#my RP snippets

[magnetic-regent-magneto]

[b0nelessdoodles]

i keep thinking im gonna like actually finish these but that ain't happening so have some gay people

[messymoonmad]

If I were to, I don't knowwww *discreetly slides textured hair care products to Antinous* For you king, a gift

(He'd assume you're a servant)

Antinous : you came at the right time, my hair was getting dry...

He unties his dreads and lays down

Antinous : come on what are you waiting for ?? Apply the oils to my hair and take care of it. If you damage it ill cut your hands off understood ?

[ask-elland-n-will]

[Polyjuice Swap 2024!]

[William drank the wrong Polyjuice Potion: is there any doubt whose fur got into his vial?

Context: some Polyjuice Potions (sponsored by an organisation wishing to remain anonymous) have been specially produced for this Halloween party. They are meant to be swapped between students in secret to allow for fun interactions and "who are you"s. The rule of fun for bending the rules is allowed: long duration, change of clothes, transformations that are not normally possible with Polyjuice, and so on.]

William was really excited about this event as he was one of the people in charge of it, just like the year prior (as much as Cassandra claims it to be her idea). Potions allowing the user to change into some spooky creatures in spirit of the Halloween were a success back then, especially for those who didn't have a costume. Everyone from sandy mummies to cats with pretty bows roamed the ballroom (and some — wreaked havoc).

Changing into their classmates was not the aspect they'd considered until this year, and the permission to do it officially took Will a lot of time and effort. The prefects had to make sure that no transformed student left the designated area, that only the 7th-years took the polyjuice vials, and that the potions themselves were acquired from a reputable source.

William expected some cheating to occur, but not that it would affect him personally. And yet.

He took the vial he was given with excitement. Who would he become! Who else is participating! What is the pool of students he's picking from! William spent a few days looking through his archives, trying to recall his friends' mannerisms and speech patterns, obvious ticks and smaller details, typical topics of conversations, and so on. He was so prepared to play his role that—

— that when he watched in horror as teal fur started growing all over his face, as he felt the same hairy needles spread over the rest of his body, as sharp claws replaced his carefully manicured fingers (at least it didn't spread to his feet?), and as his lips— Merlin, he no longer had the lips, he had a beak! When all of that looked back at him in the mirror, all hope for a fun evening was lost.

[Welcome to the Swap!]

[angeart]

I like when you both keep adding to posts, yes pls keep getting carried away with things

Sick and exhausted Grian only seeing his options as death now or death later, give the poor birb some comfort T-T

-🎀

oh hello! i was about to get carried away again and add another bit there pff. but you can have it here.

and dw, scar is doing his best to provide grian with comfort <3 (it's the only thing he has left to give—)

here's another grian snippet:

Exhaustion is the only thing he feels with any remote semblance of coherency; everything else is pushed aside, dulled and veiled and numbingly just out of reach, tucked into unimportance even as feeble heat and staticky prickling continues pooling at Grian’s thigh. He doesn’t pay it any attention, the way he doesn’t pay his heavy, unmoving limbs any attention; it doesn’t quite feel like his, anyway. Nothing does.

Nothing but the soft fingertips pressed carefully against his skin, and the lips brushing his cheek. 

He thinks maybe that is his.

A quiet half-hum, half-coo escapes him at the gentle affection. He yearns to lean into it, to ask for more, but his body doesn’t listen. (Not his anymore.) (It belongs to pain and fatigue.) (It belongs to some spreading void, rot snaking its fingers through him, coaxing his organs to give up.) 

With a weak heart wishing for more, he remains limp in Scar’s hold, everything he has left completely entrusted into Scar’s care. The remnants of the fear are wolf-eyes shining in the dark, but Scar is his campfire, warm and protective, throwing  a shield of light at Grian’s surroundings, keeping dangers at bay. 

[heylittleriotact]

It's Snippet Sunday Wednesday (because time is arbitrary soup and making your own rules is fun!)

I have been snippet-ed-ed by the ever wonderful, ever charming, ever hilarious @thefallenangelsgang and hiatus doesn't mean No Writing At All Ever. No. NOBODY PUTS BABY IN THE CORNER.

