understand. No, you don’t understand. You couldn’t possibly understand

why?

because I don’t fuckin understand. but the vulture song (that’s what friends are for) was like… my favorite fuckin song. I don’t know, I don’t fuckin know. BUT

just imagine

a hippie dippy lil shitty vulture boy

mans probably stoned outta his mind

he’s a big scary vulture beast man

but he’s just a fuckin goober. also fuckin smarter than you think (like real vultures)

food for thought.

FINAL CHAR IDEAS

I want to make some Peter Pan boyos

obv I need a Captain Hook and smee but rn all my thoughts are

Name:

Twisted from: Tick Tock Croc from Peter Pan

gender: male

school: either nrc or a fan school idk

dorm (if applicable):

Y’know what

I’m just gonna make my own goddamn school. see yall in the next post.

[venacoeurva]

Want some Corprus thoughts and headcanons while I take a coffee break

Putting under a readmore since I ramble

You know how Concept Art Dagoth is doing some weird flesh manipulation with his hand and his muscles n shit are just slippin out? and the patterning on his other arm just kinda. looks like he can unravel. Maybe if he wanted to, he could drop the humanoid body and just be a funky flesh mass thing a la final boss mode 2 or something? Fun to think about, I explored it a little with my Longoth Ur stuff.

Yeah anyway, what if the Nerevarine could do that, but to a lesser degree after they seek out treatment and the more dangerous aspects are subdued, particularly if you follow the idea of them actually being Nerevar's reincarnation and having Azura on their side actively helping and not just everyone going "huh sure" and improvising?

Following the idea that Corprus is a divine disease mortals just can't handle, and it's a display of controlling it. People who aren't ~worthy~ basically turn into your standard corprusbeast, and I like to think Ascended Sleepers basically detonate into an explosion of flesh (whose screams become almost musical once more of the tentacles start replacing where their mouth was) once they hit a certain point of transformation (enlightenment!) as well. Maybe the higher on the hierarchy of who can handle it they can sort of retain a body that's more... normal looking and not teratomas to the max with your arteries deciding they want to be outside of you.

In my Nerevarine's case, most of the remaining effects are internal, with his left leg deteriorating during and after the plot of the game resulting in an eventual above the knee amputation and his internal organs are a little wonky (besides some damage he has like 2 extra kidneys, notably). I like to play with the idea that he has some flesh manipulation abilities, too, he's just not aware of them and they're more or less just subconscious, but they giving him an ability to "link into" his prosthetics, letting him to develop prosthetics like a leg from taproots that resemble a spriggan's flesh and function as if it were a normal leg, kind of like a leg transplant, and connects to his tissues. He's preferential to that one since it comes with less discomfort of more standard ones. I also think the ability gives his flesh a little more leeway in his werewolf transformations being a little less taxing on the body since he kinda just has more... stretch? and adaptability.

I also think it works against the Nerevarine, though, even once it's technically asymptomatic, even if they're aware of it and developed a whatever control they could over it... or maybe they try to ignore it. This would vary by who they are. In Wren's case, it keeps him alive when he's passively trying to die (he hates being immortal), and his left arm tends to do its own thing sometimes in the presence of other people/entities with/involved with Corprus or the Sixth House, which is a denial of his sense of autonomy--Something Wren is terrified of losing and loathes the Nerevarine prophecy for already stripping him of it in a sense.

It's a fun idea, and I think we should play with it within our own Nerevarines and if you have any Sixth House OCs, in particular, get wild, get funky, maybe they can also yoink their arm muscles out from under the skin to be tentacles, I dunno! It's your house!

[novantinuum]

Fandom: Steven Universe Rating: Teen Audiences Words: 4.8K~ Summary: A young human-Gem hybrid- a soul yet unknown to the rest of the Crystal Gems- takes their first brave steps towards greeting their heritage firsthand.

Chapter 3 of 4! This time, my OC goes on a tour of Little Homeschool with Bismuth, and gleans a far clearer picture of the most pertinent events of recent Gem history.

Enjoy! <3

__

Same as the car ride into town, the warp stream sees fit to aggravate their motion sickness.

Jean doubles over with hands on wobbly, wobbly knees when they finally reach their destination, relishing in the familiar comfort of feet planted upon solid ground once more. (Because good grief, they were whirling about like a damn tumbleweed in there. Balancing themself all perfectly poised and upright like the Gems felt near impossible.)

“Hey, you good?” the purple one— Amethyst, they remind themself— says, reaching a solitary hand out as if to catch them should they stumble.

“Y-yeah,” they stutter, still breathing heavy. “Yeah… sorry, it’s just— hoo boy, that was a lot.”

“Steven took a while to get used to the warp streams as well,” Garnet comments, issuing a formal, solitary nod. “It’s only expected that an organic being would struggle to acclimate to a zero-G environment like that. You’ll learn to manage it. In time.”

Jean swallows hard, willing that awful nausea at the base of their esophagus to recede. With any luck she’s right. It’d be such an embarrassing shame if they couldn’t physically handle such a basic form of Gem transportation. They always knew the theory for how the warp pads worked— the inter-linked system of crystalline terminals providing near-instantaneous travel between distant locations— but it’s another thing entirely to actually experience it. The whole journey from the beach house to this other settlement took, what? Maybe five or so seconds? Goodness, such a swift means of transportation could entirely revolutionize life on Earth as humanity knows it. It really is too bad these warp pads only activate for Gems.

(And that… well… they disorient every last balance-keeping anatomical feature of the inner ear. They’re thankful for Garnet’s encouragement, they are— but as of this precise moment they can’t imagine how such a trip could get any better, motion sensitivity in mind.)

Then, fingertips tapping delicately against the crystal inlaid at their chest in pure subconscious habit as the post-warp jitters fade away, they cast their gaze upwards and out. Shift their posture upright once more. This place…

“I— I’m actually here,” they mutter to themself, drinking in the glorious sight of all the colorful architecture and the bounty of Gem students milling around the busy central square.

Little Homeworld, in the flesh.

They step off the warp pad and— eyes widened with childlike wonder— begin to map out the area in their head. Clustered beyond the gold-rimmed concrete platform wrapping around the warp are a number of small buildings, each one featuring a completely different architectural style. Some are cozy A-frames, some are suspended on stilts… some are fashioned from wood and stone, others from brick… there’s square windows, circular windows, half-moon windows, no windows—! One story, two story, many, many stories… name any exotic building feature, and this place probably has it represented somewhere. And it’s a very colorful town, too— Jean has never seen a neighborhood painted in such vivid, welcoming pastel shades.

They’re still drinking in the sheer exhilarating splendor of their new surroundings when a broad figure they don’t recognize rushes across the square towards their current group, the very image of a Gem on a mission.

She’s clad in overalls that look much like their own, sporting a friendly face and— most unusually, compared to the Gems they’ve seen so far— an inverted gemstone at her chest, one that spirals inwards towards her core instead of sticking out.

“Oh, thank goodness you lot are back!” she says, nudging one of her rainbow locs back behind her shoulder as she plants herself square in front of their three hosts. “I was beginning to wonder if I needed to start the seminar on your behalf.”

Pearl’s glance flits their way for the briefest of seconds, their fingertips threading together. “Apologies, we got a little caught up in… something important, shall we say.”

“Bismuth, this is Jean,” Garnet says, gesturing towards them. “They’re a prospective student and need a full tour of our campus and dormitory. Do you or Peridot have time to show them around?”

Her mouth screws up as she considers. “Well… pretty sure Peri’s busy with her horticulture class, so I guess I can do it. It sure beats all the busy work I had going on this morning. But wait, wait—” she interrupts her own train of thought then, her attention snapping right back to the other Gem— “hold up. You said prospective student? You mean this isn’t just a tour for the short-term exchange program?”

“Jean’s half-Gem,” Amethyst blurts out with clear excitement painting her tone. “Like Steven.”

Bismuth’s expression snaps from minor confusion to spellbound amazement almost faster than Jean is capable of processing. Her glance flits down, briefly hovering on the pale lavender-blue gemstone resting atop their sternum.

