#oc: fizzle dust

[jaytoons7]

I haven't drawn MLP next gen kiddos since like, 2016. So... Throwback time!

It was really fun to design these little ponies (Plus dragon)!

Notes: I didn't use bases, But I did use show screenshots as a starting point. I cheated lol

I am not 100% caught up on MLP (I originally drifted a bit from a show by about season 7) but I do have an idea how things end.

Character lore below the cut (It gets long):

Fizzle Dust:

Uses She/They pronouns interchangabley

Fizzle was spellborn from Twilight and Tempest, But surprisingly ended up being an earth pony. She is a bit taller than most ponies their age since her parents are both pretty tall

Ever since they were little, She's always wanted to be a royal guard

They feel like they have a lot of expectations on her shoulders, Since Tempest is a royal guard and Twilight is a princess. She tries to hide that though

Raspberry:

Uses any pronouns

Nopony was sure what the child of Fluttershy and Discord would end up looking like. Turns out, Discord's chaotic genetics seemed to awaken Fluttershy's dormant bat pony genetics, Thus ending up with Raspberry

Raspberry very rarely speaks, Using mostly squeaks and chirps

Unfortunately, She was bullied a lot as a kid, Not just for being a bat pony, But because he had a lot of weird interests growing up

They have a pet snake named Banana Sundae

Topaz:

Uses She/Her pronouns

Topaz was found as an egg with her birth parents being nowhere to be found. Fluttershy and Discord took her in to make sure she hatched safely

Unlike her Raspberry, Topaz is very talkative. She sometimes ends up going on for hours

She wants to care for animals like Fluttershy

She might be a part of this gen's CMC

Chocolate Fudge:

Uses She/Her pronouns

Chocolate is Pinkie and Cheese's second child

While she isn't quite as energetic as the rest of her family, She's still really bubbly and sweet

She has naturally straight hair but she makes it curly, Which is why it looks a little weird at the ends

She loves baking and wants to take over Sugarcube Corner someday

Prism Spectrum:

Uses She/Her pronouns

Prism was adopted by Rainbow and Gilda

She was born without a right hind leg, So she tends to fly more than she walks

She is the definition of chill

She sometimes struggles to show her emotions, Similarly to her parents

Apple Jewel:

Uses They/Them pronouns

Jewel is the spellborn child of Rarity and Applejack (They had Twilight's help though)

They are a wonderful artist who recently opened an art studio in Ponyville

They have always been heavily inspired by both of their parents since they're such hard workers

They sometimes paint so long, They forget to sleep, Which is why they often look tired

Blue Bow:

Uses She/Her pronouns

Blue was adopted by Coco and Rara

She lived most of her life in Manehattan. She moved to Ponyville where it's a bit quieter

She's a very talented song writer, But is too nervous to perform what she writes

However, She has a secret stage persona (Think of it as a Hannah Montana situation) named Golden Symphony. She's a lot more confident with her stage name

[violettduchess]

A/N: The first meeting between Clavis and my OC Marigold. You can learn more about her here.

I want their stories and relationship to have a lighter, more romantic comedy feeling than Silvio and my OC Leyla. Not that there won't be moments of angst/drama but in general, I want less thunder and lightning here and instead more soft rain and sunshine.

Thank you for reading!

WC: 2.4 k

“And that concludes our tour.” 

Sariel Noir adjusts his glasses as he turns to face the young woman he’s just spent an hour with. Her wide eyes, a bright gray that reminds him of quicksilver, are still drinking in her surroundings with obvious pleasure and awe. A part of him is proud to see the effect the palace has on her, this place he pours so much of his time and energy into keeping orderly and safe. Marigold Jacobs can’t help herself. She’s visited the royal palace in Jade several times due to her father’s renown as an astronomer and Prince Keith’s deep interest in the field. It's impressive by any measure but now, in Rhodolite she finds herself confronted with the elegance that is the royal palace with its towering spires and delicate design, the breathtaking ornateness of its rooms and the richness of its very aura. Why, it takes one's breath away. She reaches up, adjusting her own round, gold-rimmed glasses and sighs contentedly.

“I really must thank you for such an informative tour, Minister Noir. And for taking the time personally to see to my room and board here.”

He smiles and it reminds her of the smooth play of a breeze over still waters. “It is my pleasure, Ms. Jacobs. We are very happy to accommodate academic endeavors and I know the king will be especially pleased that a literary historian such as yourself is choosing to dive into the works of one of our most famous writers.”

Marigold nods, feeling a warm sense of pride course through her. “I have heard he is fond of Victoria Hugo and her writing. I look forward to meeting King Chevalier when he returns.”

Sariel nods, then reaches into the jacket of his ebony coat, producing a scroll tied with a silk ribbon the color of violets at midnight. “Please take this and keep it with you when making your way through the palace. It is written permission for your use of the royal library as well as any study in which you may choose to do your work.”

“My thanks, Minister.” Marigold takes the scroll and gingerly tucks it into the woven bag hanging across her body. The bag is nearly the exact same russet color as her high-necked dress. The only splash of color she wears are the green and gold earrings her parents gifted her on her last birthday, small emerald studs that she values deeply. To her, they represent Jade with its lush greens and royal golds, a subtle way to honor her home country while abroad.

With a polite bow, Sariel takes his leave, reminding her to please let him know if she requires anything else. As she watches him go, elegant even when doing something as mundane as walking, Marigold feels fresh excitement fizzle through her body like champagne bubbles. She’s really here! In the royal palace! With complete access to all of its resources! 

She thought her room, tucked away in the western wing of the palace, was already a marvel with its small balcony overlooking the stables, the rolling fields and in the distance, the shimmering lake. But now, she stands in the courtyard at the entrance to the famous royal gardens. How can she resist a quick stroll through them before supper?

Just a walk along the path, she tells herself, just a glance at the place so many poets have written about and artists have immortalized. The scent of roses is strong, perfuming the air with their dusky scent. Marigold takes it all in, pausing to admire a topiary in the shape of a fawn, a small fountain depicting a fairy pouring water over the head of a tiny frog. Her sensible brown boots kick up small whorls of dust as she walks the dirt path. If I remember the layout correctly there should be a gazebo around here somewhere. Maybe she can find it. 

As she wanders, she notices how the hedges grow higher, past her shoulders, then past her head with its glossy, chestnut bun. They seem to be stretching up towards the sky itself, reaching their leaves up towards its robin-egg blue beauty.

So lost is she in admiring the sights that she does not notice how she has stepped off the dirt path and onto an area of green grass covered in odd patches of leaves and twigs. A particularly large hedge full of exquisite purple hibiscus has caught her eye and she walks towards it, eager to get a closer look. 

Suddenly, the hibiscus is retreating, growing more and more distant as the ground beneath her feet gives. Her world tilts and for a moment, all she sees is pristine sky. And then she is falling, falling, falling, for what feels like an eternity but is actually only a few seconds.

“Ahhhh!” 

OOF.

She hits the bottom of the ditch with an undignified thunk, sprawled out on her back, the wind temporarily knocked out of her. Gasping for the breath that keeps trying to elude her, Marigold needs several seconds to reconnect body with mind. Slowly, she pushes herself up into a sitting position. Her palms sink slightly into the dirt ground and tilting her head up, she sees she has fallen into a perfectly circular hole in the ground. With a shaking hand, she adjusts her glasses which had gone askew with the temporary loss of gravity and then with a loud groan, she stands. She rotates each foot and wrist, turns her neck from side to side. She’s sore and will likely have some impressive bruises but she does not seem to be seriously injured.

“Oh dearie me.” 

She jerks her head up to see a face peering down at her over the edge of the ditch. A man with twilight hair and eyes the color of Goldenrod is looking down at her, white gloved fingers curled over the lip of the hole.

“Are you alright?” 

She breathes out, relieved that someone arrived so quickly. “Yes, I think so.” She pats her woven bag, sending a quick prayer of thanks that she did not flatten it with her fall. Not only does it have Minister Noir’s letter, but the key to her room, her pencils and small notebook as well as her spare pair of glasses.

And now that someone is there and she knows she isn’t hurt, something else fills her: anger, white hot and blinding.

“Would you believe some idiot dug a hole here? In the middle of the royal gardens?”

The man’s smile is almost amused as he tilts his head, regarding her. “Shocking.”

A pink blush colors her pale cheeks as she shakes her head. Loose strands of dark hair escaped her bun in the fall and now flutter angrily around her face. “It is! It really is! Who would dare do such a thing? I mean honestly, it’s absolutely juvenile behavior. A ridiculous, childish prank. I could have been seriously injured! Imagine if someone much older or much younger had wandered around here and fallen!”

“Maybe they would have watched where they were going.” He lifts a shoulder, still grinning. “I mean, there was a big piles of leaves and sticks in the middle of the grass. That could have been a clue not to walk there.”

She narrows her eyes, gray as a winter’s storm. “I was admiring the flowers! And besides, it’s still a hazard!” Another thought occurs to her. “Oh! The princes are bound to be furious! Not to mention King Chevalier when he finds out that his gardens have been vandalized by some….some ruffian!”

“No! Not a ruffian!” There is amusement in his voice, so clear that it snaps her temporarily out of her rant.

“You could offer me a hand you know, instead of just kneeling there and mocking me.”

“I could.” 

He doesn’t move. He's apparently having too much fun watching her.

Marigold scowls and stares at him. Those eyes. She has never thought of anyone as having eyes that actually sparkle. It always seemed a silly, romantic descriptor…but his truly do. A light dances within their golden depths. Even more annoyed by her own observation, she wipes at her nose, leaving a charming streak of dirt across its bridge, one that nearly covers her scattering of freckles.

“Well?” She thrusts her hand up towards him. He considers it just long enough to send another flood of angry red into her cheeks before he leans down, grasping her hand and forearm. 

“Jump on three.” 

Oh, his bright eyes are so vexing. And that smile. 

“One…two….three. Now!”

She jumps and he pulls. He’s stronger than she anticipated and she might as well be part kangaroo because together they manage to get her out of the ditch in one, violent arc which ends with Marigold Jacobs landing directly on top of her extremely attractive but aggravating savior. He’s flat on his back and she’s sprawled across him like a toad that’s done a belly-flop into a mud puddle.

Again she is rendered breathless, not only by the sheer speed in which she was yanked out but by the sudden feel of the man’s long body underneath her, the closeness of his face with it’s charming beauty mark under the curve of his bottom lip, the shocking revelation of just how dazzling his eyes are. He is just as transfixed as he stares at her, his hands having moved to her waist of their own accord. Her face, though streaked with earth, is quietly lovely. A fact one may miss at first or even second glance, but close as she is now, he can see the elegant line of her jaw and cheek, the smoothness of her skin. Her lashes are dark and long. They nearly brush the lenses of her glasses and when he notices her freckles across the bridge of her nose, barely visible under the dirt, his heart skips a beat. 

“Oh no, what have you done now?”

Another voice, deep and masculine, cuts through the moment and sends it scattering to the winds like a horde of startled butterflies. Marigold scrambles off of the man with aurelian eyes, hurriedly trying to smooth down her dress and push her hair out of her face. The man is slower to stand, grinning as he faces the annoyed scowl of the red-haired man in front of him.

“I didn’t do anything. She is the one who fell into a hole which wasn't meant for her.”

Marigold tears her eyes away from the handsome red-haired man in his lavender and white livery to gasp at her rescuer. “Wait a minute? YOU dug that hole?” 

He holds out both hands and shrugs, mirth and mischief hanging on the corners of his grin.

Marigold draws herself up to full height and steps menacingly towards him. “So YOU’RE the vile ruffian who desecrated the royal gardens and then had the nerve to find it funny?” She is almost sputtering she’s so angry. “You….you pompous….ignorant, thick-headed, immature, rough-hewn churl! I’ll tell the princes what you’ve done! Let them deal with a lout like you!” She’s breathing heavily, one hand balled into a fist as she glares at him. If looks could kill, he’d have been murdered a dozen times over.

The red-haired man looks as if he doesn't know whether to burst out laughing or throw himself into the ditch. What he ends up with is a somewhat beleaguered expression, tinted with amusement.

“Ah……you should tell her.”

The man in the lavender jacket grins. “But I’m having such fun.”

Absolutely still on her anger high, Marigold spins to look at the red-haired man. “Tell me what?”

With a heavy sigh, he gestures towards the ruffian. “May I present Prince Clavis Lelouch, third Prince of Rhodolite. Or as I like to call him, the Idiot Prince.”

The….third….what….? 

Slowly Marigold turns back and then, like an image slowly and horrifically coming into focus, she notices the rich material of his clothing, the silk of his tie, the golden rose-shaped tie pin, the pristine white of his pants, the fine leather of his belts and boots. 

Oh…..no….

Wishing she were back in the ditch, Marigold drops into a curtsey, struggling to stay upright. He is a prince of Rhodolite. And she insulted him with all her furious heart. She’ll be sent back to Jade in disgrace, her research over before it has even begun. Her parents will be disappointed. Her professors will never trust her again. She’ll end up a laughing stock at the university all because she couldn’t hold her tongue.

Surprisingly gentle fingers touch her chin, asking without words for her to rise and lift her head. Clavis is standing in front of her, his touch lingering just a moment after she’s straightened up.

“You were absolutely in the right to be angry, Miss…..?”

“Jacobs,” she manages, though her mouth is dry, “Marigold Jacobs.”

“Miss Marigold Jacobs. I apologize that you were my accidental victim. This ditch was intended for one of my brothers and not you.” He lights up as a sudden idea occurs to him. “You must let me make up for it. I’ll have breakfast prepared for you!”

“Oh no,” Cyran mutters. 

Clavis is nodding even as Marigold stammers in protest. “No, please your Highness, you don’t have to go through any trouble because of me.”

He waves his hand. “It’s not trouble, it’s fun!” He’s positively gleeful. “Tomorrow morning at 8 o’clock sharp!” He looks over his shoulder. “Cyran, please fill the ditch.” He pauses. “But only this one.”

Marigold’s eyes widen. There are others…??!

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Marigold Jacobs!” He is on his way out when he stops, glancing at the purple hibiscus that caused all this trouble. He reaches up, carefully plucking one and then with a twinkle in his eye, tosses it towards her. She catches it easily and he smiles, nodding as if satisfied. “Til breakfast!”

And then he is gone. 

Marigold blinks, wondering if this is a fever dream or if this really just happened. The ache in her back and delicate flower in her hand tell her it really did. 

She insulted a Prince of Rhodolite and it ended with her being invited to breakfast. 

Not even her wildest fantasies could have dreamed this up.

She offers Cyran her thanks and is met with scowling and insults about Clavis that far exceed her own. As she walks slowly back in the direction of the palace, she glances down at the purple flower, wondering why she has the feeling that her time with Prince Clavis is far from over.

And why somehow, a quiet, whispered corner of her mind thinks that isn’t a terrible feeling at all.