Anyway, this is a portion from a WIP document that's lovingly titled "UNUSED" and it's taken on a life of its own and I'll probably finish it and post it as a oneshot at some point.

It's part of a story about the one time back in their adventuring days when Senna decided that the best way to help their cleric friend was to drug her into unconsciousness at the dinner table.

Enjoy!

(Also, forever thanks to @allofthebarks for the absolute joy that is Nayeli <3)

The next evening, Senna sat at a table in a secret demiplane with Kali, Ennic, Nayeli, and her father, Malek: the hulking Efreeti they had freed from the dreadful prison in the fire plane where he had languished for the entirety of his daughter’s life until very recently. 

Upon his return to the inn the night before, Senna had spoken with Ennic and Kali while Nayeli was doing her evening prayers and the three had hatched a plan: bring Nayeli to her father’s safehouse and somehow talk her into staying with him while they ventured to the hells to deal with the matter of her contract… do everything they could to hang the fact that she had a lifetime full of memories to make with her absent father over her head and hope that it was enough to guilt her into sitting this one out. 

It was a terrible idea, and arguably opened her to knowingly breaching the contract if she agreed to it - which she wouldn’t, judging by what Senna knew of the stubborn cleric by now - but no one else needed to know that. 

All that mattered was that they were here, around this table, sharing a sumptuous feast from Malek’s magical pantry as father and daughter continued to acquaint themselves amongst cheerful company. Wine was poured, truths were told, jokes were made and memories too. 

Timeless as this plane was, hours flew by in effortless enjoyment. It was hard to come by guiltless laughter and frivolity for the four thrown-together adventurers these days. Senna found himself enjoying the novelty of well-wasted time with others… a feeling he hadn’t felt deserving of in centuries. 

But there was still work to be done. 

He flipped his silken golden hair over his shoulder with one hand and reached over the table, making to nudge Ennic’s scaled hand away from the plate of massive olives - one of the many delectable treats on the table. “S’cuse me, your lordship.” A jesting mockery of the white dragonborn’s proud noble heritage. 

“Hey now!” Ennic chided, the air around his nostrils clouding as he huffed with indignance. 

Senna popped an olive in his mouth, meeting his scaled companion’s glacial eyes purposefully as he slid the fruit over his tongue and delicately gnawed at the soft flesh, stripping it away from the pit with his molars. 

Kali was pouring herself another glass of wine. Nayeli was speaking loudly to her father, her hands flashing through the air as she regaled him with some tale. Malek stared at her, attention rapt - taking in every word, every motion, every breath of his daughter as if she might vanish into dust any moment.

“You seem… tense,” Senna said, lifting his hand up to draw the naked pit from his mouth, watching the dragonborn’s eyes follow the path of his fingers all the way from his lips to the bowl where the other pits were piled up. His left hand popped the cork from the vial he had procured the night before and as he dropped the pit in his right hand, his left extended over the table in a precise, fluid movement. It passed over Nayeli’s cup of wine - one, two - then back to him, his fingers snagging another olive, the half empty vial secreted in his palm. “Want to talk about it?” He flashed Ennic a devastatingly coy smile. 

Ennic squinted then rolled his eyes, picking up his cup of passionfruit juice and swirling it with dignity. “Ha-ha. Mister I-Hate-Rich-People-And-Look-Good-Doing-It-Because-I’m-A-Pretty-Elf trying to bully me around because of my upbringing. Soooo predictable!” He took a sip and pursed his lips defiantly at Senna. 

Senna arched a brow and chuckled. “I only wanted an olive. You’re the one that made it personal.” He made a point of drawing his lower lip through his teeth, earning a faint rush of pink that sashayed across Ennic’s snout. Next to the dragonborn, he marked the movement of Nayeli taking a big drink of her wine - she was well in her cups and well past the polite sipping she’d been doing earlier. She slammed it back on the table, spilling a few drops before launching back into her story. 

“Look, I don’t know you three the way you know each other, but sometimes I get the sense that you’re not telling me everything.” 