“Huh,” she muses out loud, balling her hand at her chin. “Well, I’ll be damned. Didn’t know that was possible.” Then, her focus pulling back up to meet their eyes: “But hey, we’ve plenty of time to talk shop about that later, right? It’s nice to meet you, Jean! We can begin that tour right now, if you’re ready. The rest of you guys, go on ahead. I’ll take it from here.”

“Sounds good,” they nod, tangling their own hands within the wide expanse of their pockets as they rock back and forth on their heels. “I, erm—” they wave an anticlimactic goodbye to the other Gems, who seem to be in a huge hurry to meet their previous engagement… golly, all of this is happening so fast— “can I just do one thing before we start, though?”

Bismuth hums an affirmative. “Whatever you need. We got all the time in the world.”

Inhaling deep through the slimmest slit of their lips, they pull their phone out of their pocket and sling a quick text to Dad, updating him on where they’re at. After all, warping straight to Little Homeworld itself was not in their plan for today… but oh, well. Life is full of surprises sometimes.

(A fact of existence that’s both a blessing and a curse.)

But with that little task out of the way, Jean follows their guide down the wide central path connecting to the main square, eagerly soaking up whatever knowledge she can spare. Bismuth, as it turns out, is the Gem who designed this whole campus. Thus for all the questions they might have, she’s got a pretty solid answer for most. Or so she claims.

From what they’ve seen of her so far, they’re apt to believe this, though.

“So… Little Homeworld,” they begin with a fair measure of timidity, skipping a little to catch up with this Gem’s large and energetic stride. “This place was only built in the last few years, yeah?”

She grins. “Yep! We broke ground in mid 2015, shortly after the start of Era 3.”

Their brow creases. “Era 3…?”

“Gem society’s current era,” she says in explanation, “which began when the Crystal Gems finally made peace with big Homeworld. You’ve… heard of Homeworld, right?”

“I mean… I always figured there was one, but that’s kinda it. I—” they trail off for a moment, their chest deflating under the humiliating weight of everything they’re unaware of. “To be completely honest, I’ve never even met any Gems until today. So there’s gonna be a lot I don’t know. Sorry…”

Bismuth merely waves their apology off. “Psssh, don’t worry about it. I can explain some of the basics to you after the tour. Plus, if you’re looking to enroll, you’ve plenty of time to learn all this stuff anyways. Now follow me, our first stop is just over here…”

The first stop she speaks of is the campus gymnasium. Jean’s interest is immediately piqued as they notice a few Gems sword fighting in one of the gym’s many courts. Bismuth— ever the keen eye— gives a fond laugh at their sharp swerve of interest, and dives straight into the meat of her tour spiel, beginning with…

Campus tour factoid number one: not only is this space utilized for structured classes (mostly swordplay and wrestling, which the quartzes are huge fans of), but students can even reserve courts for individual use. It’s not a super large gymnasium, but there’s plenty of space for sports outside, too. Apparently baseball (of all things) is a favorite pastime amongst Little Homeschool students.

Campus tour factoid number two: right next door to the gymnasium there’s a building with a bright, airy common area. Here, there’s tons of tables and chairs set up for students to play games and connect, a communal kitchen (mostly for the benefit of their human visitors, but also for Gems who wish to experiment with eating), and a mini library of human entertainment.

Campus tour factoid number three: when weather is permitting many instructors like hosting their classes outside, but they have plenty of physical classroom space too, over in the cluster of buildings nestled under the trees right across the main path. Some of the other amenities Little Homeschool boasts are a full art studio, an all-seasons greenhouse kitted out with the latest and greatest in hydroponics technology, and a records room with access ports to a whole wealth of Homeworld data banks for research and learning purposes.

The final stop on Bismuth’s tour is the dormitory, which is housed within the central tower.

“Now, many of the Gems who attend our school are at a delicate transitory stage in their lives,” she says, leading Jean through the front entrance of the dorm. “Plenty of them have never been apart from those of their own cut for more than a second, so the concept of ‘personal belongings’ and having a space that’s all their own is… well, for lack of a better term, alien.”

They nod as they follow Bismuth through the building’s lobby, each and every step bringing a new curiosity to gawk in awe at. Damn, this place is insane! The whole core of this tower is open space, with a set of transparent elevator-like pads stationed at the middle to ferry folks up and down from each level. There’s tons of greenery and light brightening up this expanse, and a number of railed walkways arcing across this central atrium from different angles every few floors. These walkways even have flowering vines hanging from the undersides, giving this building a strikingly organic vibe despite its concrete heavy architecture style. It all feels very… oh, what’s the style Dad always said he likes the aesthetic of, again—? Very, uh… very solar punk. Yes, that’s it. A sort of combination of solar punk and neo-futurism, what with all the bold angles and sweeping curves represented here.

A few Gems wave at Bismuth as the two of them pass by. She beckons them along towards the lift system.

“Thus, when building this school,” their tour guide continues, “we settled on dorm style accommodations, hoping that it could provide a nice balance between solo and community living for our students.”

“How many Gems are housed here, out of curiosity?” Jean asks, stepping up on the platform with her.

Bismuth taps her fingers against the diamond shaped screen inlaid in the half-wall that separates the lifts— probably imputing a floor— and the crystalline platform jolts to life. “Currently? About a hundred seventy or so,” she responds, turning back to face them. “And our roster rotates all the time. But the school itself serves plenty more— there’s a lot of Gems who warp in each day for their classes, and others who only choose to attend one or two sessions.”

They hum in acknowledgement, falling quiet to enjoy the smooth ride up to one of the upper levels.

The lift stops at floor seven, where their gracious host leads them towards what she describes as one of the few empty dorm rooms. (Or they think these are supposed to be the dorm rooms? These doorways don’t have any handles to speak of, which is a little confusing.) In any case, Jean’s brow arches in ample curiosity as they watch Bismuth press her palm flush against the adjacent panel much like one would use a hotel keycard. A dull chime rings out, and the entire surface of the door splits in two. They flinch a step backwards, wholly mystified. Wait, what?? But how did— there was no seam before, right? The doorway had no visible seam. They swear to the edge of the Earth it didn’t. So how could it just—?

Bismuth gives a fond chuckle, merely shuffling aside to invite them in to the room. “Trippy, right? This whole building’s a bit of an architectural labyrinth— held together with a whoooole lotta Gem tech, hah! So when you walk through that frame, you’re actually entering into something of a pocket dimension. It’s the only way we could scale up our operations while maintaining a slim footprint. The sunlight’s real, though,” she says, gesturing towards the wide window at the far end of the living unit.

Eager eyed, Jean takes a quick inventory of the space.

The room itself is fairly sparse, a blank canvas to be furnished and decorated however a Gem would prefer. But there’s some shelves built into the right hand wall at the far corner for storage of personal items, and a humble table and chair nestled by the window. Meanwhile, on the left side of the wall there’s a strange little person-sized inlet— a ‘cubby,’ of sorts— with another one of those touch screen panels next to it. They hum with intrigue, striding towards this mysterious furnishing feature.

“What’s this for?” they ask, the panel’s interface bursting to life under even the most feathery brush of their fingertips.

“Oh, that—?” she smiles. “It’s a newer contraption, actually… meant to mimic the unique conditions of any Gem’s exit hole.”

Jean purses their lips, absolutely nothing about the conclusion of that last sentence making sense.

Their what hole?? Oh gosh, it’s gonna take eons to figure out what even half of this stuff means, isn’t it?

Bismuth begins to speak further on the topic, delving into something more nuanced about these so-called ‘exit holes…’ something about rest, something about incubation, a kindergarten or whatever. Ugh. They don’t know. They don’t know. And even more frustratingly, for whatever goddamn reason it suddenly feels impossible to maintain focus on her words at all, their mind instead seeing fit to fixate on the daunting ravine that is their sheer lack of an even baseline understanding of Gem physiology, culture, and history. Here they are, trying to enroll in an all-Gem school, and they barely even comprehend the basic lingo. Oh god, she thinks they’re an idiot, doesn’t she?

They don’t even realize they’re clutching their arms around their midsection in the sheer strife of it all until the sound of their own name cuts through all the murk and mire that’s taken their body hostage.