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[apocalypse-shuffle]

THE VEES | VELVETTE, VALENTINO, & VOX (Hazbin Hotel)

—

Imagine a minor AI demon gaining the ire and (reluctant) infatuation of the Vees.

Headcanons

CHARACTERS: VELVETTE, VALENTINO, & VOX

Fem!OC

SFW, 16+, non-romantic, non-sexual, sex industry mentions tho (TW: Valentino, but no seriously the Vees kind of are their own trigger warning in this fandom)

Pic source: Hazbin Hotel Ep8 “The Show Must Go On”

the short oneshot is 1k+ words

⚠︎ I DO NOT ENDORSE VIVZIEPOP (& associated parties) but I did watch the show and wanted to write for it, so idk ⚠︎

THE VEES

Some sinner has been stealing their gains from right under their noses (because she’s been impersonating each of the three).

Supplies and new prototypes keep getting snatched until one day Velvette sees that (without her input) one of the electronics that Vox had been trying to get off the ground before it’d been stolen has gone viral.

Before then Velvette had been far more entertained by the AI Demon than anything else — only working to stop them at all because Vox told her to — but after stealing what was supposed to be Velvette’s spotlight when she unveiled the new in demand device, and going viral more often than Vel, the Overlord is beside herself with rage and jealousy.

Velvette’s typically put together appearance cracks and the string of fits she has rival some of Valentino’s own; she’s so over the top and out for blood at being made less relevant it’s crazy.

The internet drama that sprouts around both sinners' public feud has Hell in a chokehold for weeks.

At first Valentino would be endlessly entertained by the AI Demon driving Vox up the wall, he’d even give Vox grief over how long taking her down was taking just to fuck with his partner himself.

Problem is the AI Demon eventually also starts imploding his own business and then Val is out for blood and making it everyone’s problem.

He’s so caught up on mitigating the damage the lower level sinner is doing, and on his own work, that Angel Dust barely sees him or is summoned to work at all.

The AI Demon drives Vox crazy at the same time that she reinvigorates him. Vox is the type who likes to be on top, he likes to coast, but coasting comes with a price. Namely that everything gets far too routine and boring.

So when the AI Demon starts to make poorly made but just good enough knockoffs of the shows on his streaming service(s) and of his technology he finds immense joy in hunting her down and tearing apart every site the other sinner creates to host her plagiarism.

Plus, unlike with Alastor, this is a challenge that he can take on without worrying about having to deal with any emotional damage too so he goes all in.

❤︎

“Why the hell should I care that someone’s ripping off Voxflix? Just drop some malware on the site and get outta my face, I have shit to do.”

Vox doesn’t move from where he’s standing as she turns her back to leave, but he does nearly roll his eyes.

“Velvette,” he snaps lowly.

At his tone Velvette stops dead, shorter form stiffening. Vox waits her out.

It takes a silent slew of seconds before she shakes it off and then - finally - turns back to him. Slowly. Her head goes first, he’s sure just so that he can get a good look at the irritated scowl she’s taken on, before she lets the rest of her body follow.

Only once she’s staring at him again - eyes narrowed, arms crossed, and hip cocked - does Vox start back up.

There’s about a million things being transmitted to him at any given moment, but he takes care to narrow his active focus down to only the necessary few to give Velvette his due attention.

“Finished?”

“Fine.” She bristles then noticeably forces her tone to something trying to be more acquiescent, “What can I do for you Vox?”

The corners of his screen fizzle, but he came to her before he set off Valentino with the news of their newest dilemma for a reason, more than anyone else’s he needs those sharp eyes of hers looking out for whoever this trifling little ant is.

So he starts playing a peppy little jingle through the speakers of his primary build like he would in front of a crowd.

“This just in!” Vox exclaims, mostly mockingly. The smile on his screen widens as he thrusts his hands to the sides, wiggling his fingers, and kicks his foot out to balance his leg on that heel. “For the low low price of your own non-obligatory free time—!”

“Oh, shut it,” Velvette growls, flicking her taloned fingers at him to emphasize her point, “I’m not a client or Val, don’t pull that poppyshow crap with me.”

He sighs, rising back into his default power stance and smoothing his lapels, “Live a little, why don’t you?”

Gesturing towards the pocket he knows she slipped her phone into Velvette raises a brow at him in challenge. “That’s rich coming from you.” She huffs, ���Now get on with it, you’re boring me.”

This time around he opts to let some of his residual irritation color his words as he breaks the issue down to her in a more approved manner. Although he’s also not not smiling any longer despite his more subdued tone.

“Velvette. Dear,” he adds, because he knows it softens her up, and low and behold her scowl eases the moment the endearment leaves his speakers, “if this new…sinner is mimicking my shows and my people what’s to stop them from coming for your models next? Every new show they copy is already starting to trend after they drop before I catch them. The masses are teeming for lesser inexpensive ripoffs of our stuff so I need you to take this seriously.”

The woman goes silent for a moment, lips pursed in what Vox knows is her actually evaluating what he said earlier. Then the scowl’s back, but one of her arms comes up so she can tap her thumb to her lips, and her hip realigns.

Somehow the lipstick doesn’t smudge as she does so. Even when she sucks her teeth, lips briefly pursing against her painted nails, the glossy black doesn’t dare transfer.

“Okay,” she mutters softly before cutting her eyes at him. “Don’t throw my name around like that again though.”

A shock of static flows through him as he narrows his eyes at her.

“Be more amenable next time.”

They stare at one another for a few more moments - Vox locking his screen on his unimpressed expression while he waits her out for a second time - before Velvette scoffs.

“Ugh, whatever,” she flips her long coil-filled hair over her shoulder, “just tell me what you need me to do.”

His processors ping with irritation at her wording, but he unlocks his screen nonetheless.

“I don’t know…just,” he waves his hands in her general direction, “make the insistent pest tacky, or whatever. Find a way to make this ‘AI Demon’ completely irrelevant. You can manage that much, can't you?”

Velvette’s eyes roll so hard that for a good few seconds all Vox can see are their reds.

“Your lack of faith would be insulting.” Velvette waits, almost explicitly, for him to begin reacting to her words before continuing. “If I cared more about your opinion, that is,” she cuts him off.

She smiles when his screen glitches slightly and his brows furrow.

“Funny,” he deadpans.

Nearly unnaturally bright fangs flash up at him as she giggles, throwing him a wink.

“I know I am.” In the next breath her phone materializes in her hand. Already tapping away rapidly at it she glances up at him with no small amount of slyness. “No need to sing my praises too much though, I’m already doing what you asked. That Hack’ll be yesterday's news before the dinner rush.”

Vox values self preservation above most things so he doesn’t question her claim. Not that he’d even be able to considering the surge of ruckus that comes from a few halls over in that very moment.

“They impersonated who?!”

Valentino’s high booming voice firmly marks the end of their conversation and - Vox visibly deflates - the destruction of his plan to carefully broach the issue with the other Overlord.

“Oh dammit to Hell,” he grumbles, straightening up and brushing off his suit before marching off to go douse whatever fire whichever one of Valentino’s assistants just lit under the moth demon’s ass.

Behind him Velvette still finds it in her to laugh. A rich giddy thing that has no right sounding so mocking.

He’s a class act though so Vox very pointedly doesn’t flip her off, only glaring as he banks the corner.

She just laughs harder, kicking one leg back and rising on the toes of her other to give him a jaunty little wave.

“Cheers, Darling!”

❤︎

The AI Demon is able to take their shit and profit off of it for months before The Vees figure out where the demon’s usual selling posts are and track the other sinner down with extreme prejudice.

No one in Hell is allowed to have more social influence than Velvette, the AI miscreant is costing Vox millions, and she’s been damaging Val’s reputation with his usual buyers since she can create scenes with all his usual stars but sell them for a cheaper price and add in personalized scenes of whatever the buyer wants to watch.

Despite this they’re all still…impressed.

Once the Vees find the AI Demon they’re so sure that they’re going to rip her limb from limb for fucking with their business….until they start theorizing about all the things that the demon could do for them instead of against them.

They end up keeping the AI Demon alive only because she’s useful. She’s not elevated to Overlord status but the AI Demon is made a high priority “enforcer” for the Vees, which is significant.

Vox also 110% makes her sit in on certain business meetings and acquisitions that end with him killing some manipulated sinner(s) in a bid to intimidate her into staying in line.

She’s unphased until Vox orders her to oversee a feeding and she’s gifted to the sight of his electric sharks eating one of his employees whole and ripping them to shreds while the sinner thrashes wide-eyed in the tank. How fast blood spread throughout the water had stunned her into silence until the whole ordeal was done and Valentino had come slinking around to taunt and tease her over her clear horror at what she’d just witnessed.

Vox gets what he wants though: her culled, and though she still won’t completely cower from the Vees, she certainly learns to stay wary.

(the oneshot of this scenario is posted here)

THE AI DEMON

She’s a know-it-all; frequently corrects people’s grammar mid-sentence and glitches at the sight of spelling errors no matter how intentional they are.

Velvette makes misspelling even more words the thing to do on purpose just to piss the AI Demon off. It annoys Vel too though so she doesn’t keep it up for very long before disavowing the whole trend as boring and try-hard.

Has shapeshifting and vocal mimicry abilities but tends to give herself away with her face copy being too perfect or adding extra features like seven fingers instead of five or having too clean vocals and hilariously mispronouncing words.

Likes to steal (like, nothing is off limits). She’s a full on kleptomaniac.

Velvette’s good curl enhancer? Snatched. Extra clothing pieces from Velvette’s collections that the AI Demon makes go missing all the time once she becomes a permanent fixture in their operation too.

Vox’s power cords are being sold on Hell’s black market as we speak.

Valentino’s shit outta luck to find his contract papers. And really, she’s doing a public service with this one.

She’s selling his scripts and bootlegs of his pornos too.

Is malicious compliance incarnate, and while they could kill her she’s far too useful for them to want to (and unfortunately for them she knows it).

I’ll be honest as much as I think making an AI Demon look more reminiscent of the types of people who frequently do “AI stealing” the most (white male CEOs to be the most exact to just one line of thinking I have) would be interesting, I don’t want to do that for my OC. So my AI Demon’s black (bcs that’s what I do here) and female and began stealing mostly because she was getting stolen from and then got fed up with that. She becomes inexplicably petty and greedy in the process though and goes to Hell after having been one extremely profitable professional scammer.

Is tasked with doing work for Vox and VoxTech visual mediums the most, but gets along with Velvette best, and does nothing but bitch back and forth with Valentino about his ridiculous attempts to have her understudy for some of his actors or him whenever he has to attend meetings he’d rather not.

Would slip them all cyanide if she could get away with it— and if their resulting deaths (not as a result of angelic means) would actually stick.

Still though, she doesn’t want to be redeemed and thoroughly enjoys scamming people and grifting savings or souls from other more gullible sinners so she will stay on her villain grind. At least the Vees provide her with protection now while she’s at it.

NOTES: Hope you enjoyed!!

I’ve been sitting on this one for a while so I figured I’d just put it out even though I can’t say I’m expecting to gain much from it.

And, yes, I made Velvette more obviously black since her black-coding was so piss poor in the show that it’s still embarrassing.

btw: if you’d like to leave a comment I’d very much appreciate it!

[the-silver-chronicles]

Siblings Q&A | Silva & Elsa Omar ONESHOT

Tagged by @raresbaby and @inafieldofdaisies

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Hey guys, SimpleGenius here! Decided to turn this short Q&A into a legitimate Oneshot for The Silver Chronicles, involving two OCs of mine; Silva and her younger half-sister, Elsa, set in a time in Hope County where Silva had no knowledge of Eden's Gate and the Omar's experienced a time of normalcy. There should be nothing but fluff, yes-siree. Oneshot below the cut:

The buzz of the worn-out camcorder complimented the numbing visuals of the frozen static, but swiftly the unused device booted up.

The specter on the screen was both haunting and ethereal, a memory from a time so much simpler. A normality so sparse in time.

With her trusty camcorder in hand, Elsa admired herself in the mirror. Hair twisted in many small blonde braids, wearing a white sundress laced with magenta patterns that looked like flowers.

The camcorder fizzled, the screen going blank for a moment. She gave it a good whack, faded red paint dusting her black gloves, and the camcorder proceeded to work like normal.

Elsa carried the camcorder away from the mirror, passing through into a lounge. Her hermana, dressed in a yellow flannel and black jeans, her dark hair flowing past her shoulders, seated on their couch having a cup of coffee.

"You ready, Sylvie?" Elsa asked, shuffling cards out of frame. Sylvester placed her cup onto the coffee table, laced gloves fixing creases on a dress she's not wearing. Realizing this, she stops the action and awkwardly cups her knees.

"Si, uh, seguro," Sylvester muttered out, clearing her throat, "How does this work?"

"Essentially, from what Rae-Rae told me, this is a fun little game where siblings answer questions for that net-work mambo-jumbo," Elsa explained, and again shuffled the flash cards she prepared.

"And since we're both sane enough to not invite people to put their noses into where they don't belong, I thought maybe, instead of doing this for strangers, we do it for Persephone," Elsa elaborates further.

Sylvester blinks, grey eyes staring at her younger hermana like a doe caught in headlights. She tilts her head, her right cheek sunk in, chewing her inner cheek.

"Elsa, she's una," Sylvester points out.

"Yeah, I know that," Elsa sighs, understanding but exasperated, "But she won't be for long. When she's older, we can show her this. Let her get to know her mamá and tía some more."

Sylvester's lips didn't quite frown, but she wasn't unconvinced either. "Derecha," she nodded, still wrapping her head around the camcorder's functions.

Elsa was likely grinning behind the camcorder, "Exactly! Now, to make this a bit more fun, I shuffled the questions out of order. Now let's begin."

Elsa showed the flash cards, the shuffle complete, and flipped over the first one.

"Question 19: Who has the worst ideas?" Elsa asked aloud.

Sylvester snorted, uncharacteristic of the person she's supposed to be, a small teasing smile on her healing chapped lips, "Well we both know who that is."

Elsa let out an exaggerated gasp, feigned offense, "Why Sylvie, I am but a respectable, humble and pious shopkeeper. Do you insinuate that I am anything but?"

"Bold words coming from the local daredevil who likes to worry her hermana to near-death," Sylvester retorts, arms crossed.

"...I'm guessing Rae-Rae snitched about my escapes on her roof?"

Sylvester had no need to answer, though Elsa must have seen that she had nothing to worry over, as Sylvester's smile held only amusement.

"Next question," Elsa declared, moving on, "Number 7: Most stable romantic life?"

Both wondered briefly, and Elsa states, "I gotta give this one to you Sylvie. You managed one relationship with Irene far longer than any ones I've had in our time here."

Sylvester narrows her eyes at Elsa, raising a quizzical brow, "Is that so? You and Ezekiel were like two peas in a pod every time you both talked with each other."