Senna smiled drolly around the second olive, eyes lidded as he stretched his bare arms up over his head luxuriously. “How does one put a definition to something as inescapably broad as ‘everything’ though?” He worked the meat from the olive once more and maneuvered the pit with his tongue to the front of his mouth where he gripped it very, very gently with his incisors. 

Ennic’s rose-pink blush deepened, and his eyes darted away. “Stop that.” 

The pit fell into Senna’s waiting palm and he chucked it effortlessly into the bowl. “Stop what? I’m only eating olives. I didn’t realize that was a crime in this demiplane.”

Ennic’s neck frills flared, quivering slightly and throwing off flecks of frost as his claws dug into the table and he leaned over the banquet to Senna. He opened his mouth to retort at the exact same time Nayeli very loudly declared, “There were orgies in Sune’s temple, but not as many as you would think!” She shot to her feet, downing another mouthful of wine and pointing at nothing somewhere over Malek’s shoulder. “The lookie-loo tourists were verrrrrry disappointed… buncha perverts…” She frowned, swayed on her feet… looked at Senna. The frown became a glare. “You dare–” 

And then she collapsed back down to the bench and folded face first onto the table. Her goblet rolled from her hand onto the table, its contents staining the weathered wood. 

The room turned crimson, then white. Steam billowed off of Ennic as the windowless sanctuary they occupied became unbearably hot in an instant.

“WHAT?!” Malek was on his feet, fists the size of swans slamming onto the table. “MURDERERS!” He roared, white flame blazing from his eyes and curling up his brow.

Huge. He was huge. His arms were as wide around as Senna and he towered over his daughter’s so-called friends, sparks spilling from his mouth as he looked to each of them as if deciding who to roast first.

At the sudden sound of Nayeli hitting the table, Kali had sprung away from the bench, pressing her back to the wall and holding her daggers before her defensively, lip curled in a fanged snarl as her pointed tail cut through the air around her. 

Ennic was staring with an awestruck expression at Malek, and Senna clambered over the table to stand between the enraged Efreeti and the dragonborn, hands held high.

“No! No murder. She’s fine - just sleeping. I swear.” 

This. This was why Ennic and Kali couldn’t know of his plan: better he be subjected to a molten ass-kicking at the hands of an extremely pissed off Efreeti than all of them. 

He ducked under the fiery fist that was barreling towards his face and nudged a pile of rolls off of a silver platter, kicking it up into his hand as he straightened. “She’s fine, see?” He knelt on the table and with deliberately exaggerated tenderness turned Nayeli’s head so she was no longer facedown on the table. He held the platter in front of her mouth and angled it so Malek could see her breath fog the polished surface. 

This appeared to at least somewhat quell Malek’s rage as he appeared to be gripping the edge of the table in a concerted effort to restrain himself from throwing another punch at Senna. The wood under his fingers sizzled and blackened. 

“You had better have a very good explanation as to why you think you can come into my home and poison my daughter in front of me and leave this place alive.” Sparks flew from his mouth with each word. “Explain.” He demanded in a tone that promised painful death should the explanation not satisfy. 

No pressure tags if you feel like it or if you have anything cooking: @allofthebarks, @inkymoonbunny, @roguishcat

[ghostly-roses]

Not like there was any doubt the answer wasn’t an immediate yes. Zelda knew by the look in his eyes. He wore his heart on his sleeve but it now lovingly greeted her back.

‘My beloved fool~’

[gravesung-moving]

in case yall want a little peek into how my brain works, this is my “everything” note

[barbwillbrb]

Snippet Sunday!

Thank yee @ladyofcrowsandcoffee for the tag! I finally got snippets to share for once thanks to the monstrosity of an RP @faerunsbest and I got going on.

I wanna show various aspects of Mortimer's persona, so here are five snippets showing different sides of him.

Combat Mortimer:

It was too strange, too surreal; faint memories flickered past his troubled mind, the ghost of his past life haunting him. Walking in his childhood footsteps, Mortimer worked his way through the house that was his personal hell, finding his way to the uppermost floors. His senses on high alert, he reached out with his magic, searching for any signs of life, but ultimately seeking one soul in particular– sure enough, Mortimer could feel him, a dark, angry force above him, in the office. Some things never change. 