“Jean… hey, Jean? You doin’ okay, there? D’ya want me to slow down?”

“Yeah, no, I’m fine, I just—”

Whatever lame, emotionally downplaying words they were about to utter die like snuffed cinders upon their tongue as they hazard a sheepish glance at the Gem and note the genuine concern weaving across her features. Jean sighs, dropping their arms.

“I think I need to go outside,” they admit, averting their gaze. “Everything’s just… a little overwhelming right now.”

“Hey, that’s all right,” she says, tone soft with understanding. “The rest of the tour can always wait. In fact… how ‘bout I take you back to my forge, and we can talk shop there, instead? It’s open air, and if you’re not up for talking, I can just show ya’ how I prepare billets for a while. At least until the others come back ‘round. That sound more your speed?”

“Yeah,” they nod, the barest hints of a smile returning to their lips. “Yeah, I think I can handle that.”

~

The walk back to Bismuth’s forge is pretty uneventful. There’s a few Gem students who wave a friendly hello to their guide as she leads them down the path, but beyond that their journey is cast in comfortable silence. And honestly, thank goodness for that. Jean is exceedingly glad to find another soul in this place who understands the importance of like… why a person might desire chatter-less companionship. Sometimes they just flat out don’t feel up to talking, y’hear?

Bismuth only breaks their quietude when the two of them step through the arched entry into her workshop.

“Here, you can sit, if you’d like,” she says, gesturing towards a squat wooden stool nestled at the corner of the space. There’s a table there as well, filled with a number of specialized metallic hand tools Jean can’t even begin to guess the names or uses of. Their Aunt Dee might, though. As a film costumer, metal work seems like something she would’ve at very least dabbled in before.

They nod in gratitude, eagerly situating themself on the offered seat and allowing their muscles to relax. Ahhh… it feels nice to rest after such a long walk.

Their gracious host rounds the room to grab a dense bar of metal from the healthy stash she’s got stacked on the shelves. As she crosses back around, her eyes lock on them immediately. Ever so subtle, her brows lift upon her broad forehead as she regards them once more, signaling her active sympathy.

“You ‘doin any better?”

They nod, small and meek. “Yeah, I think so. Sorry, about— well, sorry.”

“Ain’t nothin’ to be apologetic for, don’t you worry,” she says, laying the metal bar down on the working surface of her anvil. Then, with a faint laugh: “‘Sides, if you think you’re feelin’ out of your element, you should’ve seen my last tour group.”

“What would a Gem have to feel out of place about…?” Jean asks, more of an under-their-breath mutter than anything else.

Of course, Bismuth seems to glean the deeper meaning behind their hazy afterthought of a query anyways. “Oh, you’d be surprised. A lot of our students here have, well… a bit of a complicated past. A large number of them fought in the war for Earth, back when the Gem Homeworld was still trying to colonize it. And a good number of those spent a few thousand years trapped in a state of mental damage we Gems call ‘corruption.’”

Their features crinkle inwards as they ponder these facts. Hmm. ‘Corruption.’ Yet another term they’ve never seen show up in any of their research efforts. It seems the scant amount of information they’ve amassed about Gems up until now really was barely scraping the barrel. Was this their fault? Did they not dig deep enough? Are these pieces of their own history they could’ve learned years ago if only they applied themselves to their search harder? But in a true blessing of a breakthrough for an anxious wreck who’s starting to feel too ashamed to bother anyone with any more of their ignorant questions, their blank, deer-in-the-headlights gaze is obvious enough that their host clues in on the confusion swirling through their mind immediately.

“Ah, hmm. I guess you prolly don’t know what corruption is either, huh?” she muses, pressing a closed fist to the edge of her lips.

Jean flashes an apologetic smile. “‘Fraid not.”

She nods, and temporarily abandons her starting metal to the anvil so she can grab a second stool from the other side of the forge and sit herself down across from them.

“In that case,” she jabs a solitary finger in the air, “lemme just start from the beginning and give you the ol’ Earth rebellion primer…”

So, here’s what they glean from her narrative:

The Gem Homeworld was apparently once ruled by four Diamonds. The youngest of the quartet, Pink, had Earth given to her as her first colony. The colonization efforts went as planned for a good few hundred years… and then, a lone rose quartz and a pearl (the Pearl, the one they met just an hour or so ago, which makes a damn lot of sense from what little they’re aware of her), began seeding whispers of rebellion. It started small… isolated attacks on key settlements and construction sites, strategic disruptions of supply shipments and warp pad installations, that sort of thing. At first, the two of them only ever intended to scare the others off this planet— not wanting its ecosystem to be permanently destroyed via the lethal impacts of Gem production on the Earth’s soil chemistry. But over time, the rebellion blossomed to champion a cause far broader than what was originally intended:

Freedom for all Gems, no matter how disparate to Homeworld’s stringent ideals.

This was when Bismuth joined the fray, and where much of her recounting of this history is based on eye-witness experience.

Jean takes a moment to inquire a bit deeper about the destructive impact of Kindergarting before her story moves on.

“Essentially, Gemkind used to set up camp on a new planet, construct their colony, siphon every last scrap of life out of its crust until they’ve incubated all the Gems they possibly can, and then move right along to the next one,” Bismuth says, shaking her head with a tinge of shame coating her features. “An endless, soulless cycle, with countless dissatisfied Gems trapped at its center. That’s why the mere existence of Rose Quartz was such a shockwave at the time— ‘coz she was a Gem who outright defied her superiors’ demands at every opportunity. Rose, she—” her expression grows somewhat wistful with melancholy remembrance— “she taught me that my unique existence was precious, that I didn’t need to bend to Homeworld’s demands. That I could choose my own path in life. My own friends. My own loves… Stars, Rose Quartz was everything to me back then.”

Jean’s nose crinkles as they ask the obvious next question. “But…?”

Bismuth sighs as she slumps forward on her stool, age-old exhaustion evident within her tone. “But war is complicated. And so are Gems. I made a few choices I now regret, and got bubbled over it. Missed a few thousand years ‘coz of that. And by the time I was let out, the war was long over. The Crystal Gems won, but… only by a technicality.”

“Bubbled?” they inquire, tilting their head.

“Hah,” she laughs, low and half-hearted. “Means my form was dissipated in combat, and my gem was stashed in a bubble. It’s a long story. Don’t really wanna hash through the details of it now, if that’s okay.”

Jean nods, more than emphasizing with that sort of sentiment. There’s tons of awkward stuff in their past they’re not super interested in discussing with others, either. They gesture for her to continue.

Bismuth moves on to explain how— once she was freed from her stasis and allowed to reform— she discovered that all the Gems left behind on this planet were caught in a massive retaliatory attack by the Diamonds.

“They believed Rose Quartz shattered one of their own,” she shrugs. “Pink Diamond— the appointed leader of this colony— was lost during the war. So the three who remained traveled to Earth and tried to wipe every last Gem off its surface… their own soldiers included. They assumed they destroyed all of them.“

“But they were corrupted instead,” Jean completes, remembering that specific word Bismuth had used earlier. “Which means—?”

“—that their minds were thrown into a jumbled, primal state. Unable to retain a humanoid form, or even communicate in words. To use your human lingo, it’s as if the sheer brutality of the Diamonds’ damage reduced them into monsters.”

“Hmm. So how were they healed?”

“Ah, that was all Steven’s doing. I’m assuming you already know about Steven—?”

They nod. “I’ve seen his adverts,” they put it lightly.

That’s— of course— only the tip of the iceberg. They choose not to mention the ridiculous sum of time they’ve spent combing the internet for every last scrap of information they could feasibly grasp on Beach City, Steven, and the other Gems. It’s not clear yet what this particular Gem would think about such an obsessive level of study… whether she’d admire the initiative or resent them for sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong.

“Alright. Now, here’s where things get a bit topsy-turvy,” Bismuth says, a bit of a chuckle coloring her tone. “So, Steven’s the half-human son of Rose Quartz, right?”