"That was brief, and we weren't official. Just some one-upping through flirtation. And he had been a real jerk at first, remember? At least you and Irene had a better start," Elsa deflects, waving a hand onscreen as she desperately denied her hermana's accusations.

Sylvester merely nods her head in feigned agreement as Elsa brings out the next question.

"Question 12: Best memory together?"

Sylvester leaned back on the couch, looking up for a moment. With Sylvester pondering which memory she liked the most, Elsa already found one.

"I'd say buying this residence," Elsa admits, "A place we can forever call our home. Wouldn't you agree?"

Sylvester looked to Elsa, and gave a short nod, "Si, it is up there. But... I'd say my favorite would be when it first rained. Just... playing and dancing like kids do... like we should have been allowed to do."

Elsa must have sensed the solemness in her voice, and replied, "At least we got to do it."

Sylvester hummed, appreciative of that fact.

"Question 15: Would you rather not being able to shower for a month or have the same clothes for a month?"

Sylvester was immediate in her response, "Not shower for a month, obviously. We can just bathe in baths instead."

Elsa laughed, cheerful and loud, "Never thought you'd be the one to take advantage of a loophole Sylvie."

Sylvester smile wholeheartedly, grey eyes sincere as she admitted, "I learned the best from my crafty little hermana."

"Aww," Elsa lightheartedly cooed, and proceeded forward, "Question 5: Who sleeps the most?"

Sylvester raised her hand, "Mother of one very curious and fussy niñita, right here."

"No arguments there," Elsa replied, "Question 14: Dream trip together?"

In a moment of synchronized thought between hermanas, they both state, "Spain."

"Question 16: Who's the older one?"

Sylvester raised her hand once again. Elsa flipped to the next flash card, "Question 10: Who had a weird phase?"

Both pondered for a moment, trying to think of any moment in their lives of such a phase.

"I don't think we were ever given a chance to do so," Elsa states. Sylvester hummed in agreement, shaking her head in confirmation.

"Alright then! Question 6..."

Elsa paused, reading the flash card: 'Who's Mom and Dad's favorite? (If there is one?)'

Sylvester waits, worry building in her gut, and asks, "What's the question?"

Elsa hesitated, but responded, "Who's.... mo- ahem, father's favorite..."

Sylvester briefly gaped, but recovered, stating, "Well, we both know the answer to that question is neither of us."

Elsa hummed, throwing the card away as she proceeded with the next one, "Question 18: Role Model? Mine's you, of course. But who's yours Sylvie?"

"I'd have to say Paul," Sylvester mustered out, clearing her throat, "He saved me after all. Raised me. Gave me something that we were denied."

"I wish I got to meet him," Elsa admits, "From what you told me, he was funny and dramatic."

Sylvester smiled at Elsa's words, "You two would have adored each other."

Allowing Sylvester a moment to keep herself together, Elsa proceeded to the next card, "Question 3: Who eats the most?"

She raised her hand this time, the various rings displayed for the camcorder to catch, "That'd be me! Speaking of which..."

Sylvester cringed, swiftly adding, "I had a sandwich earlier."

But Elsa was not deterred, "While that's good, you skipped breakfast nor have you had any fruits or snacks prior to lunch."

"I'll have something later," Sylvester flimsily promised. Elsa, not satisfied, retorts, "I'll hold you to that."

"Question 8: Worst habit of each one?"

Sylvester sighed, "Well, you already know mine. Though your recklessness is concerning considering your condition Elsa."

"I'm not made of glass, Sylvie."

"Elsa, your bones are brittle and break easily."

"...Okay I'm a little like glass, but I'm not stupid. I can take care of myself. I know what I'm doing when I climb a tree, or go bungee jumping or help Rae-Rae around her farm," Elsa defends. Her hermana replies, "I... I know that Elsa, but even so, you've been seeking out riskier and riskier thrills lately, and I can't... help but worry."

"I appreciate it," Elsa assures, and adds, "But you worry way too often."

Sylvester doesn't argue, and Elsa takes advantage of the momentary silence, "Question 4: Who has been on the weirdest situations?"

Neither hermana could think of either one being in a "weird" situation. Sylvester opted to gesture to Elsa, "Well, given your escapades so far, I vote you."

Elsa huffed, "Seeking thrill is not the same as getting stuck in chance and strange situations."

"And how likely am I going to be in such situations?"

Elsa mumbles, indistinctly playful, and moves on, "Question 20: A GIANT insect is on the wall, who's taking care of it?"

Sylvester raises a brow, "Whoever finds it first."

"Pfft, a bug ain't that scary," Elsa comments, "Question 17: Describe each other in three words."

Elsa and Sylvester held gaze for a moment blurted out their answer.

"My badass worrywart-hermana." "Daring little hermana."

There was a silent beat before both responded to such descriptions.

"Surely that is four words, Elsa," Sylvester argued, but Elsa interrupted with her pointer finger as she replied, "Ah, but you forget my lovely older hermana, the power a hyphen holds."

Sylvester shook her head in disbelief, but did not debate further as Elsa brought forth the next question, "Question 1: Who looks the... ah mierda, another one?"

'Who looks the most like dad?' the question read.

"Is it another relating to... him?" Sylvester tested, her lips pursed in a thin line, her voice softer and quieter than normal. Her grey eyes dulled, hands clenched into her jeans.

Elsa sighs, a hand going out of the camcorder's view, probably to play with her blonde locks, and most likely undo a braid in the process.

"I... Do you mind if we skip this one?" Elsa asks, and Sylvester eagerly nods, much to Elsa's relief, "Question 11: Best cook of the family?"

Elsa answers before Sylvester could have a chance, "Yeah, I can't cook for shit, that's you right there, Sylvie."

Sylvester closes mouth, making no comment on Elsa's lack of culinary skill. Elsa flips the next flash card, "Question 9: Who's the most dramatic?! Why that would be me!"

Sylvester nodded with absolute certainty.

"Question 8: Worst habit of each one?"

Sylvester beat Elsa to the tea, "I got this. I'm a nagging worrywart who forgets her own needs sometimes, and you, mi querida hermana, are a crafty daredevil with a big ego that often gets you into trouble."

"Hah! Wow, you know me so well," Elsa said, flipping to the next flash card, but mentions, "However, you're wrong in your description; you're not a nagger."

Sylvester doesn't visibly react to this, but she seems to be stuck in a forlorn gaze. However, the next question snaps her out of this odd pause, and Sylvester listens attentively.

"Question 13... uh, worst memory together?"

Sylvester and Elsa pondered together, brainstorming.

"Our entire childhood was jodido and never the best," Elsa mentions. Sylvester frowns, and points out, "Si, but the run for the docks weren't any better."

Elsa couldn't not hum in agreement, and she moves on, "Last Question. Number 2: Who looks the most like mom...?"

Sylvester looks baffled as Elsa blows a raspberry, "Irrelevant. We've never met nor did we have the same mother."

Elsa throws away that flashcard out of the camcorder's view, much to Sylvester's visible annoyance.

"And... that's it. We finished the game. Yay!" Elsa lightly cheered, her camcorder focusing on Sylvester, "So... food for thought?"

Silva watched herself, younger and with so much more innocence, more hope, than she had now. The camcorder in her gloved hands was running hot, the flashing sunset-red indicating a coming end, but she could care less, holding onto the memory in her hands for as long as she could.

Sylvester chewed her inner cheek and said, "Besides two nosy ones, I'd say it was... nice?"

Elsa's mock offended gasp was as exaggerated as the younger hermana's mannerisms had always been, "Just 'nice'? This is a memorial moment for the both of us. It is evidence for Persephone to watch and rewatch for years to come."

Elsa placed the camcorder on the coffee table, and sat down next to Sylvester on the couch, a big grin spread out, pearly teeth shown. She grabs a hold of Sylvester's laced gloved hands, despite the latter's exasperation over the former's words.

"Wasn't it you who emphasized the importance of this? To immortalize ourselves through memories our family can visit decades after we're gone? Whether it be through ink, our voices or our image? You have to agree that this is quite a viable way to do that," Elsa assures Sylvester, who's doubt dissipated the longer she thought.

The camcorder began to buffer, the orange-red blinking faster, but Silva continued to watch, wanting to savoir this for as long as she could.

Sylvester's grey eyes looked to Elsa, softly asking, "Okay. But I have to ask; are you sure?"

Elsa laughed, her dimples caught by the camcorder's lens, as she says-

Nothing.

The camcorder's screen was blank, only reflecting Silva. The blinking light gone, the heat prevalent, and despite desperately pushing the power button repeatedly, Silva knew she wouldn't get those reassuring words she needed to hear. Not now. Nor ever again.

Silva's shoulders slumped, still sat down on the old wooden floor in the decrepit corpse of her home. The home she had taken care of for almost a decade. Even after her hermana's death, despite the ache for her visits. Even after Persephone's passing, though the yearning for her hija's laughter echoing in the halls hurt more and more with their absence.

And now... her residence, her home, was nothing more than a burned and decrepit husk full of dust and debris. All the memories that mattered, all the memories she held close to her, the journals, the photos, the shrines they rested under, were all tattered and ripped and frayed and singed and gone. Just gone.

And now... with exception to Silva's own visage of Elsa... the last thing of her hermana that she could have shown to her familia, could no longer function. The Collapse had reduced the resources required to charge such a small device to ash. Even if something survived, the camcorder was aged, and had some bugs.

Silva flipped the lid screen closed, clutching the little camcorder in her gloved hands, pushing it against her chest as she let out a shaky breath. The foliage that claimed her house rustled as a breeze swept past.

She shook where she sat, holding onto the pain, the knowledge that change has come and another chance away from her before she could appreciate it.

The wood creaked, and Silva didn't want to look at her amor's beautiful face, didn't want to shoulder her with more of her own pain and grief. But a dainty hand cupped her face, and Silva couldn't resist, relenting to her beloved's request.

Her tearful grey eyes connected with the warm green of Faith's. Her beloved, her esposa, her amor. Her Faith.

I am hers. And she is mine. As we both vowed.

And Silva wouldn't hide herself away from her. Couldn't. Even if she tried. How could she? They both knew the best and worst of each other. Intimately.

There was no judgement pitting them against one another anymore. Like now, there was only understanding. The grief for a present that they could no longer return to.

Silva did not resist the tears that fell across her cheeks. Nor did she push away Faith when she wrapped her arms around her. An embrace that held a strength that others underestimated about her. Both possessive and a comfort. All to tell Silva, I'm here.

Silva felt two more pairs of arms hold around her. The first was of her inventive Azriel, her grip unyielding as she buried herself into Silva's shoulder, just like she had done when she found her at age nine.

And the second came from her youngest. Her Mercy, clutching onto her with small hands, light-brown hair nuzzling into her body, perhaps not quite knowing why her madre was sad now that they were out of the bunker, but doing her best to lighten the load with her presence.

Silva placed down the old camcorder, and did her best to compensate in the embrace by wrapping her arms around her Faith and precious hijas. Her familia.

The grief was ever present, but this time, Silva would not be lost to it.

[A/n] I lied, the fluff was merely a front, there's only angst here. Well, mostly at least. Set before Old Dusk (the New Dawn WIP), with only a camcorder showing pre-Silva's Hope stuff. They probably only recently left Silva's bunker and well, Silva's obviously gonna be depressed about the state of everything. At least she has her family to keep her grounded? Also I haven't written in a while, so if it was repetitive or tone death, my bad, I've been trying to get my motivation back. Anywho, hope you enjoyed this lovely (and angsty) oneshot, and see y'all in the next one!

[ozzieslittlejester]

The struggle of wanting to play pen and paper games so bad but not having any active group close by and the online ones fizzling out after one session. Guess I'll try to will my brain into making up more little vtm related stories so my oc's get use instead of collecting dust. I'm always stuck between wanting to share them but they're all made up with my own and my friends oc so there is nothing really noteworthy for anyone aside from us i feel like. If anyone wants to share their vtm oc's shenanigans with me however? Do tell!!

[coxinhadoce47-art]

All my attacks from my first artfight year!

I'm going to withold my decision if i will or not join next year's since theres been some stuff going on about it, but it was pretty fun!

Oc credit under the read more, these all have been posted individually so im not going to @ them again

Salem- @puppsworld Thistle- @heartorbit (And my baby Leaf too :]) Gear- @raintailed Hyacinth and Cinnabar- @saturniidaez (with Leaf too) Paradox of Creation and Neuron Slugpups- @skyistheground Eris- @yukikinda Dolly- @autisticvampireclub Dust- @here-there-be-drag0ns Simon- @gadjetomyart Elijah and Francis- ieatoilpainting on twitter Silas and Soren- @wulfwynne Adakias- rottewange on twitter Sundae, S'more and Lemonade Slime- @kalliblast Fizzle- @theslimeologist Star slime- undynethehero on instagram Patchwork slime- The_Cow_says_Moo on artfight Painted slime- @demaanimations Fizz- tysonturnpike on twitter Jackalope slime-@mx-paige Pyrite- @corvidae-arsenic Medieval slime- @cowbeaus Lucille- @0ystersaucedrawsthings Castiel- @xparkrangerx Nothing Well-Made- @meatcatt Chains By Summer- @skyistheground Ziizi- @gadjetomyart Lustre- @scroogehatesxmas

[shads-shipposts]

"Anachronism" Prologue Rough Draft +LORE✨

Remember how I mentioned that the chapters prior to this would only leave you more confused as to wtf was going on? Well, the prologue is now finished and is being posted.

The background of Anachronism is this: back in 2015 I attempted to rewrite a 2014 RP that included the Tintin sailors (which is my first fanfic ever). True Colors was the name. It was never finished, instead transitioning halfway through into an original fic where the sailors got new names/designs/backstories as they were changed into ocs. The Karaboudjan would become the Caroline, but Scarlett was already a self-insert so her initial character remains (though she's changed quite a bit). Both the original fics and the 2015 are scrubbed from the internet, though I do believe one of you followers actually read that 2014 one when it was on Deviant Art. I am so sorry you had to witness that 😬.

Jump to late 2017-early 2018, the first hints of Anachronism were forming. It wouldn't be until 2019-2020 New Years that I started it in earnest. The story follows myself (yes, I get "isekai'd") as I end up in the same timeline as that 2015 fic. Originally it was the 2014 fic but I really don't want to deal with certain elements of that mess. Anyway, that Anachronism kinda started collecting dust as my Bad Batch hyperfixation hit and Adventures!AU was born. That series takes place after Anachronism, but Anachronism was never posted.

Well, 4+ years, three and a half books, and 500k+ words later I am finally starting to post snippets to curse the world lol. Schedule-wise, Anachronism won't premiere in full until 2029 most likely, as Adventures!AU is still my main project. But I miss the Karaboudjan crew, and my hyperfixation is strong for them rn so I'm posting and working on chapters.

All that to say buckle up, this fic gets wild. Magic elements are minimal in this fic, but they still be there.

Enjoy! :D Feedback is most welcome, I'm still figuring out the characterizations for the fellas as it's been a while since I really wrote heavily with them (Bad Batch has claimed most of my time).