While most of his father’s forces seemed to convene on the bottom-most levels– the man always, always hated being interrupted during his work, a lesson Mortimer learned all too well as a child, earning the scar on his wrist– a few lingered upstairs, holding fast to their positions as carnage echoed up the stairwells. The distraction proved fruitful; they never heard Mortimer approach, nor had the time to react when the wizard flooded their lungs, water blooming in their chests– the guards dropped dead, drowning where they stood, liquid tinged with red dribbling from their lips.

Hysterical/Sad Mort:

It wasn’t like Mortimer didn’t try, wasn’t like he didn’t want to– the gods themselves knew how much he wanted the man back. 

Fear, however, was an insidious, ugly thing– especially fear wrought from deep-routed traumas and broken memories. 

Mortimer knew damned well it wasn’t Sybyll that hurt him– not really, no. Sybyll wasn’t to blame for any of this. Unfortunately, the harm that befell Mortimer unlocked parts of his mind he kept buried for his own survival: all the very worst moments of his wretched life– the darkest, most vile recollections from his time with the cult, his time imprisoned. He couldn’t sleep without being taken to a dark, awful, choking pit. Nightmares weren’t nightmares when you knew them to be true, their marks buried deep in your skin. 

On the nights he could sleep, he woke in a cold, panicked sweat; Mortimer had taken to relying on potions to maintain any sort of rest. 

Mortimer didn’t just lose Sybyll; he was losing his damned mind, his peace, his sense of self.

More Sad Mort because making him miserable is fun, and he had to break in order to get better. Also, he swears!

It seemed fate would not bring Mortimer a moment’s peace, regardless of his misery. A knock came from the door, followed by Lennox’s voice; of course the wizard forgot something. Mortimer was half tempted to dismiss the werewolf’s concerns, simply wave away the questions or just refuse to open the door… if he didn’t know for a fact that Lennox would simply break it down to figure out what was wrong.

Besides, Mortimer didn’t want him to think something was wrong with the chair, not after everything Lennox had done for him. Gods– all this work to fix himself, and Mortimer was still a mess. Broken… incomplete. Without Sybyll, that’s exactly what he felt like, a puzzle without all the pieces. 

And Mortimer lost him. 

“Fuck, fuckfuckfuck,” Mortimer swore under his breath, wiping his eyes with his sleeves, his hands balled into fists in his frustration. He did his best to dry his face, pinching at his cheeks, and looked over the mess that was his desk. Hurriedly, he stowed the bottle and glass away, shutting the cupboard drawer. If he delayed any longer, Lennox would surely knock the door off its hinges. “Coming, coming,” he muttered, hating how hoarse his voice sounded; he should have brought water with him. Then again, his plan was to get shitfaced and forget about everything, wasn’t it? Thank Lathander that he only had the one so far. 

Mortimer being a disastrous romantic

It wasn’t that he had nothing to say– quite the opposite; the words came quite freely in regards to his feelings. The difficulty was trying to narrow down the torrent of emotions he felt for Sybyll into something that didn’t come off as the barely coherent, lovestruck ramblings of a madman– or led to him practically begging forgiveness for his stupidity. Although, if Mortimer was honest with himself, the shortest note he scribbled was probably the most accurate: “I am sorry, I am a fucking idiot, and I love you. Please tell me it’s not too late?”

A groan left him and he threw his head in his hands. At least Pinky was not trying to kill the goldish, or Mortimer very well might have lost his mind. Nothing was coming out right. Mortimer looked at the drawer of unsent letters, all pulled from his heart. Each one was a silly mess of fluff, pining, begging– unedited and raw. Why didn’t he send them before? Pride? Worry that it would be too much?

Each letter was nothing but honest. Mortimer needed to be honest– and damn-it-all, he didn’t give a shit anymore about his pride. 

Sybyll thought he was alone. Mortimer was determined to prove he never left his heart. 