Yep, that tracks. None of Jean’s sources ever stated this so bluntly, but it meshes with the vague timeline of events they’ve pieced together… what with Rose’s disappearance and Steven’s arrival on the scene years later.

“Well, back when he was a kid, this whole bombshell secret ‘bout his mother comes out. I wasn’t there for the reveal,” she shrugs, gesturing wide with her palms spread open, “and only learned about it secondhand, but— basically, all along, Pink Diamond and Rose Quartz were the same person.”

Their brows scrunch inwards. “Wait, what?”

“Wild, right?” she says with noted amusement. “All those years of chaos and turmoil… when the whole time, Rose was simply waging a false war against herself. I’m sure you’ll learn plenty more about this era of history in time, but the important part is that this makes Steven one of the Diamonds. Which gave him the unique authority to negotiate with them for not only the complete liberation of Earth, but also the healing of all the corrupted Gems. Such a cure took the powers of all four of them to achieve. So, hah—” Bismuth cracks a half-hearted, wistful smile— “as much as it really cut my facets down a size at the time… in the end… making peace with Homeworld was literally the only option.”

Jean continues to muse on the broader implications of all this newly learned history as the Gem moves on to describe how Little Homeworld came to be. (Which— they’re ashamed to admit— they’re only halfway paying attention to.) So, Steven’s like… what… royalty, then? Some sort of Gem prince? It certainly would explain the sheer level of political sway he had in setting up this school, and the almost reverent way people here have spoken of him so far. Still, it’s not what they expected. Online documentation on Gem matters is still very sparse, yes, but nothing they’ve read thus far even remotely mentioned the existence of ‘Diamonds,’ let alone Steven’s innate connection to them. They can’t help but wonder if there’s any specific reason why.

Their thoughts migrating to related horizons, they inquire more about the rest of the Diamonds… are they still in some form of power today, they ask?

Bismuth shakes her head no. “Not entirely. It’s, ah… it’s complicated. We’ve elected leaders to aid in governing each of Homeworld’s planets, but… it’d be foolish to claim that the Diamonds don’t still hold a certain sway over a vast percentage of Gemkind. Our society’s entering a vital transitional state right now, shall we say.”

“Makes sense,” Jean nods.

Especially with how long-lived Gems are, though they elect not to say as much out loud. They have no idea if the topic of age is as sensitive for Gems as it can oft be for humans.

“But despite any lingering influence they may hold, they’re not ‘in charge,’ so to speak,” she continues, throwing up air quotes as emphasis. “Not as they once were. Everything’s different now.” Bismuth shifts back upon her stool as she pauses in her lesson, allowing the rejuvenating relief of those three little words to sink in for the both of them. A serene, content smile rises upon her lips. “After a lifetime of struggle, Gems are finally free to be their own selves in this era. We can finally rest.”

Their host meditates within the cusp of this welcoming truth for a few moments, staring off towards the open air doorway at their right to watch a fair handful of residents pass between activities. She closes her eyes, her features aligning into an almost unparalleled show of utter tranquility. Then, bobbing her head a little as she wrestles through the last few items on her laundry list of mental troubles, she clasps her hands upon her knees and pushes herself wholly upright once more.

“Anyways, that’s probably enough history for today, yeah? Hah, wouldn’t want to spook ya’ away with all the heavy stuff before you’ve even enrolled.”

“No, please, don’t worry ‘bout it,” they say with a slight laugh, shaking their head. “I thought it was pretty interesting, really.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it!” she chimes, pacing back across the forge to her anvil. “We can talk shop in more detail when Pearl’s back, but— should you be interested in becoming a student long-term— my plan is to retrofit one of those dorm rooms you saw with a kitchenette and a bathroom, as well as shuffling around some of the furnishings to make space for a bed. Does that sound suitable for your needs?”

“More than suitable,” Jean chimes, folding their hands in their lap.

“Good, good…”

Bismuth shines her a bright, enthusiastic grin, and picks up that dense hunk of metal she fetched minutes earlier.

“So… with all that said and done—” in a flash of brilliant light, she morphs her hand into a broad mallet— “d’ya think you’re still up for a lil’ demonstration?”

[sokoneedsagun]

For the most part this is just based on names but I’m gonna put a short description for each of them under the cut, and yes, most of my characters have old people names, get used to it/lh

EDIT: there is one additional person I’m adding to this post, her name is Corvid, there’s more info about her in the reblogs if you want to know about her, and if you want to vote for her just let me know in the comments, tags, reblogs whatever

Quinn- basically it would just be a gothamite blog, Quinn’s backstory is usually just whatever’s convenient for me so I think it would depend on what ends up happening with her on what her backstory would end up being

Constance- basically she’s if Thomas and Martha had another kid besides Bruce (and kind of Thomas junior, he would probably be brought up), an account for her would either be her as like a teenager/20-something, or an older adult when she comes back to Gotham after leaving in her 20’s

Adeline- if Constantine and Zatanna had a kid, I’m gonna be honest I love her so much, I’ve never done anything like publicly with her but I love her, I usually have her being 17-19, she either lives alone or lives with Zatanna when Zatanna isn’t off world or on tour, her relationship with John is a lot more complicated because like hes kind of there, and I think deep down he wants to be there, but he also just doesn’t know what to do with a kid, also in some stuff for her I have her being close to the batfamily since Zatanna has canonically known Bruce since the two of them were like teenagers

Clarissa- half sister of Johnathan crane (scarecrow), she didn’t really get the supervillain thing, just the mental illness genes, in some variations of her she knows he’s scarecrow, some she doesn’t (it really depends on if he gives a shit about her or not if she knows/lh), I haven’t really decided if I would ever want to make her a vigilante or even a villian, I think it would depend on what direction the account goes in on what I do with her

Marceline- another one connected to Constantine, basically Marceline is a demon that just kind of ended up fucking clinging to him one day and Constantine got stuck with her/lh, she has both like a demon form and a human form, she’s trying to learn magic from John, usually she’s like 12-16, id probably put her in the middle and make her like 14, and yes I did get her name from Marceline the vampire queen

Laurel- similar-ish backstory to kon, she’s another of lex Luthor’s clones (yes she is a women, no she is no power girl/karen), she actually does live with lex though, she disagrees with a lot of his opinions and gets manipulated by him pretty often, often times he uses her to make his public image look better, but she’s still her own person, I think maybe at some point I would have her leaving to just further become her own person, fully separate from Clark and Lex

Reyna- spidersona, I really like spider-man but I’m not a huge fan of marvel overall (except for x-men and spider-man) so she’s still in the dc universe, she lives in New York but still shows up in Gotham and Blüdhaven occasionally, I do have a more fleshed out backstory for her but I think it would be something that comes out over time, not just an immediate lore drop

[hana-bobo-finch]

woah!!!!! it’s pdbc characters lore dump time (can’t call em OCs when half of the ones listed are technically not……….whatever)

tis but a brief summary of a few characters bc I can’t get into them fully, or we’d be here all day. but nonetheless, quick overviews and quick doodles. just because.

uurghghghg first of all Gourdie. I think I’ve mentioned her before? I love her heehee. I would get into the whole fish daughter more but she doesn’t have a set design yet soooo. anyway yeah Gourdie. she is great. she somehow survives by the end but at what cost!!! did not mention it here but one other thing is that she’s accidentally killed someone!!! Whoops!!! It was in self defense, kinda, but even with the almost nonexistent morals most of my characters have that’s still a universal no no, so she never told anyone and blamed it on a bear attack (why a bear would choose to kill someone by throwing a rock at them instead of, yknow, mauling them, is something that was somehow never questioned). anyway I love her

mmmm next up is less of a fleshed out character and more so just…whatever it is. Couldn’t really get into the details of it all here but maybe I will in the future cause I think the illusions are cool………mostly just mentioning this fella bc he’s important to The Lore. Also noooo I can’t believe I forgot to mention it here, but like I said before, Turtlemeister was (maybe) the one who summoned this thing in the first place!!

my beloved……uuuuuuuuuuuuuuu love her SO much. hey guys look it’s one of those ocs that aren’t technically original. Don’t even ask how I managed to twist a character who was in the source material for 7 panels into one of my favorite characters, I don’t know either and I don’t want to think about it too hard bc it makes me feel like a very bizarre person. I wish I could get into her more she is SO awesome and funny. I feel like she comes across as really depressing in the description but she really isn’t lmao she might be a Little traumatized but no more than everyone else….she’s just chillin half the time. UUUURRGHH love her so much……………unfortunately she is, as I said, dead. anyway who’s up next

OH GREAT HEAVENS.