CW: Mild horror elements

1872 words

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“Scared, Allan?”

It wasn’t the first time he’d found himself here after he closed his eyes. It’d been months since the incident that gave rise to the event playing over and over again in his dreams, but time hadn’t dulled any of his emotions concerning the event.

“I must say, your fear scent is… unique. Fishy and tart.”

 Confusion, horror, shock, disbelief.

“Don’t worry your little head there. I respect you and, strange as it may seem, I do find the need to fear you.”

Yes, fear there too.

“Funny ain’t it?”

And who wouldn’t be scared?

“An Alphian fearin’ a human.”

When they were faced with an alien of unknown magical abilities?

“Don’t see that every day.”

The scene wobbled and fizzled at the edges, like staring at a reflection on the surface of a stormy sea. The secrets surrounding the scene trapped deep in its depths, unreachable even if one tried their hardest to grasp the answers.

Allan Thompson walked through the scene, removed from his own actions as if he were just on autopilot. He couldn’t change the scene, no more than someone watching a reel on a screen.

He sat at the table, across from the half-human, half animal woman that watched him like a hawk. Dark stripes cut through her skin like thick shadows across a moonlit patch in the woods, a black and white tail flicked behind her, and piercing eyes the color of glaciers scanned him inside and out. She was a head shorter than him, yet power radiated off her like heat from an open flame.

His voice reached his ears, muted and distant.

His own and yet… not, in a way.

“Kid… I’m sorry about Turtle.”

The alien looked up at him, the furry ears on the sides of her head flattened against ginger hair.

“Thanks, man.”

Those cat-like eyes shifted to the side, as if searching for any other threats.

He knew it was a dream. Knew what was about to happen.

It did not ease the churning of his stomach.

“Actually,” she continued, mouth moving but voice coming from the very walls surrounding them. “I kinda wanted to ask you about something related to that.”

Allan knew what was coming. Knew what she was going to ask.

Knew how badly it would go, how swiftly the scene would turn dangerous.

But he was helpless to do anything but follow the script. Follow the events as they unfolded.

Eyes on her hands, waiting to see those thorn sharp claws, Allan again heard his voice from far away.

“Aye?”

He wished he could change course. Wished he could prevent what came next. Perhaps, if he could, then things would be different.

But no.

“Let me go after that short slaver with the dark brown hair. I want his head for orderin’ me to kill Turtle.”

There it was. The request that shattered everything. The request that would leave Allan with gaps in his memory that no amount of pondering or searching could ever fix.

He felt the shock course through his body, felt his spine stiffen and his heart skip a beat.

“I’m sorry…” he heard himself say. “But I can’t allow that.”

Ears shot up, a tail bristled, sharp teeth bared, and anger blazed in those icy eyes.

“What?”

If only he could alter his words. Explain more, explain better.

Save himself.

If only.

“I can’t allow you to kill him.”

He had dreams. He had nightmares.

This hell was something else entirely.

Pupils narrowed to slits across from him, jagged scars streaking down the table as wicked claws dug into the old wood.

“Is that your final answer?”

There was red now, deep in those eyes.

He could only watch, silently scream in his head as he fought with all his might to change the memory.

“Aye, I refuse to let you go after him.”

Futile. The scene would play out as it had many nights before this one.

The woman stood, ears low and tail lashing.

“Whose side are you on, Allan? Huh? The slavers?” A snarl curled her lip, the temperature around them plummeting as ice snaked out from her hands across the table. “How disappointin’.”

The edges of the scene corrupted, bleeding red and black.

He wanted to scream. Wanted to run. Wanted to hide.

Hide from the devastation bearing down on him like a hurricane at sea.

But there was no refuge. No escape.

“There will be another time to kill him.”

He had to witness the event that would alter his fate.

Words came faster now, a distorted echo to them that sent chills down his spine.

“But I heard the other slavers talkin’! He’s goin’ on patrol tonight! I can’t pass up this opportunity to claim revenge for what he did.”

“Look, kid. I said no, and that’s final.”

“Nobody’s gonna stand in my way. Not even you. Stand down now, Allan. I don’t want to hurt you.”

He got up.

Walked over.

“I told you no, kid! That’s an order!”

“Give it up, Allan. I’m doin’ this my way. I’m killin’ him tonight and you can’t stop me. Don’t even try to.”

He got close.

Too close.

It was over fast. She winded him with a headbutt, driving him back into the wall hard enough to knock the breath from him. He didn’t even have a chance to rise to his feet, weight pinning him to the floor. A rag clamped over his mouth and nose, drowning the world in a sickly-sweet haze.

 Darkness followed swiftly after, a growl echoing in his ears.

“You brought this on yourself. Sweet dreams.”

And those were the last words he ever heard from Scarlett Hyde.

Allan sat up in his bed with a gasp, cold sweat pouring down his face as he fought for breath.

Was that her now, hiding in the dark corner?

He flicked on the light, fingers struggling to grasp the knob.

Nothing, just his trenchcoat.

It was too hot. Too stifling.

Air.

He needed air!

Staggering to the porthole, he yanked it open and welcomed the sharp chill that rushed in. Allan leaned against the wall, eyes closed as he fought to catch his breath and sooth his racing heart.

After that fight, any and all memory of the Alphian ceased. He couldn’t even recall what happened once he woke up. Because they sure as hell didn’t go from being overrun by slavers to being back at their home port without any sign there was even a hostile force occupying the ship.

Only one man had memories of Scarlett that went past Allan’s; Tom.

His friend and trusty right-hand man. The closest person to Scarlett on the ship prior to her mysterious disappearance.

Allan hoped he could have shed some light on Scarlett. Maybe Scarlett somehow drove off all the slavers after knocking Allan out, accessing some type of beast mode or something. She was an alien, and could shapeshift, so it wasn’t entirely implausible.

But no.

Tom’s last memory of her was Scarlett heading off the ship into the woods. Tom had gone after her, only to find himself face to face with the same slaver Scarlett was after. The slaver attacked him, but Scarlett showed up in some animal form and attacked the slaver. She won the fight but was stabbed in the process. Tom tried dragging her back to the ship after she shifted back to that half-human form, but then his memory too went dark.    

That was it. The trail ended. Went cold. With no hope of recovering the fractal memories.

Maybe Scarlett was around longer, and had some alien way of wiping their memories. Why, then, did he have any memory of her at all? If she truly aimed to wipe all memory of her existence, he should have forgotten her in totality.

Instead he was left with only partial memories and no explanation that could even remotely make sense of the event.

Every port they stopped at, every contact he knew, he asked. When Scarlett Hyde rang no bells, he tried the false name she gave at first; Ice Shadow. Still nothing.

He tried her description, her species, her family, everything.

Nothing.

As if neither she nor her species even existed in the first place.

A knock sounded on his door, and Allan turned away from the window to stare at the clock by his bed.

05:00 am.

His port watch wasn’t due for another few hours, so it couldn’t have been someone calling him for that.

“Al?”

Tom. What was he doing up this early?

Passing through his dayroom, Allan opened the door and found Tom looking almost as disheveled as himself. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Tom rubbed his arm. “It… happened again.”

Allan’s eyes widened. “Scarlett.”

Tom nodded.

Allan stood to the side to let him in. “You too, huh?”

Tom straightened, looking slightly more alert as he sat on the couch in Allan’s dayroom. “Same dream?”

“What other dream would it be?” Allan growled.

Tom wasn’t put off by his tone, but then again he never was. “What are the odds, huh?” he said in a feeble attempt to lighten the mood, a weak smile accompanying the joke.

Allan wasn’t amused. “Real funny.” He leaned on the table, pushing his hair back. “This is the fifth time in two weeks,” he growled. “I do not need this. We got that proud peacock prancin’ ‘round like he owns the damn ship, orderin’ us to and fro like damn dogs. I don’t need this headache on top of it.”

“At least the captain ain’t givin’ us any issues.”

“Don’t think that old man would notice if I scuttled the damn ship,” Allan grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Probably not.” Tom tilted his head. “Don’t think the dreams mean anythin’, do ya?”

“Concurrent dreams about an alien that we both know had the power to alter dreams?” Allan said. “It’s fishy.”

“Think she’s comin’ back?”

Allan shrugged tiredly. “Hell, Tom, I don’t know.” He glared in the direction of the door. “At least Sakharine’s finally tracked down the second ship. Then we can be back at sea, and I’ll have other things to keep my mind on.”

“Yeah, can’t wait to have that guy off.” Tom shuddered. “Gives me the creeps.”

“Feelin’s mutual.” Allan stretched. “Guess I may as well get coffee, not like I’m gettin’ any more shuteye today. Want some?”

Tom nodded, stretching too. “Won’t say no.” He shuddered. “Anythin’ to keep awake after that nightmare.”

Allan understood his hesitation with going back to sleep. Tom’s dream was far worse than his, with the man being hunted down in dark woods by a slaver bent on murder. Scarlett’s animal form wasn’t exactly comforting either, Tom describing it as a large tiger-looking beast with saber teeth that was a third again the size of a normal tiger.

“Alright, I’ll be there in a minute. Maybe the cooks have somethin’ already.”

Tom nodded. “I’ll wait outside.”

As Tom left, and Allan headed back to his room, the first mate mumbled under his breath.

“I really hope it was just coincidence.” He punched the door open. “Because I cannot deal with anything else.”

[bakuliwrites]

Mirror, Story One: Vessel

Disclaimer: Post-Game Spoilers!!!!!!

Next Story

Rating: 18+ (MINORS DNI) for Eventual Smut

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Relationship: Astarion x Tav (OC)

Summary: With Baldur's Gate saved and Cazador gone, Astarion and his beloved work to try to carve out a life for themselves. But freedom does not come without its complications and challenges.

An anthology of short, post-game stories featuring Astarion and my Tav, Orlando.

Chapter Tags: BG3 SPOILERS, ACT 3 SPOILERS, Fluff, Angst, Comfort, Grief, Mentions of Character Death, Depression, Telepathic Bonds, Kisses, Hugs, Karlach hugs and soft kisses from Wyll, Past Tav x Gortash, Ceremonies, Healing from Trauma

Read here in this post or over on my AO3

The streets of Baldur’s Gate are full of mirth, construction paused so that its citizens might celebrate the very fact that there is a city left to rebuild. They dress in their finest, flooding the streets with celebratory joy. Alleyways strewn with rubble are filled with dancing revelers. The air, thick with settling dust, is light with warbling song. And the night sky brightens with shimmering fireworks, sparks fizzling down into the harbor. Vendors sell delicious treats and memorabilia to remember the day Baldur’s Gate was freed from the Absolute. While the city proper is alive with good cheer, anticipation thrums through Wyrm’s Rock as people try to squeeze into the audience chamber, eager to catch a glimpse of the famed Heroes of Baldur’s Gate. They all murmur to one another, whispering rumor and speculation, peering excitedly at the motley crew of adventurers standing before the throne.

“I heard the Duke’s son made a pact with a devil and that’s why he has those horns now.”

“They look quite fetching on him, don’t you think?”

“Is it true that one of the Tieflings has got an engine for a heart?”

“Oooo, bet she’d keep me nice and toasty at night.”

“That pale elf is rather handsome, don’t you think? Mischievous looking, too. Bet he’s a boatload of trouble.”

“I’ve never seen a Tiefling with webbed ears before.”

“Rumor has it that she and Gortash were quite the item.” 

Meanwhile, Astarion fidgets restlessly where he stands, a dour expression on his face. He does his best to entertain himself by tuning in to all the various theories being slung back and forth throughout the hall. There’s plenty of rumor, true or otherwise, to keep him distracted from the empty feeling that has pervaded him since he awoke this afternoon. As the sun sank beyond the glittering waters of the Sword Coast, Astarion found the elation of the last several weeks gradually emptying from him, like a slow leak in a cracked bottle. Has it really only been a little over a tenday since the defeat of the Netherbrain? Battling the Absolute feels like a lifetime ago, and yet, the deep exhaustion makes it seem as if Astarion and his companions fought only this morning. His sore muscles and creaky bones need months to heal. And his foggy thoughts, even longer. He feels weary already from this evening and nothing has even happened yet. It’s nice to be honored, he supposes, but it also seems, perhaps, a bit too much, a bit too soon. He’s hardly had a moment to breathe.

A gentle caress draws him briefly from his swirling thoughts. Orlando’s lips feather kisses along his cheekbones, sending a gaggle of young men and women into a bit of an uproar near the front of the crowd. She chuckles at their nonsense before cupping Astarion’s face in one hand and smoothing her thumb over his cheek. He leans into her caress, letting his eyelids flutter shut. 

“You look lovely, my darling,” she whispers in Astarion’s ear, the tickle of her breath sending delightful shivers up his spine. The outfit he sports is one Figaro tailored just for him: a royal blue tailcoat with feathered, gold embroidery and a white undershirt with a frilled high collar. His knee high boots are made of black leather and have the slightest kitten heel. Orlando helped him pick the shoes, which are both comfortable and stylish, perfectly showing off his shapely calves. 

Astarion casts a coy look at her, crimson eyes dragging up the length of her body. Orlando looks bewitching in her black and gold robes, swirling tentacles embroidered along her collar and sleeves. She is every bit a formidable warlock and sorcerer, enigmatic and not to be trifled with. And yet, her gentility shines through even her most severe apparel. Her dark hair, long now from many months of journeying without a haircut, cascades down her back in ringlets and waves. Astarion delicately tucks a loose strand behind her webbed ears. Her bioluminescent spots over her eyelids and on the shells of her ears twinkle in delight. 

“And you, my dear, look ravishing,” he purrs, savoring the blush that dusts her cheeks. Before their flirtations can go much further, the din of the crowd softens as the grand doors are flung wide once again. Counsellor Florrick and Grand Duke Ravenguard make their way to the dais, taking their places aside the ragtag team of adventurers who somehow managed to save Faerûn from the doom of the Absolute. 

Wyrm’s Rock lulls to a hush, silenced by a simple flick of the wrist from Counsellor Florrick. Astarion feels the eyes of hundreds fall upon him, upon his companions, and a sudden flutter of anxiety tickles his lungs. He shifts uncomfortably, hardly one to stand on ceremony. He cannot recall the last time he addressed a crowd as large as this. Back in his years as a magistrate, public speaking was not unfamiliar to him. But in the two-hundred years since, it has become nearly as foreign to him as the sun on his skin. 

“Don’t worry, my love,” Orlando had reassured him earlier that evening, “Wyll’s in charge of the speeches today.”

Astarion hopes this remains true. It was already hassle enough to request this gods-forsaken ceremony be held at night, rather than in the morning like it had initially been suggested. He thinks of the hullabaloo that would ensue were he to open his mouth and flash the sharpened canines housed within. He can’t even begin to fathom the uproar that might occur were it to be discovered that a vampire spawn is one of the Heroes of Baldur’s Gate. Though, stranger things have happened, he supposes. Flying brains wasn’t exactly on his docket for this year. And neither was the adoring woman beside him, flashing a loving look his way just as the festivities officially begin.