He gathered all the letters and placed them in a box, surprised at the weight– he might as well have written a novel– tying it closed with red thread. Whatever Mortimer wanted to say, he would say it in the moment, and if Sybyll needed proof about his feelings– well, here it was, wrapped in a bow.

... aaaaaaand spicy time Mortimer

The vampire yanked his robe's collar free, fangs dragging lightly along his throat; Mortimer hissed in delight, feeling his lover trace an intoxicating path against his skin. The wizard wanted to be patient, to take this slow– but when Sybyll lay back, erection firm against his stomach, looking up at Mortimer with a pleading pout on his pretty red lips– he couldn’t hold back. “By Gods, I’ve missed you, I’ve missed you so much– and I’ll fucking prove it,” Mortimer growled, removing his fingers, snapping into life a mage hand that quickly took on a more appropriate form. 

Working quick but gentle, Mortimer wrapped an arm around the smaller man, flipping their positions in an instant so Sybyll straddled his lap. His hands went to the man's waist, holding him in place as the ghostly cock slid between Mortimer’s legs, beneath his lover’s waiting entrance. Eyes dark with barely contained lust, he pulled the ribbon free from Sybyll’s neck with his teeth, kissing his way up to the vampire's jaw, then lips. Mortimer guided Sybyll down onto the cock, gripping his hips tight. “I’ve longed to do this for months,” he murmured, beginning to move Sybyll, his hold firm.

No pressure tag time: @lemonsrosesandlavender @faerunsbest @kimberbohwrites @commander-krios @savriea

[bi-hop]

laughing bc I just wrote almost 500 words of precursor to labru smut that I am not going to finish and it wasn't even like a conscious thing, it was entirely me being like this while sitting near my laptop

[crownshattered]

❛ your mind collides with the drow's. the sudden sensation of fear overwhelms you, but you realize it is not your own -

- it is hers. ❜

protected by kiki ❤ & ↺

[justassorted]

Snippets: Skitter, original verse

“We can triangulate it, it isn’t encrypted,” the safety officer confirmed. “Pretty amateur kidnappers, these. Unless Skitter stole a random person’s communicator…” They frowned, shooting Ossin a sharp look. “Would he have hurt bystanders?”

Ossin groaned. “Do not know. Skitter would not if Skitter was thinking clearly, but Skitter obviously is not. If bystander looked like kidnapper, or acted in way that felt threatening to Skitter, did not give space… maybe. Don’t know.”

This was a lie. Ossin did know. 

Ossin had worked with Skitter for years. They trusted him, and liked him. They sometimes even liked to think that he trusted them.

They still followed safety precautions; didn’t dive with him unless someone else was in the room, kept a close eye on his body language whenever they approached him, didn’t spend time alone with him without an emergency beacon on hand.

They knew.

[justashadetalkative]

IC musings: Clemcy

“I’m not a hive mind in the way popular culture tends to understand it. Without an intentional link, bodies do not share simultaneous memories or thoughts. Each instance of myself is experiencing life in the singular, at least in that sense.

“I often act somewhat differently in any given fragment. Different bodies are… I suppose one could liken them to being on different psychiatric medications, for lack of a better analogy. I am still myself, regardless, but my mood, energy level, impulse control, clarity of thought—those things can vary. 

“And there are, of course, however many years of divergent experience that have built up over the lifespan of a given body. Those experiences are generally only re-integrated after any given fragment’s death. Only then do they pass forward into new embodiments.”

[dumpforfunwhump]

Panicked Haze

Aster stumbled through the corridors, leaning on a wall. They weren’t sure why they were leaning on the wall. They weren’t very sure of anything—everything seemed to be covered in a layer of confusion-fog that made it all difficult to comprehend. The fog was thick and slows were—no, no, that didn’t…That didn’t make sense. Thoughts were slow. Just out of reach, along with the memories, for a while at least.

After a little more dazed wandering, the fog began to clear and their muscles ached and had someone been sick? They could smell vomit. Maybe they were imagining it. Bare feet cold on the floor. Cold, cold, cold. He tried to focus on the sensation; everything else was too much.