NOT EVEN GONNA TRY TO FIT EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS FREAK IN ONE IMAGE. WHAT THE HELL. TOP 10 PUMPKIN DADDY OF ALL TIME. ERM. UH. WGHERE DO I STAFT. HUH. UHHHHHHH so he is objectively the best and if you disagree you’re wrong. favorite character ever he is the only reason PDBC exists. genuinely will not be able to list even half the things about this pumpkin bastard but I will rapid fire go over whatever pops into my head first

Has a citrus fruit addiction. Allergic to horses. License plate is NOVFD. once ate part of his own leg by mistake because it was in a roast beef sandwich at a concert. is scared of gloves (except for one (allegedly) magical glove named Lucretius). Is scared of King Arthur and the knights of the round table. was once a professional wrestler but had to quit because his opponent Tried To Fucking Kill Him. That’s kinda an important aspect I should go into more but I won’t because this is long enough already. Anyway. hates saltine crackers. technically has hundreds of children depending on what you count as children. they’re not biological children they’re…….ehhh that’s not worth getting into. sorta like the whole fish daughter thing but way more complicated. Has some weird biyearly peach scavenger hunt tradition??? learned to break the laws of physics and all he did was make a beach on the ceiling. is a pyromaniac and has set so much stuff on fire. Including himself but that was by accident. Has a complete monopoly on almost every business down to the smallest of industries like umbrellas. Has a band that makes…songs of debatable quality, on topics such as leprechauns. Somehow has never killed anyone. There are hundreds of thousands of people who want him dead. He likes banana bread and will break into your house to give you some.

As I’m typing this out it sounds like his entire purpose is to be random but I can assure you this all has explanations and he’s surprisingly rather normal. just wanted to clear that up back to what I was saying

He has a grudge against a family of woodpeckers (they wronged him). He has Many Mushroom Memorabilia. He has a bunch of pet mice, his favorite of which was tragically killed by some sicko working at a home improvement company. His dead mice are laid to rest in a mausoleum (GET IT???? MAUSOLEUM??? MAUS!??? GERMAN FOR MOUSE! ! ). he has a medical condition in which your brain physically operates too quickly which can lead to adverse side effects. the second the first snowflake falls he decorates for Christmas (including a living deer with LED lights tied around it). He’s friends with a little alien named Blarg. He has an abnormally low body temperature. He hates Mickey Mouse, and a moth named Michael moth (I think that’s its name?) because it eats his ties. Oh yeah he’s an ungulate, don’t remember why. Has pet llamas whose hair he uses to knit sweaters. Once got hit by a plane. Has had hundreds of thousands of strokes. Has fallen off a mountain (the incident was filmed and used in a commercial). Has the bizarre curse to constantly injure his heel. Once gave out baby pigs that he rescued from a slaughterhouse. Worked in the mines. O’chunks from super paper Mario crashed his wedding. He likes the letter M. He’s scared of snoopy. He’s allergic to turkey. Has little gopher versions of himself. Gets attacked by bugs often. Has high serotonin levels. Absolutely despise mystical creatures called Dinkies and would exterminate them all if it was allowed. I have no idea if he’s dead or not he just disappeared with only a cryptic email left in his wake. A skeleton once threw chemicals at him. Has a cat named shart. Can play guitar and piano. weird….cat….thing….I don’t even know man I can’t explain any of this in a way that makes sense. Maybe someday I will go into further detail but for now you just get an incomplete list of random things I remembered. he has a cohesive narrative I proooomise. if yall want a complete deep dive into him I will provide you with such, but unless there is demand I will spare you guys from having to deal with all of that stuff because it is A Lot.

anyway. face burning in embarrassment. here are my silly little guys thx for reading (coughs up blood)

[ilovedthestars]

OC-Tober Day 4: Under-Appreciated OC

I talk a lot about my OCs from the Polaris 'verse / underground railroad story. But before I came up with any of them, I wrote a bunch of other half-finished stories about rogue SecUnits. By far the longest of those stories and the most fleshed-out of those characters was Flower.

Flower was a rogue SecUnit that Murderbot and Three met when they came up against it and its owners while on a mission with ART. Flower is a SecUnit whose owners treat it more like a CombatUnit or a Combat Bot—a blunt instrument to use for violence.

Flower does not like killing.

All of my OCs tend to start as alternate versions of Murderbot, in a sense. Murderbot has such a strong personality and such unique motivations as a protagonist, and it often leaves me with the question of "what would a different person have done in this scenario? how would a SecUnit with a different personality or backstory act?" And I tend to answer that question through OCs. Flower is the answer to the question, "What would a SecUnit that chooses not to be violent, no matter what, be like in contrast to Murderbot?"

And because it appeared in a story alongside Murderbot, I really got to explore that contrast and the friction of conflicting values. Murderbot protects its own at all costs, and is perfectly willing to hurt other people who get in the way of that. It takes it a while to understand Flower's perspective, and not treat it as a failure to protect.

(Flower, by the way, named itself after something from its education modules that was delicate and not dangerous.)

Flower's story is mostly abandoned. I learned a lot writing about it that has informed how I write my other OCs, and how I write Murderbot interacting with them, and I'm glad for that even if it may never see the light of AO3. (It may make a cameo in Polaris-verse someday, for my own secret enjoyment.)

But if you're interested, here's a snippet below the cut of the scene where Murderbot and Three first meet Flower. (I first posted it last year as a trick-or-treat.)

The damaged SecUnit on the floor twitched again, and one of its hands moved towards me. I said, “Don’t make me shoot you again.” It prodded at my feed. I let it establish a connection. It sent, Query: Unit Status? That was standard communication, but not something you generally asked the hostile SecUnit that had just pummeled you into near-inoperability. I couldn’t figure out what it was asking for. When I didn’t answer, it pulled Three into our connection and pinged again. Query: Unit Status? Then it sent us its analysis of our actions and communications, which were practically all flagged as anomalous. Three said, Yes, we’re rogue. Oh, so that was what it was asking. It sat there processing Three’s answer for 15 seconds, which was a really long time for something so simple. Maybe it was coming up with tactics based on the new information, but that seemed pretty optimistic when all it could do was lie on the floor leaking. Just when I had decided our conversation was apparently over, the SecUnit pinged us again. Query: Request Assistance I looked at Three. Three looked at me. In our private connection, I said, It’s asking for my hack. Three sent an affirmative. It had come to the same conclusion. What should we do? …It’s already damaged, it’s not like it can try to hurt us. I concur with your assessment, Three said, and dropped my governor module hack into the Unit’s feed. It applied it almost immediately. It shuddered a little and closed its eyes. I figured it was going to be a while before it wanted to talk, so I asked Three, “Now will you help me get up?” Seth pinged us. We’re coming to your location. Three ignored the fact that pretty soon I was going to need to get up and move back to the shuttle and I couldn’t do that myself, at least not without looking utterly ridiculous. It was still focused on the Unit. In our shared feed it said, We can leave you here, or you can come with us. Which do you prefer? This time it answered with its buffer, like it was talking to a client who was asking confusing questions. I do not have that information. It was a bit early to be asking it for things like preferences, but I guess we were doing this. I said, Do you like your clients? Do you like working here? Query: Request Clarification Are they the really bad kind of clients, or the kind that aren’t so bad, or the good kind? Query: Request Clarification of: “the good kind” Yeah, I hadn’t known they existed, either. Three said, Our clients are good clients. They care about our well-being and treat us with respect. It opened its eyes and looked at us. It clearly didn’t believe Three.

[colorfuldonutrunaway]

Welcome to my page!

This is the one stop shop for my posts about my OCS, comics, and the universe around them. I also post fandom stuff and fan art as well as ocs for other series here!