The voice of Ulder Ravenguard drones in the background. Astarion is far too focused on looking poised to pay any attention to what the man is going on about. Praise, no doubt. Camaraderie and pride, blowing smoke, yadda yadda. It’s all well and good, but there’s a million other things Astarion would rather be doing with his freedom than sitting through some long winded speeches. The after party promises to be far more entertaining than the ceremony itself. Karlach has challenged everyone to a dance off, which Astarion would gladly pay to see (though he’s not sure he wants to participate). And the after-after party with Orlando promises to be a delight, as always. He catches her eye once again, smirking devilishly at the coquettish beam that plays on her lips. His mood brightens for a little bit after this small exchange.

As the evening wears on, however, the chilly emptiness begins to creep in again. An inexplicable untethered feeling; like he’s adrift in the ocean, unmoored and without direction. Astarion and his companions each gain a crimson sash, heavy with medals of honor and valor. Ordinarily, Astarion might scoff at something so- heroic. But in the wake of the vacuum forming in his chest, he feels a swell of pride when Florrick greets him with a smile, lowers the sash over his head, and moves aside to adorn Orlando with one of her very own. The crowd erupts into cheers, applause, the hall overflowing with joy, relief, elation. Astarion feels their energy burst within him, pushing aside the icy chill in his heart, chest filling with an overwhelming sense of gratification. 

Until anxiety rears its head once again, sudden and without explanation; and all excitement peters out, a flickering candle snuffed out by rain. A thousand eyes on him. Eyes in the shadows. Lurking. But he cannot tell if it is something real, a malignancy out to get him, or if what lingers in the darkness are the ghosts of his past. He searches the faces in the crowd for one in particular, but he cannot find the narrow face of his master, the hateful glowering gaze. And why would he?

Dead and gone, he reminds himself, I killed him, myself. I watched him die.

Relief has not found Astarion, yet. He cannot help but look over his shoulder when he travels through empty alleyways. He cannot help but cower in the shadows at the slightest hint of sunlight. He winces at the sharp calls of hawkers in the market, as if their cries are admonishments for his failure and not promises of goods. His back prickles, tiny needles stabbing his scarred skin, the memory of a blade carving his flesh still poignant in his nerves. There is blood in his mouth, rat fur trapped in his teeth, the horrible crunch of bone when he bites down. Red eyes in the dark, eyes that aren’t there, but seem to leer at him from ages long gone. He has not dared venture anywhere near Cazador’s Palace, now abandoned, but still no less frightening. 

When will it end, this feeling of paranoia? Shouldn’t it be gone by now? Shouldn’t Astarion be feeling the full rapture of his freedom? The full force of ecstasy that comes with the unshackling of his bindings? Shouldn’t he be feeling- happy? And not whatever this hideous, soul-sucking vacancy is? 

Beside him, Orlando’s breath hitches in her throat. Astarion can feel that same lacuna in her, that same draining emptiness. Behind her soft smile is a deep sorrow, an immense exhaustion Astarion, himself, is wholly familiar with. Her eyes reflect a weariness etched permanently into her soul. He nudges her gently with his elbow while the crowd is distracted by Wyll’s rousing speech. They’re seated now, in one of the pews near the front. The Tiefling smiles weakly at him, intertwining their fingers when he slips his hand into hers.

“What troubles you, darling?” Astarion whispers, nudging at her thoughts with his own. They are forever bound, a telepathic link born not of the tadpole, but of Orlando’s eldritch heritage, a gift from her most generous patron. Astarion cannot use it very well and she is still learning, one toddling step at a time. But they each can use it well enough to pass secrets back and forth, or gossip from across the room at parties and what not. However, sharing memories seems to come easy to them both.

Orlando lets him in. The familiar exhaustion of months on the road is first to greet Astarion. He knows that feeling all too well. The constant walking. Gods, the endless walking and jumping and climbing. If he never has to hike again, he could die a happy vampire. Roughing it in tents, trying to find comfort in thin sleeping rolls, and bathing in whatever water they could find has sapped him of his vigor. It has been an absolute godsend to be able to sleep in a comfortable bed and bathe in an actual bath tub, even if it is at the Elfsong Tavern for now.

Deeper than this surface-level exhaustion, however, is a pervading sense of weariness in Orlando’s soul. The pain of her childhood: searing sunlight, brackish water, coarse salt, and jagged rocks. Harsh words thrown at her by a tyrant father, fleeing, and wondering if she’ll ever be safe. A brief reprieve, immense love, shared laughter with her mother and brother, the bustling harbors of Baldur’s Gate, the smooth ocean against her scales, freedom and independence. Confusion, uncertainty. And then darkness: trapped in a dank basement, confined to the shadows, lost and confused, separated from her loved ones, now the property of a devil. This all merges and congeals with the pain of loss throughout these last several months. Betrayal, anguish, ruin. Innocent lives lost, and for what? Tadpoles and brains and undead armies. The death of her father, a complicated and raw recollection. The severing of her tie to his despotic patron. Joyously reuniting with her own, M’aheth, Daughter of the Cosmic Sea. Being named Twin Star, honorary daughter. The pride that comes with such a title. 

Orlando’s thoughts lift for a moment, recalling her relief when she and her mother and brother finally became free of their ancestral ties. But something Wyll says sucks her right back down into wallowing.

“Gone are the tyrannical days of Enver Gortash,” Astarion hears Wyll’s voice call out to the crowd. A soft murmur ripples through the room, some voices resounding in approval, others in staunch disappointment. That name is a complicated one amongst the citizens of the Sword Coast. For Orlando, it sparks an aching sorrow, a bereavement riddled with anger and shame. The memory of Gortash lingers strong in her mind, mournful and rife with confusion. Astarion feels this pain on the fringes of all her thoughts. Images of Enver as he was, youthful and mischievous, sweet and intelligent, gifting Orlando a tiny, mechanical figurine of a mermaid, flit before Astarion’s eyes. These images do not compute with the ones that follow: Enver lording over Baldur’s Gate, cool and uncaring gaze sweeping over enslaved Gondians, dead citizens, and pools upon pools of writhing tadpoles. Orlando’s mind struggles to contend with the sickening squelch of the metaphorical knife she plunged into the lordling’s back, an eternal curse falling from her lips out of anguish, a final kiss in his dying breath. Laying motionless at his side, for an engulfing eternity, staring vacantly into an abyss she almost couldn’t return from. 

This abyss enshrouds Astarion’s vision for a moment. Suddenly, Cazador blips into Orlando’s thoughts, and it’s then that Astarion realizes the focus has shifted to his mind. The agony of stolen youth pummels him, sunlight bright and warm on his skin, a forgotten memory. Blank eyes gazing at him in a mirror, eyes he cannot remember the color of. Arrogance, pride, power in his early years as a magistrate. And then pain, body broken and mind fuzzy as he’s beaten senseless. Fear as he realizes he is going to die, and he is going to die alone, in some stinking back alley of Baldur’s Gate. Fear turns to hope- a figure emerging from the shadows, austere, angular face swimming into view, promising he can save Astarion. Promising an end to his suffering.

Icicles in his neck, pinpoints of pain. And then emptiness. Dirt, loam, stifling and cold. His fingernails bleed from how hard he is scratching the inside of- dear gods, this is a coffin. Screaming, wailing for someone to help, please help, he’s been buried alive. Clawing his way through the earth, the first sweet breath of fresh air, only to retch. Rotten blood burbles in his throat, foams in his mouth. And then darkness, for two-hundred years. Darkness and agony, self-hatred and ruin. 

Orlando squeezes Astarion’s hand, drawing him back to the present. He sucks in a breath, as if he’d been holding it. As if he has any breath to hold. He re-orients himself. Wyrm’s Rock, ceremony, Wyll’s boring speech. Astarion settles, quietly pressing a lingering kiss to Orlando’s temple. He feels her mind almost sigh in relief. The contact settles her thoughts and the desolation seems to wash from her mind in a gentle sweep of comfort. Suddenly, Astarion is bathed with the rosy warmth of adoration. All thoughts of Cazador disintegrate, turning to ash and sifting away. Orlando offers up an image of a house he’s never seen before: built out of cream-colored stone, a lush herb garden skirting the perimeter, smoke rising from the chimney. Astarion feels cozy in this vision, the scent of rosemary filling his nose, lungs blooming with warmth.

“Your home?” he puts forth, limited to simple questions by their infant telepathic link. Perhaps this is her childhood home, the one she spoke so fondly of when it was just her, her mother, and brother. Orlando shakes her head, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“Ours,” she corrects, squeezing Astarion’s hand. He ruffles her thoughts with his surprise, his excitement. He wants to ask her more questions: did she buy it already? Is this a house that actually exists or just the idea of one? What does she mean “ours?” But before he can, he feels her thoughts shift. Now, he sees the two of them on the road, packs slung over their shoulders, hand-in-hand as they traipse through a sparsely wooded area. Fresh air, bright and clean in his lungs, and a clear night sky. The world is aglow with moonlight, a silvery band of stars streaking across the heavens. There is a promise of tomorrow in this vision, of possibility. Of adventure. 

“Adventure, with a home to return to,” Orlando posits, a well of joy overflowing in her heart, “Not ready to settle down quite yet.” 

She winks, knowing Astarion is just as restless for adventure as she is. Though having a home to return to would be more than ideal (less hiking that way, more resting). How long has it been since Astarion had somewhere he could call home? Somewhere that wasn’t a dungeon or a jail. How long has it been since he’s been allowed to go where he pleases, when he pleases, how he pleases? They could go anywhere. Excitedly, images of Waterdeep, Chult, Neverwinter, Avernus, even, pop into Astarion’s head. Orlando stifles a chuckle from beside him, beaming brightly at the vampire’s enthusiasm.

Wyll’s speech comes to a close. Duke Ravenguard instructs his son and his companions to rise from their seats so that the citizens might thank them one more time. The audience chamber is filled once again with raucous cheers. Looking around, Astarion sees the faces of his fellow adventurers. His friends . He sees the faces of his fellow Baldurian’s, jubilant and proud. Astarion feels simultaneously overwhelmingly full and painfully empty. Cheers ring in his ears and it's as if all of Baldur’s Gate is pouring itself into him. The world is ahead of him. Life is ahead of him. Freedom. But there is something terrifyingly vacuous about knowing he is free. With both everything and nothing to look forward to. Where do they go from here? Astarion’s veins fill with an icy cold at the thought of having to carve out a life for himself. 

Orlando gestures for Astarion to lean down, crashing her lips to his in a passionate kiss, thawing the anxious chill that had begun to numb his fingers. Astarion pulls her close, caught up in the exuberance of the moment, caught up in the reminder that he is not alone. Karlach, beside herself with excitement, tears in her amber eyes, pulls the little group into a massive, crushing hug. Warmth spreads through his body, fills his limbs with a tingling joy. Wyll squeezes Astarion’s free hand, presses soft kisses to his, Orlando’s, and Karlach’s cheeks. There is uncertainty, and that is the only thing Astarion can, funnily enough, be certain of. But in this moment, he is reminded that he will not be facing his uncertain future alone. 

“Our home,” Astarion repeats to Orlando after a little bit, having to shout over the roaring applause, “Our adventures.” 

“Our future,” she returns, stealing one more kiss before the adventurers are led out of the audience chamber, followed by shouts and cheers. People spill out into the streets, ready to spend the remainder of the night in carefree revelry. Astarion pauses at the threshold, the shining city of Baldur’s Gate ahead, his nearest and dearest companions at his side. 

Deep breath. Release. 

Wyrm’s Rock exhales, and Astarion is free.

A/N: Hello, everyone! I wanted to write a post-game story for my Tav, Orlando (a Sorlock), and Astarion. I've been a little bit all over the place with writing down her story (as in, I can't seem to write it down in any particular order). I have a couple things up on my Tumblr about her and I do plan to write a story that takes place during the events of the game. But for now, I had an itching to write some post game content, so here it is.

Some notes: this occurs post-game with Vampire Spawn Astarion, Orlando and crew managing to stabilize Karlach's heart (which I wish you could actually do in-game), and Wyll managing to rescue his father. Orlando was severed from her Warlock patron with the insertion of the tadpole, but has since reunited with her patron, M'aheth (the baby of another Great One patron called the Cosmic Sea). She comes from a family of Sorlocks that worshipped a cruel Fathomless patron, but Orlando managed to sever her ties with her family and the Fathomless. She and Gortash were trapped in the HOH together and were in an on again/off again relationship for many years. If you have any questions, feel free to ask! I'd be happy to answer. More info to come. I mostly wanted this story to be about her and Astarion adjusting to living a life of freedom. Most of this story will be about Astarion, but I wanted to give a little context for some things mentioned in this chapter.

*Edit (02/09/24): Changed a line about Gortash’s death.

[elizaviento]

Green on the Vine — Strawberry Wine (Part 11 of ?)

(Stardew Valley — Shane/Female Farmer/OC)

This chapter is rated NSFW — 5130 words. Phone sex and mutual masturbation.

Note: Have a tiny bit more smut because I'm gross, not sorry. :)

(FYI: Additional chapters of Green on the Vine — Strawberry Wine can be found in the Stardew Valley Fic Masterpost link in my blog description.  Or, you can click the #green on the vine strawberry wine tag in this post, within my blog, to access all additional chapters.)

*****

Kristen lay on the couch, staring at the wooden beams crossing the ceiling of her old farmhouse. She'd tried to get Moody to snuggle, but he was evidently still mad at her for allowing someone new to sleep in his bed. Instead, he curled up on a nearby armchair, content with grooming himself after scent-marking every piece of furniture he could bash his fluffy face into.

Relationships were hard. Complex and bewildering. Before Kristen had met Jason, she was convinced she'd never get married. Every boyfriend she had prior to him had left, nearly all of them stating that her blind ambitions were paramount, leaving them in the dust. It was only fitting that her husband had recited the same lines, finally drilling home just how detached she would eventually become when the initial romance fizzled into comfortable cohabitation. She almost didn't blame him when she came home one day to find boxes and bags of his belongings crowding the hallway leading to their condo.

With a sigh, she rolled over and stared sightlessly at the coffee mug Shane had left on the table earlier that morning. The conversation they'd had before he'd left looped in her mind, and she dwelled on how upset she'd made him, the implication that she'd somehow tricked him into sleeping with her hanging heavily between them as he hotly contested. Deep down, she knew why she kept asserting it — unconsciously attempting to sabotage a potential relationship before it grew legs that she could later amputate at the knees, making him realize that she wasn't worth the effort when he woke up one day and decided that he could do better. So, she was at war with herself, one half chomping at the bit to move Shane into her home and make him an actual permanent fixture in her life, and the other determined to shove him away before he could break her heart.