How did he get here? His body ached. He was tired. It was strange to be tired. He hadn’t been tired in … well, he wasn’t sure how long, but he knew he didn’t have that buzzing urge to move-move-move anymore. Or maybe he did? He didn’t trust his own senses. It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense.

His wrists were sore. Ankles, too. He absently scratched and picked at the raw skin that encircled his wrists.

Aster stared into space as vague memories began to stir in the back of his mind, before rearing their ugly heads and freezing them in place.

Fear, pain, paralysis. Hiding and hiding and stepping into an office—and maybe that was better than being alone—but a pinprick—leather straps tight against his limbs—trying to move but he couldn’t — he couldn’t , not even a finger and he didn’t want this and what was happening? and wanting to scream but he couldn’t and lying there and the click of a lock and no one could hear him scream because he couldn’t make a sound and footsteps and it happened again and again—it hurt, it hurt, it hurt—waking up and struggling and let me out —

They slid to the floor back against the wall as they struggled to breathe.

[habitual-creatures]

Howthemightyfall...

And how they rise from the dead anew

cws poorly edited blood, implied abandonment, implied death, implied betrayal.

Audio clips came from The Bear

I don't really know how to word this. It's sort of the moment the rotting began, it's what led up to him being this... well, sorta ex-communicated and exiled thing. The thing that led to him being sort of independent.

It was originally only Kevin's plan, a sort of desperate attempt to get free from their influence, but upon some events in Observer's service, he wanted his own freedom from the pact as well. That's what this is. That's what led to his disgrace.

[slusheeduck]

I wanted to do Fictober again because it really was SUCH a great jumpstart for my creativity and writing. Since Casual Banter has become its own special kind of monster, I figure I'd move to a different fandom and focus on my ESO OCs that I absolutely adore and yet have not been able to shoehorn anywhere but RP circles.

So enjoy little snippets of Aelanne and Taranil, my two darling Daedra worshipping, married-for-insurance-purposes besties this October.

Fictober 2024 - Day 1

Prompt: "That was good work"

Fandom: Elder Scrolls Online

“Taran?”

“No.”

“Taranil, please.”

“I said no.”

Silence followed, and Taranil looked up, only to be met with absolutely massive blue eyes. He frowned at them. “You know that doesn’t work with me. The answer is still no, Aelanne.”

Aelanne threw her head back with a loud groan, long black braid swinging from the force of it. “Taran, come on! You literally can open locks without trying.”

“I can open one lock without trying, per day. Your line of work has significantly more.” As Aelanne leaned in, he buried his nose deeper into the book he was trying to read. “Fuck off.”

She did not, instead leaning against the Altmer like an insistent cat. “So I’ll take care of the rest of the locks. The fact is, you’re strong, and fast, and the last job we did went so well…”

“You bullied me into it, and I practically had a panic attack the entire time. It was terrible.”

“That was good work!”

 Taranil peeked over his book, red eyes glowering at her. “I’d like to take this time to remind you, dearheart, that our arrangement means you don’t need to resort to thievery anymore.” He gestured around them. “At least six centuries of Caemorin wealth, all at your disposal.”

Aelanne puffed at her bangs, crossing her arms as she continued leaning against Taranil. “It’s not about the money…”

“Oh, bullshit! You care more about money than anyone I’ve ever met.”

She shushed him. “It’s about the craft, Taran. The art of thievery. That’s what she wants from me, same as Mephala wants…I dunno, causing problems for no reason from you.” She slid her eyes over to him, expression sly. “And you wouldn’t want to jeopardize my position with my Prince, would you?”

Taranil’s pose had become very stiff, and she could practically hear the gears in his head whirring as he tried to find a way out of it.

“God! Fine!” he suddenly said, snapping his book closed. “But you owe me.”

“Of course,” Aelanne said, in the exact tone of someone who knew she wasn’t going to do anything of the sort. She pat Taranil’s thin chest, giving him a big grin that split her gray face in half. “Go on, get your leathers on. We’re going to have so much fun in Wayrest.”