This page will be updated to include direct links to masterposts eventually, but for now I'll hand you the list of what to expect here.

I use any pronouns, I'm aromantic asexual, I'm black. That's as many personal details as I'm willing to admit.

Posts about the 'Fox and Wolf' universe, a setting for my comics revolving around, well, the wacky tales of two super intelligent anthro animals, the cool Wolf and the bold Fox. You can find more with the Fox and Wolf tag on my page.

Rain World OCS.

Roblox. Lots of Roblox content, particularly my own OCS and maybe posts about Regretevator characters.

Occasionally reposting stellar art and donation posts.

Terrors of Nowhere/Midnight Horrors posts maybe?

Submas (Subway Boss Ingo and Emmet) brainrot. Maybe brainrot for other pokemon characters too, like Larry and Colress.

Vrchat pics.

Other OCs that don't fit into the Fox and Wolf universe, with universes that'll get added to this post when I flesh them out more.

And maybe more! I'll update this for anything new! Feel free to ask about any of the above and I should have a good answer for you!

The occasional Homestuck post, because this used to be a repost page for a lost headcanon page.

Other fandoms.

⚠️⚠️This blog does not appreciate NSFW, extreme gore, bigotry, politics, glorifying of any of the aforementioned things, pro-shipping, or discussion of traumatic subjects. I'll try to CW any concerning posts, but I can't guarantee that I'll be perfect. I'm also ass at writing ALT text for pictures, so please forgive me.⚠️⚠️

⚠️⚠️Another thing is, occasionally I'll use AI art to portray things that I can't draw like detailed landscapes, or I'll use it to learn how to draw landscapes. But I will NEVER claim that AI art is purely my own art, and I'll mention that it's AI underneath it in a caption. But I won't tag it because I'm pretty sure people block content with that tag and I don't want posts discussing the vital lore of my universe to be filtered out because of one tag. Obviously, my AI art posts will follow the restrictions mentioned above, so no gore, politics, etc.⚠️⚠️

I hope you enjoy your stay here!

[jksnrabbit]

Hi again, (i’m the anon from earlier), sorry if this is annoying or too much but I have more questions about Johnny. Again don’t feel like you have to respond.

What is Johnny doing in season two? Especially with the kiddads betrayal of Nicky.

How well does he know Taylor? Is he around as like a fun uncle or is he absent like Nicky is?

In both season one and two what was his relationships with the other families (both the other dads and kiddads)?

also since you mentioned birdie (henry’s daughter) she is canon as of the “see you again” intro about schmeggan (or however that’s spelled) during the hell arc in season two. Henry comes in and sings a verse about how brad helped him and mercedes name their daughter. Will has also said he gives Henry another daughter every time he’s asked if birdie is real.

thanks again for answering the previous questions.

i love the asks!! this is fleshing out johnny more than ive thought about - ive had this mf for 2 yrs and now i gotta employ Critical Thinking this is nice <3 im so happy he's being recieved well, im tired of seeing my own oc's as 'cringe' i deserve to be free

answers under the cut cause i typed a lot again

1) in season 2, i think he's a member of d.a.d.d.i.e.s up until the betrayal, but at the same time he's actively witnessing jodie's decline as glenn and morgan do their thing, so he spends like 65% of his time picking up jodie's slack as king of hell [which unfortunately, gives jodie more time to try to win morgan back. it doesnt work]. jodie being the world's most failed bisexual leaves a lot of work unfinished for john, who unfortunately is coping through his old man fashion sense of tropical shirts and big jeans. which i hastily drew

he was in hell when nicky was attacked; nicky portal'd to glenn mid-rave, who then brought nicky home and alerted john, morgan, and jodie about the situation. once stablized, nicky told them all what happened - this drives a bit of a wedge between him and john as john doesnt believe they should immediately cut off all contact ['maybe theyve been mind controlled'], especially considering nicky would be leaving behind taylor and cass. john returns to earth to talk to the kiddads himself, and while he does manage civil conversation for a solid minute, he's ambushed as well. he's able to escape fairly quickly [he didnt dismiss 100% of nicky's warnings, he knows the others pack a punch] and once home, he reconciles with nicky, agreeing to cut off contact

2) if not for the betrayal, john would be the kind of uncle that taylor sees like, once every 3 months but when he does he spoils the shit out of him - even more so than he already is. he'd get baby taylor the loudass toys that annoy the hell out of nicky and cass. he'd come back from hell with some kind of enchanted gift that may or may not cause a power outage.

after the betrayal, he cut off contact with earth, including taylor and cass. though he and nicky keep an eye on taylor, in case he ever needs them. every christmas, he drops off a gift in the middle of the night 'from santa'. its mostly just a figurine of whatever anime taylor's been most obsessed with that year. one year, taylor gets a customized enchanted funko pop of himself [because all uncles work at funko. or nintendo. whatever], only enchanted enough that it resembles taylor on a day to day basis, like it's outfit changes with him. cass has zero idea who 'santa' is

3)

post betrayal for all the kiddads, he holds an eternal grudge against them. even after they and nicky truce in order to help the kids with the doodler's anchors, he cant bring himself to agree. he's on par with lark for title of 'skeptical battle ready uncle', but in a hawaiian shirt.

s1 oaks - nervous wreck recognizes nervous wreck. respects henry for having to wrangle lark n sparrow daily [somethin he's had to do now with walter]. he does think hen's too judgemental though. as johnathan, he sees henry as a huge pushover with no control over his kids. he still respects henry for having to deal with them everyday though. that shit's tough

s2 oaks - pre betrayal, he was friends with sparrow more than lark, as the former was mostly trying to find the least violent route for anything. he saw hero and norm like, once in their youth, at a family/friends bbq. meeting norm during the events of s2 he's struggling so hard not to say anything about his hygiene [heightened demon senses are Not helping him] but he's nice enough.

s1 wilsons - he's a little familiar with darryl pre-faerun, as nick frequently hangs out at grant's house, so darryl's a comforting guy to have around. he mostly knows grant as nick's gamer friend. paeden's on the same rank as lark n sparrow's rowdy-ness, he's just glad that the daddies tend to take him on every mission. as johnathan, darryl's the main dad that he respects [aside from jodie] as hes the one that least opposes his dad for being a cop, and mostly just opposes him whenever he's being kinda annoying.

s2 wilsons - pre betrayal, had a lot of comradery with grant about video games and weapons. unfortunately supplied grant with a lot of magical/hell weapons. doesnt forgive himself for that. linc honestly doesnt leave a huge impression on him, but he admires his honesty and heart.

s1 stamplers - neither johnny nor johnathan know what to think of ron. johnny thinks he's strange but harmless, johnathan doesnt know if ron's either clueless or knows something he doesnt. both of them solidly respect terry jr though. thats a stand-up kid right there!

s2 stamplers - probably closest with terry out of all the kiddads. they generally just vibe on the same kind of wavelength, and shared a taste in music, going to concerts before d.a.d.d.i.e.s. to be fully honest, he's a little scared of scary. he's never seen so much wrath in a teen before.

4) in some talking dad episodes, will actually mentions henry originally having a baby daughter named 'henrietta', who wouldve been home with mercedes during the soccer tournament!! and i will never forgive them for scrapping that idea!!

i love the enigma of birdie/henry's multiple daughters though. god i wonder if theyre estranged from lark n sparrow, that's unfortunate :[

[imliketheiceifreeze]

My Little Scientist- Chapter eight

Recombinant Miles Quaritch x OC

Authors note: so I've decided to change this story from a x reader to x named OC (Gaia) so I can flesh out the character a bit more, I didn't think I would write so many chapters when I started and just feel more comfortable writing OC's in longer stories, hope this is okay with everyone!

and thank you everyone so much for the support, your likes and comments mean so much, honestly writing is the only thing I really enjoy and it's so nice to know that other people enjoy reading what I've written, love you all and I hope you enjoy this next chapter xxx

3,044 words

Warnings: all the usual ones, Minors DNI

Chapter 9

Once Miles had returned to his room he was disappointed to be greeted with her absence, not even a note to sweeten the abandonment, only his wrinkled shirt laying haphazardly in the mess of sheets. He reached down to feel the material between his fingers, it still smelled of her, and it brought him back to how she looked with it draped over her naked body. He wondered why she'd decided to leave him in the dust, pretending it didn't leave a gaping hole in his chest.