She needed to make a decision, and she needed to do it soon. She wasn't sure how many more mixed signals Shane could handle nor how long she could sustain such erratic mood swings without making herself bonkers.

The harsh rattle of Kristen's phone vibrating on the oak coffee table caused Moody to crack open one eye, clearly irked, before he huffed dramatically and curled himself into a tighter pancake. The farmer, however, was blessedly yanked from her brooding.

Hey, Sis. Dad said he hasn't heard from you in weeks again, so I'm checking to see if you're still alive.

Rolling her eyes, Kristen navigated to the last text message she'd sent her father that he had never replied to, took a screenshot, and attached it to her reply to her older brother.

Is that so?

Kevin's chat bubble animated for several seconds, and Kristen predicted what it would say. She was right.

Hey, don't shoot the messenger. He probably just forgot or something. You know how he is.

Clearly not in the mood for a back-and-forth with her sibling about the state of her relationship with their father, she locked her phone, determined to ignore any other messages he might send. He knew what type of landmine he was stepping on by putting himself between them, but Kristen didn't feel like cleaning up the debris. At least, not today.

Dinner consisted of leftover lasagna, spinning and spinning in the microwave as she watched mindlessly. In the background, her phone buzzed again, but she drowned it out with pleasant memories of the way Shane had fucked her silly, manipulated her body as if he were the one who had assembled it, surpassing any expectations she could have had.

All that experience had to come from somewhere , she thought as the microwave dinged. He's never told you about anyone he's been with or how many…

Not that it mattered. Kristen's body count wasn't exceptionally high, but she'd never been with a man who could find her g-spot without ample direction until now. Then again, none of her previous lovers had been nearly as generous, and it suddenly made perfect sense why Shane sat at the top of her list after only two sexual encounters. His goal had been to please her, and he'd made it overtly obvious, employing every trick to make her wail. He'd asked her what she liked, checked in with her often, listened when she begged for more, or directed him to do something else, resulting in some of the most intense orgasms she'd ever had.

Don't get used to being a pillow princess. Make it up to him next time.

That was a given. If Shane had worked so hard to ensure she was taken care of, it probably hadn't come without sacrifices on his part. As much as she appreciated his effort and attention, she wanted to make sure he felt just as pampered.

"Shit," she whispered, crossing her legs as she slowly forked another bite of lasagna into her mouth. Thinking about Shane and all the ways he drove her crazy was a dangerous game. One that apparently ended with sodden panties and frustration. Just as she wondered if she would be selfish to ask him to return after his movie marathon with Jas, her phone buzzed again.

"God damn it, Kev," she grumbled. Usually, her brother gave up after a couple of unanswered texts, especially if he knew he'd pissed her off. But tonight, he was being relentless.

No longer hungry, Kristen dumped the half-eaten slab of pasta into the trash can and went to retrieve her phone. She'd decided to only read the messages, not reply. But, to her pleasant surprise, the notifications weren't from Kevin but Shane.

Unlocking the device, she was immediately bombarded with the most adorable collection of photos she'd laid eyes on in recent days — Jas and Shane, their cheeks smooshed together while Jas wore every silly expression her face could contort into. She'd obviously been the one taking the selfies, the lens uncomfortably close due to her short arms. Shane smiled genuinely in each one, his eyes almost sparkling like when he belly laughed, which was sadly rare.

Jas insisted I send you this. She's even watching me do it.

She says hi.

The first picture had been delivered over half an hour ago, with several others following every few minutes. Kristen snickered, imagining how Jas could bend Shane to her adorable will.

You both look lovely. You're having fun?

His reply came quicker than she expected, and she bit her bottom lip, an idea already forming in her lust-hazed brain.

Sure. Ate enough popcorn to probably kill me.

She smirked, tapping the glass, hoping he'd take her bait. Unsure if Jas was still awake and possibly gluing her eyes to Shane's phone screen, she kept it as vague as possible.

Please don't die. Who would be left to take care of me and my hand?

Several minutes passed without a reply, and Shane's status switched offline while Kristen waited, hating that she couldn't chill out enough to do something else in the meantime. Finally, he returned online, and his chat bubble popped on the screen.

Put Jas to bed.

Hey, sorry I was a dick earlier. Just didn't want you to think I don't want this.

Is it weird if I say I miss you already?

Kristen's eyes welled with unshed tears, as they often did these days, anytime he said something even remotely sweet to her.

No. I miss you, too.

Can you call? 

She held her breath, wondering if it was too early. He'd said Jas was in bed but what about Marnie? Shane was completely unaware of her intentions and probably wasn't considering these details the way she was.

Yeah. Gimme a few.

Kristen didn't bother with a reply, instead opting to turn off all the lights in the kitchen and living room before heading to the bathroom to perform her nightly grooming, her mind wandering toward the looming conversation. When her phone finally rang several minutes later, she nearly jumped a foot in the air, snatching it off the lip of her bathroom sink.

"Hi," she said as she walked toward the bedroom. In the gloom, her bed looked emptier than usual, and she dreaded crawling under the covers alone.

"Hey. Everything okay?" His voice was pitched lower than normal, signaling Kristen that Marnie was probably still awake.

"Yeah. I just wanted to hear your voice." A light chuckle tickled her ear, and she smiled, slipping under the sheet and making herself comfortable. "What are you doing right now?"

"In bed," he replied. A muffled shuffle emanated through her speaker, indicating that he had probably rolled over, along with a soft click that she assumed was his bedside lamp. "Why do you wanna know?" His tone shifted to something playful, and Kristen hitched a breath, confident that her little plan would come to fruition.

"I have my reasons. What are you wearing?" She knew the line was overdone and cheesy, but she also knew nothing good happened without a few risks.

"Are you serious?" he asked. Kristen could practically hear the grin in his voice, and more shuffling accompanied his question. "I dunno how you keep surprising me but —" more shuffling, the sound of soft footsteps, the click of metal that she assumed was his door knob lock, "— just my boxers."

"Hmm, what color?"

He paused as he got back into bed, and Kristen held her breath, suddenly feeling silly. What had seemed like a fun, sexy idea was starting to resemble a woman desperate for attention.

"Babe, we're really doing this?" A gruff whisper caressed her ear, and she literally shivered. The sheet glided across her bare legs as she pressed her thighs together, glad she'd opted to crawl between them in only her panties and a thin tank top. 

"Fuck, call me that again," she breathed, already sounding needy, even to her own ears.

"What? Babe?" he asked, pleasantly surprised.

"Yeah. That's sexy," she replied. It was a fairly common pet name, but hearing it roll from Shane's tongue in his gravelly voice fanned the flames already threatening to consume her like a pile of brush dry and brittle from the late autumn sun.

"I'll call you whatever you want. Whatever makes you happy."

"You make me happy," she said, the words tumbling from her mouth before she had time to filter them, hoping they didn't sound as creepy as she feared.

"Kristen…" He trailed off, breathing heavily as she pressed the speaker to the shell of her ear. "Um — they're black," he finally answered, committing to the little game she'd laid before him on a silver platter. "What are you wearing, babe?"

"Just a tank top and panties. Both white. You want me to keep them on or?" She let the question hang, kicking the ball into his court.

"On. For now." He paused again, and she heard more shuffling before he whispered, "I meant what I said before. I miss you, and it's kinda fucking with me."

"Oh?" she asked, insecurities flaring anew.

"I just… want you. Fuck, I'm not good at —" he sighed, seemingly collecting his thoughts before he continued. "It was nice sleeping next to you the past couple of nights. Wish you were here right now."

She nearly sighed in relief, unsure why she was so paranoid that he'd change his mind about everything on a dime, leaving her high and dry.

"What would you do to me if I was?"

"You really wanna know?" he asked as if gauging her interest. It seemed no matter how insecure she felt at any given moment, Shane was probably feeling the same, which was preposterous.

"I wouldn't ask if I didn't."

"Uh —" He cleared his throat and blew a breath from his nose, flooding her earpiece like she was in a wind tunnel. "I'd run my hands all over your body. Over the clothes. Just to feel you."

The uncertainty radiating from him excruciatingly clinched Kristen's heart. Even those few words from him had her pulse pumping and her breaths shallow, so turned on that she considered sneaking in through his window like a horny teenager.

"Then what?" she asked as her hands followed the course she imagined Shane's would take as he spoke.

"Then I'd slip my hands inside your panties. Feel how wet you are," he rasped, sounding as if his confidence was returning as Kristen spurred him on. "Are you wet now, pretty baby?"

"Fuck," she sighed, pushing her fingers below the elastic, gliding over her pubic hair before allowing her middle digit to nestle between her lips. "I love that, too — pretty baby. Your voice is so sexy, Shane." She sucked in a deep breath and lightly pressed down on her clit, just enough to tease. "I'm soaked."

"Are you touching yourself?" The question was abrupt and demanding, and Kristen found herself biting back a whimper.

"Yes."

"Good," he said, arousal evident in his tone. "Rub your clit and imagine my mouth."

"Shane —" she whined, following his order.

"You taste so fucking sweet, babe. I loved shoving my tongue in your cunt. You make so much noise when I touch you, Christ. "

"Is that bad?" She asked, only half playfully.

"No, pretty baby. It's good. It's so good. Makes me feel like I'm doing something right."

"You've done everything right," she confirmed. Her middle and index fingers stroked either side of her clit, up and down, agonizingly slow.

"Yeah? You like the way I fuck you?" he asked, voice now slightly strained. "I make you feel good?"

"You have no idea," she began, a quiet moan slipping past her lips as she increased the pressure on her clit. "Are you touching yourself too?"

"Yeah, babe," he rasped. "You love this dirty talk, don't you? God, you're filthier than I ever could have imagined."

"You've imagined?" she asked, encouraging him to continue. He seemed to have broken through the initial awkwardness, and the things pouring from his mouth were so lewd she felt scorched with lust.

"Kristen." He sounded almost exasperated as if it were common knowledge that he'd thought extensively about her in such a carnal manner. "You still don't get it?"

"Have you jerked off thinking about me before?" she asked, attempting to pivot quickly enough to keep him talking.

He was silent for several seconds before admitting, "Yeah…"

"Me too," she said, soothing the hesitancy that had crept back into his voice. "Like a month after we met, I was fucking myself with my fingers, imagining you pounding me into the mattress. You've held me in the palm of your hand for so long."

A low guttural growl rumbled through her earpiece, and she swirled the pads of her fingers around her clit harder, faster. The tightness in her belly contracted as her thighs shifted inward, tiny sparks of pleasure licking at her nerve endings.

"I wanna shove my cock inside you right now," he declared between harsh pants. The shuffling of sheets became more evident as he continued. "You like it a little rough, huh? You begged for it. Pretty baby, I'd do anything to make you happy. You know that, right?"

A wordless whine ripped from Kristen's throat, climax mere seconds away. " Oh … Shane —"

"You gonna come soon?"

"Yes, baby. I'm so close," she answered, now stroking her clit with long, fast drags from the pads of her fingers, so wet that they slipped over the sensitive nub effortlessly.

"So am I," he growled. Kristen could tell he was still attempting to keep as quiet as possible, even while winding her tighter than a banjo string. "You're so fucking beautiful. I can't believe you want me. I can't — shit! — I'll move in with you. I'll do it all with you. Whatever you want."

And that was it. Shane's groans and grunts muffled as her body temperature spiked and her knees slammed together. The motion of her fingers slowed and then stilled completely as waves of pleasure lapped at the shore of her consciousness, receding slowly, bit by bit, as she gasped and moaned his name. Somewhere at the beginning of her afterglow, Shane's own moaning became unmistakable as he chanted her name in return. Kristen committed the audio to memory, convinced even decades later that it was the most erotic thing she'd ever heard in her entire life.

❦❧🍓❦❧

Kristen awoke the following morning with Shane's lust-laden words still whirling around in her mind like an unshakable vortex. Rationally she knew it was most likely fuck talk. People tend to say things they wouldn't otherwise when on the precipice of orgasm. Shane had sidestepped her request to live with her on the farm twice in the span of as many days, so she wasn't exactly optimistic that what he'd agreed to the previous night was ironclad. Still — she knew she had to make some important decisions and follow through with them before the day was out.

Checking the time on her phone, she noticed it was already past 6 am and that there had been a missed call from Shane right before 5. Initially, panic gripped her heart. No one called that early unless it was bad news, so she tapped the voicemail notification and held her breath as his groggy voice greeted her from the recording.

"Hey, um, Morris just called and wants me to come in early. I can't really say no right now, so I can't come by to check the hens this morning. I'll be by after, though, okay? I, uh — also had fun last night. Well, all weekend, I guess. Shit… whatever. I sound like an idiot. I'm hanging up now."

Kristen laughed as the recording ended with Shane mumbling something else under his breath that she couldn't decipher, utterly endeared by the way he was so obviously trying his best. The playfulness of their friendship seemed just out of grasp now that sex had been introduced to the mix, though, and she wondered if he felt obligated to change his behavior toward her because of it or if he was trying to get more comfortable with expressing his feelings differently. Either way, she wanted to clarify that one dynamic didn't have to cancel out the other. More than anything, she valued the effortless rapport they'd developed over the years. She loved the lighthearted teasing and the way he never let her get away with too much. He called her out on her bullshit and vice versa, becoming a support system for one another that didn't rely on obligations and expectations.

Finally willing herself out of bed, the farmer tended to the chores she could do on her own without too much strain on her injured hand. Luckily, she had no crops to harvest, and the hens were content to munch on the fresh grass for another day, preferring it over hay anyway.

She took extra care with her regular grooming, even applying a bit of makeup, throwing on a casual sundress, and miraculously wrangling her bush of curls into a loose French braid that ended at her waist, always amazed at how long her hair actually was when it wasn't kinked to hell and back. By the time 10 am chimed on the large clock in town square, Kristen pulled open the front door to the clinic, a blast of frigid air conditioning chilling her to the bone.

"Hi, Kristen!" Maru greeted from behind the counter. Her welcoming smile almost blotted out the anxious energy buzzing at the base of Kristen's spine. "You look cute today!"

"Thanks, Maru. I'm here for my appointment."

"Yes! Harvey's expecting you," she replied, pulling a chart from a stack behind her and motioning for the farmer to follow her to the back of the clinic. Harvey sat on a stool in the examination room, seemingly engrossed in a medical magazine with a headline that read 'Breathing Oxygen Linked to Staying Alive.'

"Ah, hello, farmer. I was wondering if you'd show up," the doctor said with a jovial smile. With practiced ease, Maru handed the chart to her boss quite discreetly before exiting the room and closing the door behind her.

"Good one," Kristen replied. If anyone knew how stubborn she could be, it was the only medical doctor in town, constantly reminding her of her overdue physicals and begging her to take days off when she worked through late autumn bouts of flu.

"I am glad you're here," Harvey said as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves and prepared his supplies. "Take a seat."

The crinkle of white paper drawn over the uncomfortable vinyl-covered bed triggered something primal deep in her gut, and she began to breathe heavily, anticipating how her wound would be poked and prodded. Her stomach rolled, and she suppressed the urge to lay back, attempting to deny that panic was slowly overtaking her rational mind.

"Relax, Kristen," Harvey soothed as he pulled his rolling stool over with a tray filled with scissors, alcohol, tape, and gauze. "I'm just taking a look. I need to see how it's healing and ensure you're infection-free. Nice and easy. Okay?"

"Yeah," she replied, the word leaving her mouth by no will of her own. Deep down, she was glad that Harvey was so in tune with her distress, but right now, she was incredibly irritated that she was so terrible at disguising it.

As the doctor promised, the procedure was relatively quick and painless, ending with only a few reprimands when Harvey deduced that the swelling and bruising weren't subsiding due to her inability to follow his explicit direction of 'no use whatsoever.'

"I've made an appointment for you with the specialist I spoke about in Zuzu City. She had a cancellation and can see you on Friday. I hope that's okay," Harvey said as he rewrapped her hand. "Maru has the details when you check out."

"Thanks, Harvey. I really appreciate all you've done."

"Don't mention it. Well, there's currently no infection, which is good. How's the pain?" he asked, securing the last bit of gauze with medical tape.

"Not terrible. I've been kind of distracted."

"Indeed," Harvey quipped as he stripped off the latex gloves and tossed them in a nearby trash can.

Kristen rolled her eyes, not surprised but perturbed nonetheless. "Don't."

He shot her a look as if to question her sudden hostility, but a sly smile could be detected under his mustache.

"You mentioned wanting to discuss something else when you phoned ahead earlier?" he asked, opening her chart to scribble a few notes and double-check a post-it stuck to the paper in Maru's script.

"Yes," Kristen confirmed, hating that she was already blushing. "Birth control."

❦❧🍓❦❧

The farmer stepped out into the heart of town square with a bag containing a refill of pain medication, 3 months' worth of birth control pills, spare gauze and tape, and an appointment card for one Dr. Margaret Walker, Orthopedic Surgeon. Despite the already blistering heat, the day ahead held a promise of optimism as Kristen took the 10 steps towards Pierre's General Store and opened the door to find the shopkeep at his usual post.

"Farmer Kristen! So nice to see you again!"

"Hey, Pierre." She responded to his overzealous greeting with a casual wave as she approached the counter. "You up for knocking off another 20 percent from my usual bill of sale? I have about 50 gallons of blueberries that I can't get here on my own."

"Anything for you, my dear," Pierre replied, all too happy with the hefty discount with minimal effort. "Is that all, or do you need anything from the store to be dropped off?"

"Actually, yeah. One bouquet, please. The nicest one you have."

"Oh?" The shopkeep lowered his glasses, peering at her above the rim ostentatiously. She smirked but said nothing more than when he should arrive for the pickup.

Her next destination was the Saloon, stopping to chat with Evelyn along the way as she tended to the flower displays, promising to drop off her casserole dish the next time she was in town.

"Don't worry about it, dear," Evelyn said, waving her off. "I'm just glad to get the opportunity to put some meat on those bones. You're just as skinny as your old grandpa. I used to get on him, too, you know. All that hard work can't get done without lots of food made with love."

By the time Kristen entered the Stardrop — the first customer of the day — she had just enough time to place an order with Emily before skipping back out into the summer sunshine on her path toward Joja Mart. 

"Hey, farm girl," Alex called when he spotted her cutting through the grass next to Dusty's enclosure. "How's the hand?"

Not wanting to be rude, she stopped and regarded him with an easy smile while the dog pressed his snout through the gap in the boards and sniffed at her. "Hey, Alex. Hand's doing good."

"Nice, nice…" he said, tossing what appeared to be an entire steak into Dusty's bowl. "Figure you took my advice since I didn't hear from you."

Kristen couldn't suppress a curt laugh in response. Once again, his unshakable confidence had her in awe. Somehow, he didn't come off as cocky so much as incredibly self-assured.

"Sure did," she admitted, already aware that the majority of the town was probably whispering about her and Shane even as she stood there. She saw little use in trying to be coy.

"Awesome. That Shane guy really needed to get his dick wet. So uptight, man. Hey, I'm happy for both of you."

"Okay, I'll see you around," she said while walking away. It was the best method of departure she could conjure up that didn't include her dazed from more earth-shattering insight from the jock. Still, she chuckled under her breath, shaking her head and hoping that Alex Mullner was an anomaly she would only encounter once in her lifetime.

Joja Mart loomed ahead as she approached the footbridge, tall and imposing — an unpicturesque eyesore on the edge of such an idyllic town. She dreaded every second she spent on the property, the sensation of ants crawling and burrowing under her skin almost overwhelming as the electronic doors slid open and the clinical blue interior assaulted her senses. She'd once been told such a response was the direct result of mental trauma, but she'd scoffed, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that everything she'd done while in the monopoly's employ was intentional and without coercion.

"Welcome to Joja Mart," the dead-eyed cashier greeted as Kristen stepped over the threshold into retail hell. "We're having a sale on Berry Blast Joja Cola, 5 percent off if you buy 10 cases."

The robotic nature of the unfortunate girl's voice made it clear that the farmer could set off a row of roman candles in front of her register, and she wouldn't flinch. So, Kristen regarded her with a quick "thanks" and proceeded toward the aisles in pursuit of the only thing she'd be caught dead picking up inside.

"Well, well — if it isn't Mrs. Jarret. It's been some time since you've stepped foot in your old stomping grounds."

Kristen stopped dead in her tracks and tensed as if she were a doe caught off guard by the snap of a twig under a hunter's boot. The nasally voice and smug inflection were instantly recognizable.

"You know that's not my name anymore, Morris," Kristen replied, turning to face the man as he stood uncomfortably close to her.

"Ah, pardon me! Sometimes old habits are just so hard to break — Ms. Wynand ," he said with a crooked smile that always unnerved her. "To what do I owe the pleasure of such a visit, hmm? Surely you're not shopping."

His last line held an edge of accusation that plucked just the right nerve at the base of Kristen's brain, and she supposed that it was intentional. For as long as she'd known the man, he'd had a knack for sinking his claws into the softest spots of a person, digging in, twisting, anchoring them until something snapped, and he was left with his hands in the air, feigning innocence.

"I'm looking for Shane," she admitted, seeing no point in beating around the bush.

"Shane is very busy right now." Morris shoved his glasses up his nose and looked down at her, failing to intimidate. Even at her stance of 5 foot 9, the store manager easily overtook her by several inches.

"I'm sure he is, but it's after noon. He has an hour lunch break," Kristen pointed out, narrowing her eyes. "I know you haven't forgotten about that. Nor about the fact that I'm still a licensed attorney who knows the ins and outs of Joja's business practices like the back of my hand."

Morris smirked, rocking on his heels as he pretended to mull over her thinly veiled threat. "I knew the farm life would be lacking for you, Ms. Wynand. You're just too smart and tenacious to let your brain atrophy over bushels of parsnips and corn. Such a shame." Before she could reply, he unclipped a clunky walkie-talkie from his Joja-issued belt and pressed the button on the side. "Shane Davis, you're free to go to lunch. Oh, and you have a guest at the front of the store. Best not keep her waiting."

Kristen scowled as Morris shot her another self-satisfied look and waddled back toward the tiny closet he thought of as an office. Calling attention to the fact Shane had a "visitor" was a calculated move designed to glue every set of eyes within earshot of the conversation to the farmer as she stood awkwardly next to the cash register.

"Um, hey," Shane said, approaching her from the side and startling her enough to make her gasp. "Saw you talking to Morris. What was that about?"

"Remember when I said I'd finally tell you why I left Joja?" He nodded his head, and she sighed. "Morris likes to rub it in whenever he gets the chance."

"You're being cryptic again," he said, removing his cap to scrub a hand through his flattened hair.

"I know. Now's not the time for all that anyway. You have an hour for lunch, and it's my treat!"

"Huh?" he asked, undoubtedly confused. "You must have said something to him if he's letting me take an entire hour."

Ignoring the comment, Kristen grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the exit. "Come on, I ordered a pizza at the Saloon, and it's probably just about ready."

"What's in the bag?" he asked, raising their interlocked hands to show it dangling from her elbow. 

"Oh, you'll find out later."

*****

End Note: Shout out to my pals in the Farmers Only Discord server for helping me name Kristin's ex-husband, Jason William Jarret. lmfao. The most douche bag name ever conceived.

[spw-art]

If you have OCs... could you perhaps make a masterpost-link thing with them that I could save up to check them out/save to go back to if I forget anything on them? (Bonus points if u have potp/dragon ocs smiles)

ALSO your art slaps hell yeah 💪

Looks at you with big wet eyes. My tag #my oc should have all of em.

POTP is a universe in which I feel like it’s both difficult and impractical to make an oc for unless they exist before or after the story.

I fucking love dragons I haven’t drawn any dragons in so long. Besides Pokémon dragons.

And now I’ll see if I can remember all the tags of all my ocs. Or at least the main ones.

All of the links will just lead to their tag.

Harte Sekioka - Pokemon breeder and ex-magma admin from an amino roleplay that took place in 2017. Currently he’s used in a roleplay with friends because I didn’t want to make a new character for it. Just went ahead and decided he’s 20 years older now. Self-proclaimed sexmaster. Annoying. Single father of two. Should not be a father.

Claudia - A Ditto masquerading as a human from Harte’s universe. She’s helped him out with speeding up the process of selective Pokémon breeding. She’s also extremely important to Harte’s universe’s Team Magma.

Sif Saph - My BG3 character, I haven’t been able to play BG3 in forever. Not much info on him besides he’s the cousin of my first ever D&D character, Sif Krymsul. And he has blue dragon ancestry on his father’s side. Really really really hoping to draw him more I miss him so much.

Divo Success - Pokémon oc. He’s the platonic idea of a cowboy the same way The Stanley Parable’s Narrator is the platonic ideal of divorce. He hasn’t even seen a cow in his life. But he does have a gigantic horse that everyone is afraid of for her Stamina Iron Defense Body Press swagger. He has weird fucking abilities that allow him to be a western movie character. Every time he rides away on his horse it’s into the sunset. No matter what time of day it is. He can always appear in a cloud of dust or smoke. He operates entirely on rule of cool.

Daylight Under Outsmouth - A Call Of Cthulhu campaign that unfortunately never came to fruition. It’s about a universe being consumed by an oppressive darkness with the center of its terror being Earth. Things keep getting darker. Stars disappear from the sky. Aliens and extradimensional creatures find their way to earth as refugees. I reaaally want to make a comic or something with the story.

Aoife and Padraig - Characters made for my friend’s series called Analog Files. They’re the same person from different worlds. They’re married. They’re fucking weird. Aoife is dying of Cool Guy Cancer that’s turning her into a bug and then into a pile of flesh. She wants to be studied while she dies. Padraig loves studying her. They’re great.

Legally Distinct - A glam metal band made up of monsters from Universal Monster movies. I had made them for Art Fight, they’re quite silly, they have so much sex and do so much drugs. And rock n roll of course.

Nigellians - A type of creature made of music, glamor, passion, and magic. They’re born of human creation. Think of Eddie the Head if he was less powerful and less aggressive and more of a little fairy spirit.

Herb - An utau made by my friend NyxQuentiam who is voiced by me. I need to record a new voice bank so badly. He’s an artificial angel who harvests energy from other angels by killing and blending them. He then goes to the angel black market to turn mortals into angels: a high he should not be doing. But whatever, he’s having a good time.

Ward - Cringefail rich boy accidental racist fire genasi who sucks. Used him in a D&D campaign until it fizzled out due to the DM being weird. I don’t think I have much stuff with him here (I think it’s just one post) but he’s my beloved little shitstain. His sword is incredibly blunt. It does bludgeoning damage. He’s whining the entire time he’s adventuring.

Those are the main guys. Hope that helps! :)

Always feel free to ask more questions! Yippee yahoo yippeeeee

[mata-aetara-if]

ngl this if's got me caring about naruto again for the first time in like 13 years since bby me's first weeb obsession kinda fizzled out and im real excited about this im gonna dust off the First Ever OC which was p much just a sakura recolour, it feels only right revamping her for this good luck & cant wait to see more !🤩💜

🤩🤩🤩 I’m excited to see them!!

And thank you!! 🫶🏻

[prismatoxic]

anyway, fun story:

so @captainfkingmagic got into mgs sometime in 2008. we've been together for like 8 or 9 years now and he's mentioned it a lot (and made me watch metal gear awesome a whole bunch) but you'd be surprised how much media you have to share with each other when you get into a committed relationship. there's still a decent handful of things we haven't gotten around to

so, anyway, this year (like 4 months ago?) he got a hankering to play mgs1 again. he has the ps3 collection, and that seemed the best way to play, and he got somewhere after the ocelot fight when our ps3 (which had been having issues previously but we had repaired) started overheating again. to the point of shutting off. now, this ps3 was my ps3, and his ps3 had already bitten the dust some years prior for similar reasons (exacerbated by it being a launch version with bad soldering). so you can imagine how frustrating this was.

well, we had enough money at the time for him to just go ahead and get us a slim ps3. which took like a week to arrive, and, you know, by then i think he could be forgiven for not having the energy to go through mgs1 again up to the ocelot fight. i don't remember when he decided to try anyway; if it wasn't the night the ps3 arrived then it wasn't too long after.

so he finally gets to show me mgs1. all of mgs1. sans the meryl ending, bc fuck that, he went otacon. i mean, i had to see it, right?

needless to say, i was pretty hooked. i liked it a lot but, admittedly, wasn't super jazzed about mgs2 conceptually bc i knew raiden took over. he said he'd wait a few days to start it, then started it like. 1 day later. gamers amirite

anyway, mgs2 was great. hooked me also. but then i wasn't super jazzed about mgs3, bc it wouldn't be about snake and otacon.

anyway, mgs3 was great. hooked me also. but then i wasn't super jazzed about mgs4, because otacon cheats on snake and also snake gets old and dies.

anyway, mgs4 was... fine. like, it wraps up the solid snake arc pretty well, but it's also fucking batshit and there were several plot points and characters who i just found grating. (naomi. i found naomi grating)

so we finish mgs4 and like, okay, that's the solid snake story. fuck rising, and mgs5 is its own whole beast. so i finally said: hey. you wanna rp otasune?

and of course he did, he's been into otasune for like 15 years but never really got into the fandom aspects of it back then. so here's where things get amusing...

see, i've had trouble getting him to agree to fandom rps in the past, or if he does, had trouble getting him to stick with them. he's too oc-brained. which is fine, but after 4 games i was obsessed and i really doubted i'd find anyone better, more interesting, or more willing to put up with my bullshit. so i was like, okay, let's ease into this. we can do a silly little high school au so the pressures of the canon setting aren't present. and, of course, i'd let him play otacon.