Gaia, however, was preoccupied, thoughts of her impending relocation to a remote base making her head swim with anxiety. She had signed up for this all on her own and she was going to pull through, but at the same time she couldn't help but wonder if she'd gotten herself in too deep this time, not to mention the fact that she'd be separated from her whole lab team, and her one and only close friend, June. She knew she hadn't been as close as usual, considering the stressful events of the past few weeks, but that wasn't to say she didn't love her, and that dork Mike who was attached to her hip these days. Maybe she should go and talk to her, but somehow the distance had created an awkward tension between them both that she couldn't seem to break through.

"There's our Colonel's girl, how you doing sweetness?"

A soldier spoke up, loud enough to draw her out of her thoughts, and upon looking around she recognised it to be none other than Lyle Wainfleet.

"My name's not sweetness it's Gaia,"

she scoffed, speeding past the recombinant gym, cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

"Aww come on, don't be like that, we've all gotta live together pretty soon so we'd better get to know each other,"

he crossed her path to block her exit, leaning leisurely against the hallway wall as he looked her up and down in a judgemental fashion.

"Leave me alone Lyle,"

she growled, attempting to hide her shaking legs from the 10 ft tall alien as she held her ground.

"Stop harassing the girl dumbass,"

a female voice caught her attention, coming from the room beside her and turning her head she caught sight of a woman slouched against a bench press who she believed to be Z-dog.

"Oh come on, I was barely even talking. plus she's not scared of us like the others are you girlie? She's dating the Colonel after all."

"We're not dating,"

Gaia interjected, making the faces of the two soldiers faulter, before Lyle coughed out a laugh

"I'll make sure to tell him you said that... or you can tell him yourself if you like,"

mumbling the last part of the sentence, his eyes cast downwards like a scolded puppy as she felt a shadow engulfing her pint-sized body before the familiar voice hit her.

"Tell me what Gaia?"

Turning reluctantly to face him, she was forced to crane her neck uncomfortably to meet his eye, not liking the despondent expression she was met with, especially as she knew she'd been the one to cause it with her own self-centred fears.

"Well I mean, we're not dating are we?"

She knew this time she'd really done it, the way the anger and disbelief flashed across his face so readily, in a way she'd never seen the reserved man exhibit emotion before.

"Well, that's not exactly the view I got when I had my cock down your throat this morning doll, that just something you do for all the soldiers then?"

His words cut her to the core, especially being said in front of his squad, who's respect for her was barely holding on by a thread at best, and even though she knew he only said it because he was angry, and hurt, she couldn't find in herself to forgive him.

"You prick,"

she screeched, shoving his leg, unable to move it even an ich, despite leaning her whole body weight against him, refusing to meet the eyes of Lyle and Z-dog who she could already hear snickering in their corner whilst she was drowning in shame.

"What? we're not dating are we? Or you wanted me to act like your boyfriend all of a sudden?"

She felt so hurt by him, malice dripping from his every word as he flashed her a signature lopsided smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, looking down on her like he might tread on her if he had the chance.

"You know what, you're right, were not dating, so you can take this shit back, have fun exercising your right hand for the rest of your life. asshole."

She spat, snapping the dog tags off her neck to throw them unceremoniously at Mile's stomach. She wanted him to hurt just as bad as he'd made her, and she knew how to do it, taking in the pained look on his face for a split second before turning on her heel and marching off proudly, fighting the urge to flip them all off as the anger surged through her like lava in her veins, unstoppable and ready to destroy anything in its wake.

Miles bent down slowly to scoop the metal chain from the ground, keeping his eyes on her silhouette disappearing steadily from view, stuffing the tags into his back pocket, pretending not the feel the way they'd warmed from her skin, or the way his heart clenched when she threw them back at him. These days it felt like they always fought and he didn't understand why she kept pushing him away, keeping him at arms length and kicking back if he ever got too close.

"What the hell are you lot looking at, you not got anything better to do?"

He snarled suddenly directing his attention back to the crowd of troops that had gathered at the gym entrance, scattering as soon as his ferocious gaze settled on their spying faces. Maybe he should just let her go, she'd made it pretty clear she didn't feel as deeply for him as he did her. To think he was almost reckless enough to say he loved her, he wouldn't let himself get caught up in such trivial things again, he'd lost sight of the main objective, the reason he was even alive, to capture Jake Sully and put an end to the feud between Pandora and the RDA, for humanity.

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

The days dragged on and the mission drew closer, nonetheless, Gaia and Miles were still not on speaking terms, brushing past one another in the hallways like strangers, both too stubborn to admit how much they'd missed each other.

"Hey June, Mike,"

Gaia greeted her old friends with a warm smile, seated in the mess hall as always, this time with hands intertwined, June's head resting easily on his shoulder as her eyes met Gaia's.

"Gaia, how have you been babe, I feel like I haven't seen you in forever,"

she smiled softly back to her, making no move to remove herself from her lover.

"I know, it's been forever, I've just been so busy with the mission that I've been rushed off my feet,"

she attempted to laugh, feeling off put by the blatant displays of affection, bringing her thoughts back to the many soft touches and kisses she and Miles had shared.

"Yeah I heard about that, I can't believe you're actually going, do you think it'll be safe?"

She questioned more animatedly, propping her head up at last, to direct her focus away from Mike.

"Yeah, I'll be okay, I can look after myself,"

she smiled halfheartedly, twirling her thumbs as she looked down.

"Yeah and I'm sure Quaritch wouldn't let anything happen to you either,"

she grinned catishly, flashing a raised eyebrow at mike before looking back to her.

"I don't care what he does it's not my problem anymore,"

she grimaced, leaning her chin on her open palm, looking away wistfully as she pretended the revelation of their break up didn't sting.

"What? You guys broke up, you never said...guess that explains why you're here though,"

June chuckled, reaching over to give her shoulder a pat as she pouted like a child.

"We were never together, we just both know that now,"

she paused, locking eyes with June before she spoke again,

"I am sorry, for disappearing like that, I didn't mean to it's just..."

She nodded, the apology seeming to be what was needed to crack the icy demeanour she'd insisted on showing her these past few weeks.

"Aw it's okay Gai, I know, that man's enough to drive anyone insane, I don't know how you handled him for this long,"

she rubbed her arm in comfort, tilting her head to the side as she spoke.

"He can be pretty annoying can't he,"

Gaia grinned sincerely at last, finding solace in her understanding eyes.

"That's an understatement."

Mike appended with an honest laugh, her heart warming at their ability to re-welcome her into their lives despite her neglect to their friendship these past months.

"Thanks guys,"

she laughed along, trying to avoid looking over at the large blue figure that had entered the room moments ago, avoid watching the way he winked at the pretty cook that gave him an extra potato, avoid the way her cheeks glowed red and her eyes cast downwards with a small smile on her glossy lips.

"Just ignore him Gaia,"

June muttered, taking another mouthful of the dry potato and stew on her plate as her eyes stayed trained on the blue man, giving him a scowl whenever he looked her way. She couldn't stay and watch him flirt with someone else, it killed her to see how easily he'd moved on already when she was still in love with the stupid, arrogant man.

"You know, I'm not really hungry, I'm gonna head to bed early, go read a book or something,"

she shot out, rushing to her feet in spite of the noise of protest that left June's mouth, walking briskly with her head down so as not to meet the eyes of a certain Colonel as tears gathered at the corners of her own.

Miles was watching her though, even if she refused to look at him, he couldn't keep his eyes off of her. He wondered if she hated him for what he'd said, wanting nothing more than to follow her out of that room, yet knowing she had to be the one to come to him, he needed her forgiveness before he could go to her, and with the way he'd acted he doubted she'd be receptive, it was time for him to move on and forget about her.

"Colonel, just go and talk to her you two fight like children sometimes,"

Mansk piped up, earning a stone cold glare from his superior that had him dipping his head to stuff food into his mouth in silence.

"He's not wrong Colonel, everyone can see you've been in a foul mood since you both stopped speaking,"

Lyle was the only soldier with the balls to keep prodding the bear, being his corporal gave him a certain leeway that the others hadn't earned.

"You're both so stubborn"

Z-dog uttered under her breath, head in her palm as she observed her ruthless Colonel falling apart at the hands of one, singular, human woman.

"I'd implore you all to shut your pie holes before I make you regret it,"

He arched an eyebrow, sweeping a pair of yellow eyes across the table, watching his troops lower their heads in submission, silence falling over the group at his request, the sour taste left in their mouths not being from the RDA food for once.

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

Lyle, Z-dog and Mansk were hanging out in their usual spot outside the base, having just finished another gruelling training session with the Colonel consisting of a 10 mile run along with sparring and strength tests that had them sweating like pigs.

"Lyle, Mansk, we've gotta do something man, I'm gonna die at this rate if Colonel doesn't lay off."

Lyle grunted as he took a swig from Mansk's bottle, eyes flashing to the brooding man as he considered their options.

"Well, what do you suggest Z?

he retorted incredulously.

"I think we should parent trap them or something, they've gotta talk out whatever's going on."

Z-dog rubbed her hands together like the villain of a movie, enjoying having something other than the upcoming mission to think about.

"Come off it, you saw their last fight, they'd kill each other,"

Lyle grimaced at the memory of their peaceful gym session being interrupted once again by the hotheaded blue man.

"Or fuck it out, hate sex is the best kind,"

Mansk quirked an eyebrow as if he were imagining the scenario, or more likely Gaia, still a little too fond of the woman in question.

"Of-course you'd say that,"

Lyle grinned, slapping his back, the water sloshing out of his open bottle with the force, a glare from Mansk being shot right back at him.

"It could work I guess,"

He finally agreed in the silence, it was the only idea they'd got and god damn he knew he'd expire too if he had to run another 10 miles tomorrow.

"I feel like a fucking spy, this is great, I'll take the girl, you lot get the Colonel,"

Z-dog grinned, swaying her hips as she pranced away with her sweat stained shirt slung over her shoulder, making the others groan in annoyance, knowing the Colonel would arguably be the hardest to convince considering nowadays he was such a tightly coiled spring, any minor inconvenience would set him off. Still it was for the good of the team, they needed their Colonel back and they supposed helping him with his terrible relationship skills would just be a bonus for him.

They wouldn't waste any time, they had to get it done tonight, which is why Lyle was now pulling an extra late night session at the gym, all in hopes of spotting the elusive Colonel Quaritch whilst Mansk waited on the sidelines for his queue. It didn't take long for the man to appear, his routines running like clockwork, when he moved immediately over to the treadmill to warm up, Lyle followed to take the machine beside him, striking up friendly conversation.

"Sir, don't usually get to catch a workout with you,"

he called out jovially, slapping the man's broad shoulder, not sparking any reaction from Miles who kept his eyes trained forward, speeding to a jog instead.

"What do you want Lyle?"

He could see through his bullshit immediately, used to the antics of a bunch of young soldiers cooped up on a base for months on end.

"Nothing Sir, I'm just happy to see you,"

he laughed in the silence as his Colonels face twitched in discomfort, knowing he preferred to be left alone at times like these, and he found it quite amusing to wind him up every now and again.

"Although, you might be interested to know Gaia was asking after you, said to tell you she'd be waiting for you in break room."

His ears twitched at the mention of her name, sparking his interest, especially at the thought of her waiting up for him after such a prolonged time apart.

"Don't bullshit me Lyle,"

he growled lowly, speeding up yet again to take his thoughts off of her, her soft golden hair and delicate frame, encasing a volatile soul.

"Oh, hey Mansk, fancy seeing you here,"

Lyle dropped in, not so subtly, watching the recombinant saunter over to the squat rack, not bothering to hide the fact that he had no interest in working, using it to lean against instead.

"Hey there, Lyle don't let me interrupt your interesting conversation,"

he grinned, sarcasm deeply embedded into his words.

"Well now you mention it Mansk, I was just talking about how Sunshine's all alone wating for the Colonel in the break room, you hear about that?"

He snickered, walking lazily on the treadmill, laying out the bait so conspicuously he wondered if the Colonel would stoop so low as to take it, though anything involving his precious scientist he knew he couldn't resist.

"Oh, Sunshine? Yeah I saw her, all on her own, might go keep her company actually, be a shame to let that opportunity go to waste."

His comment drew a whistle from Lyle's lips, stealing a glance at Quaritch who was gripping the bars of the machine so hard his knuckles had started to turn white, his jaw set and lips pursed, still refusing to acknowledge Mank's words.

"Well guess I'll get out of your hair, see you Colonel."

Mansk began to walk slowly for the door, surprised at Quaritch's lack retaliation, that was until he felt himself being ripped away from the exit by his arm, a large man striding in front of him wordlessly, leaving both Mansk and Lyle in stitches, even more so when they noticed he hadn't even bothered to shut off the treadmill in his haste, disappearing down the hall to find his Juliet at last.

They followed swiftly, knowing the jig wasn't up yet and the hardest part was still to come, it was difficult enough to swipe the keys for the room off Quaritch's desk, now they had to be quick enough to lock him in without being noticed by the hypervigilant man.

Luckily for them, once he set his eyes on Gaia, he appeared entranced, stepping into the room without a second thought, not caring to look behind him, that was until both he and Gaia heard the distinct click of a lock, whipping around in unison to see the devious faces of his troops peering back at them through the small pane of glass at the top of the door.

"Sorry sir this is for your own good!"

Lyle shouted through the fogged up window before running away like a coward when Miles marched up to to the locked entrance, attempting to wrench it open from the handle but instead managing to pull the whole thing off, forcing him to acknowledge that they were both stuck in there whether they liked it or not.

Taglist:

@ab-haya

@isabellekenway

@mechformers 

@lvangel98

@htnw004

@jayedillon

@violet-19999

@drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed

@holysaladapricothero

@misscaller06

@fanboyluvr

@forestcottageboy

@adaydreamaway08

[foolishfynnesse]

Wondering if maybe I should make my aroace intersex OC aplatonic as well. Like, maybe either plato-favorable or plato-indifferent. I have several OC’s that make up a friend group, but I’ve been wondering for a bit if I should make one of them aplatonic, since I’m on that spectrum myself (grayplatonic) and since aplspec people are horribly underrepresented. Kind of weird that I would make several OC’s when I’m not really capable of fleshing out even one of them (I really only know basic things about all of them). But anyway, I was thinking that maybe the character I’m referring to first joined the friend group a long time ago because of shared interests with one or more of the members of the friend group. She knows she cares about those who call themselves her friends, but she comes to realize that she doesn’t love them like someone who’s alloplatonic would; that she wouldn’t mind if she stopped seeing them altogether. Sure, she likes having people to talk to about her interests and to vent to, and is mostly fine with the give-and-take that friendship demands, but when it really comes down to it, she likes being alone most of the time. She eventually kind of leaves the friend group as they go their separate ways. Maybe one or more of them check in on her from time-to-time, which she doesn’t mind, but she goes on to live on her own with her cat Nimbus (or Bus for short), pursuing her career and interests.

Idk, how does that sound? I’m not entirely aplatonic, so I’m not sure if this is really good or not. I don’t really plan to do anything with my characters as of now (I probably never will tbh, lmao) but I still want to make sure that they don’t misrepresent any of the lgbt+ groups that my characters fit into (or any of the racial groups they are a part of, but that’s not what I’m talking about in this post). For instance, I’m perisex, so I have many things to learn about intersex people. I guess this is one of the reasons I don’t try to flesh out my OC’s that much; because I’m afraid of inserting my own ignorance and biases into their characters (if that makes sense?). But anyway, thoughts?

(Sorry about this post. It’s just that, if I didn’t make it, I would probably spend hours awake thinking about this idea)

(Also, should I make a post about my OC’s…?)