...now you may be looking at my icon. and all my otacon posts. and wondering what that was about. well, see, he likes snake and otacon both, and hadn't expressed to me at any point just how much snake was his favorite (or if he had i had glossed over it). so because otacon was my favorite, i think i just assumed otacon would be his favorite, and even though he knew that wasn't true, he agreed anyway. (maybe i sounded like i really wanted to play snake? in truth i was trying to excite myself about it; i wanted otacon, but if i couldn't have otacon, i wanted to want to play snake).

he did say maybe we could switch it up sometime. i thought maybe he just didn't know who he really liked best, but i was happy to agree.

the first rp was fine, but fizzled out fairly quickly, which made me anxious. despite all my careful approaching, it seemed like we wouldn't be able to stick with it. maybe it was for the best; i found snake hard to capture. i wrote a fic in the high school setting to try and satiate myself.

well, eventually he brought up that he'd like to do something in canon instead. he'd been concerned with living up to canon settings in the past, but mgs was so zany that he figured he could handle it. so we picked after the tanker to set a rp. he asked if maybe he could play snake this time.

i found otacon way easier to write, though i was still feeling out what i wanted to do with him. within days we had a new idea. and then another... and another...

and we're still doing otasune rps. the first one started july 12th. at some point he finally said, hey, i never wanted to play otacon, he's not my favorite. and i was like. oh. well i feel silly now. but i have embraced otacon as my little blorbo now that i know i don't have to compete for him, lmao... love is all about sacrifices! it's also about being a fucking idiot sometimes

[shadowglens]

the party dynamic would be a bit caster/ranged biased and probably wouldn’t function very well, but consider:

amalice | drow witch | was exiled by her people for alleged treason, is now a hedgewitch on the outskirts of a small town

ulryn | triton druid | heir to the head of triton’s crownsguard, sent to the surface to learn to respect its ways and people

darcy | human fighter | orphan who grew up between sailing vessels on the high seas, recently shipwrecked and left to pick up the pieces in a small port town

signy | dwarf sorceress | was born with extraordinary powers after her mother was struck by lighting while pregnant, is now on a quest to discover the origins of her birthright

myana | wood elf ranger | wayward hunter seeking a cure for the forest that her clan has called home for centuries, with her only company her panther berrian

scout | half elf monk | orphan raised in a monastery in the centre of the desert, obsessed with finding the true origins of the gods through science and astrological theory

BONUS NPC: cressida | tiefling warlock | once-human corrupted by asmodeus, now-tiefling leashed by the overlord in nessus acting as his second in command

[acediian]

─𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐲, 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐲, 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐲 [ℹℹ.]

Pairing: Stephen Strange x OC, Sinister Strange x OC

Synopsis: Alma and Stephen find themselves in a desolate version of their own universe and, with no way to return home on their own, travel to the Sanctum Sanctorum to seek help. But the version of Stephen that they find there isn’t intent on letting Alma leave.

Word count: 4.8k+

Warnings: mentions of death, so much pining, magic fight, mentions of grief, that’s not how the Darkhold works but oh well??, some swearing. Since this fic will eventually feature some smut, 18+ ONLY!

A/N: Bit of a longer one this time, which means that the next chapter will be a shorter one. A chapter 2.5, if you will. I do hope you enjoy! Thanks, as always, for reading and please let me know what you think! c:

* Please do not copy or repost my work anywhere else! *

They lost the girl. They had managed to stay one step ahead of Wanda following the invasion of Kamar-Taj, but their escape into the Multiverse had only bought them so much time. Even Alma had underestimated the capabilities of the Scarlet Witch and the will that drove her to pursue America so relentlessly. Maybe one day she would have to remind Stephen how right she had been not to trust Wanda, but now really wasn’t the time. 

After all was said and done, this would make for one hell of a debrief – other universes, alternate selves. Full confirmation of the Multiverse based on a first-hand account from a S.W.O.R.D. director and a Master of the Mystic Arts. This would shatter the status quo yet again and potentially change everything about the work the organization did. That is, it would if Alma and Stephen managed to find a way to return to their universe. 

The portal that Wanda had opened in the Gap Junction sent them flying into yet another unknown reality. As the portal fizzled shut behind them, Alma collided with the pavement with such force that it briefly knocked the wind out of her. When she finally managed to get to her feet, she saw Stephen already making his way up the alley and onto the street.

“No… no, no, no… shit!” he yelled, rubbing his hands down either side of his face.

“What? Stephen, what?” Alma called after him, but his dismay was made clear when she, too, reached the sidewalk and saw where they had ended up. “Woah…”

It was difficult to tell that this was even New York City. Every building was crumbling into dust and black, billowy matter that was being sucked up into the sky. Some of the skyscrapers had completely detached from the ground and were smashing into others with a deafening rumble. Vehicles, trash cans, and benches also hovered above the streets, which were eerily devoid of any life whatsoever. Not a single footprint marred the perfect blanket of snow that covered the sidewalks. This place was… dead.

“What the hell happened to this universe?” Alma wondered aloud.

“It looks like it collapsed in on itself,” Stephen replied, his tone uncharacteristically worried. “Or worse… it collided with another one.” 

“Terrific,” she muttered underneath the cacophony of crashing buildings and twisting metal. The melody of a dying universe.

“Come on. America doesn’t have long.”

Alma followed in step with Stephen as he began to walk with purpose up the abandoned street. “And where exactly are we going?”

“Well, if there’s still a Sanctum in this universe, then another me might still be guarding it. And that’s our best shot at getting back to our universe. Maybe our only shot.”

The two of them had to cross the road to avoid a whirlwind coming their way. 

“You really think anyone’s still alive in this universe? I mean… look at it.”

“We can only hope.”

Alma’s heart was racing, not from adrenaline, but out of fear. These were streets that she had walked for her entire life, but nothing about them felt familiar in this place. As they continued on, the horrors of this universe only continued to show themselves. Eventually, the layer of powdery snow on the ground was washed away by the dark, murky waters of the Hudson that had risen onto the streets. Waves gently lapped at their feet with each step.

The wall of disintegrating skyscrapers that enveloped them soon opened up into a desolate landscape that stretched to the horizon and beyond. All that stood in that barren place was the Sanctum Sanctorum, silhouetted against a cloudy sky and framed by a blood red, eclipsed sun. The soil crunched under each of their steps and Alma made the unfortunate decision to look down. It wasn’t rocks that littered the wasteland surrounding the Sanctum; it was bones. The remains of thousands - maybe even millions - were strewn across the ground for as far as the eye could see. 

“Oh my god. Stephen,” Alma cried out as she narrowly avoided stepping on the skull of one of this universe’s doomed inhabitants. She reached for Stephen with both hands, gripping his arm so tightly that he took in a sharp breath. His momentary confusion turned into dread as he followed her gaze and noticed what had frightened her so. 

Stephen placed a hand on her arm to urge her to keep moving. “Don’t look at them.”

“Where the hell are we?” she asked in an anxious whisper.

They continued on their path to the Sanctum, Alma clenching her jaw with every crunch beneath her boots. Amid the swirling fog that enveloped the lone building, they could see that even it hadn’t been untouched by the destruction of this universe. It, too, was slowly breaking apart. Much of its roof was already gone, splintering into the air like so many of the other structures in the city. Its facade was also deteriorating, the bricks and roof tiles curling in on themselves like flower petals wilting under the summer sun. The only part of it that remained untouched was the large, circular window on the top floor. Darkness lay behind the murky glass.

“Wait here,” Stephen said, taking a step toward the entrance. “I’m gonna go see if anyone’s home.”

“No.” Alma all but leapt in front of him to prevent him from going any further. “Absolutely not. You are not leaving me out here alone.” 

“Why? Are you scared?” He teased but, seeing how shaken she was, his smile fell away.

“Are you not?” 

Stephen was the only one that she let see her at her most vulnerable. To everyone else, she was a picture of stoicism and confidence. And while it had garnered her the respect of her colleagues and superiors, it had always invoked the ire of her loved ones. Not even her parents were allowed to see past the curtain - especially not since the terrible car accident in which her sister, Eleanor, had perished while she escaped with no more than a concussion and a dislocated shoulder. It was Stephen who had held her as she wailed in her hospital bed after receiving the news.  

“Hey…” He placed a comforting hand on her arm. The other nearly cupped her cheek before he withdrew, letting it fall to his side. “It’ll be okay. I’ll find a way for us to get home.”

“And if you don’t?”

“Well, then it looks like we’ll get that vacation we always talked about taking.” 

Alma looked at her feet, sighing. He was only being a smart ass as per usual, but his words stung so badly. It would have already been a long, taxing day if she hadn’t had to see him again. To relive the hurt of their breakup and face the very real fact that she was still in love with him. But all his playful teasing, the cheeky winks, and the joking reminders of dreams they once shared had simply become too much. 

“Please don’t say things like that.” Her voice was small. “Stephen, you broke up with me. There isn’t a ‘we’ any more." 

“You’re right,” he replied, his eyes surveying her face as she continued staring at her boots. “I’m sorry.” 

“Let’s just… focus on stopping Wanda.” Once this was all over, they could go their separate ways just like he wanted. 

They proceeded in silence up the steps to the Sanctum doors, which slowly groaned open to beckon them inside. The same waters they had walked through in the city flooded the foyer. The remainder of the ground floor was gone, long since swept away into an endless gray sea. All that survived was the foyer’s grand staircase, which extended beyond the walls of the Sanctum and into the foggy abyss. A loud slam echoed throughout the foyer and they both turned to see that the Sanctum doors had shut behind them. The only way forward was up.

A twinge of fear grew with each step that Alma took up the staircase behind Stephen. It was the trepidation of tiptoeing through the two dollar haunted house at the carnival on Halloween the year that Eleanor had been forced to babysit her because their parents had a company party to attend. The peeking through of trembling fingers that were the only thing between her and the zombies whose cheesy makeup seemed all too convincing to an eleven-year-old girl. But haunted houses didn’t frighten her any more.

Another set of doors awaited them at the top of the stairs. They, too, swung open before Stephen could even reach for the doorknobs. Behind them was another familiar room that had been made unfamiliar by this Incursion-ravaged universe. The main part of the Sanctum’s top floor, where the two of them had spent countless wonderful nights talking and laughing by the fire and so many others in peaceful silence. In this universe, the room was dark and lifeless, its once polished wood floors littered with leaves. Furniture and trinkets were strewn about the place with only a thick layer of dust and the occasional cobweb to provide them any company. 

Alma’s boot crunched on a fallen shard of glass from the mirror opposite the door and she turned, catching a glimpse of herself in its dirty, cracked surface. She was ghostly pale against the blackened wall behind her, with only the flickering light of the storm outside bouncing off of her slim face. The dim lighting only made the dark circles under her eyes stand out all the more. A hand reached up to the wound on her forehead that she had received during the assault on Kamar-Taj, no longer bleeding but still tender to the touch. There was a cut on her bottom lip, too, that she hadn’t even realized was there until now. She looked like shit, but she’d looked worse before. 

“We’re not alone,” Stephen whispered, drawing her attention away from the weary visage that stared at her from within the mirror. 

Alma shook her head in disbelief. “It seems pretty abandoned to me.”

“No…” He was able to sense something that she couldn’t. “Come on. Stay close.” 

Before she could say another word, he disappeared through the archway and she had no choice but to trail after him. Her jaw dropped as she beheld the grim sight before them: the back wall of the room, torn away by a swirling storm. A tunnel of clouds extended far beyond the Sanctum, ending in a small glimpse of the blue sky above. It was remarkably quiet for how violently the building was being ripped apart. No louder than the sound of gentle waves.

“Stop where you are.”

A soft voice - Stephen’s voice - came from the stairwell. As Alma turned to its source, it was unmistakably Stephen who was standing there with a hand on the rail. The figure was half shrouded in darkness, but the soft light that illuminated him from above showed enough for her to know that it was him. She had to blink a few times as she looked from one Stephen to the other. 

“Who are you?” Alma could feel the other Stephen’s gaze on her even though she couldn’t see his eyes. His voice was so quiet, with a gravelly quality that said it was rarely used.

“I’m just… one of us,” her Stephen reassured him. 

“From the Multiverse?” His silhouetted form perked up at the realization and he hurried down the remaining stairs until he was at their eye level. His eyes remained on Alma all the while, his features frozen in an expression of bewilderment and awe. “How did you get here?”

“By accident.” Stephen was quick to answer. 

If Alma closed her eyes, then she would have thought that Stephen was talking to himself. He did make a habit of it, especially when he was thinking. Wong often teased him for it; said that he only did so because he enjoyed the sound of his own voice. 

“That’s some luck… getting stuck here of all places,” the other remarked dryly as he began pacing the floor opposite them, hands clasped behind his back.

“I guess your reality wasn’t always like… this.”

“No.” The other Stephen’s voice was almost a whisper. “It was probably somewhat like yours until…” 

As he trailed off, her Stephen pressed for an answer. “Until?”

The room fell deathly quiet as the other stopped in his tracks. His gaze fell on Alma once again and his chest rose and fell in a shaky breath. He watched her intensely, with a ravenous yearning that froze her blood in her veins.

“Until I lost…” The words left him painfully, so much so that he couldn’t continue. 

Alma felt a hand on her forearm. It was her Stephen, reaching behind him in search of her. His hand slowly snaked down past her wrist to clasp onto her own. He was warm and, despite the ever-present tremble in his fingers, he held fast onto her.

“Lost?” he asked, a growing sense of concern in his voice. 

A solemn pause followed, with only the rumble of thunder and the sound of the crumbling building to fill the silence. There was a heaviness in the air that Alma had felt before. The living room of her parents’ house felt like this on the day they buried Eleanor. It had been so quiet that you could hear everything. Clinking plates and hushed conversation. Her mother’s soft cries from the bedroom down the hall. The dog clicking across the hardwood floor in search of scraps. Aluminum foil rustling in the kitchen. And grief, grief, grief. Suffocating, inescapable.   

The other Stephen did not elaborate further, but his unspoken words spoke volumes. 

“Why have you come here?” he finally continued. “What do you want?” 

“We’re just… trying to get home.” 

“Oh, yeah?” He took a few steps closer to them and Alma caught sight of a familiar, peculiar book attached to his belt by a jagged chain.

“Stephen, is that-?” she asked in a barely audible whisper, gesturing at the book with a nod of her head.

“The Darkhold,” he breathed. “You guard the Darkhold in this universe?”

“Yeah,” the other Stephen replied, placing a protective hand on the book’s spine.

“Well, I could use it. Communicate with our universe.” He looked at Alma. “Save America. Get us home.” 

Alma released Stephen’s hand and stepped around him to address his counterpart for the first time. Whatever sentiment he held for her was one she could try to take advantage of, at least. “Could we borrow the book, Stephen? Please?” She offered him a small smile. 

His features softened as she spoke, eyes even fluttering shut in a brief moment spent relishing the sound of her voice. But as she watched him consider their request, looking back and forth between the two of them, darkness slowly crept back onto his face. 

“No.”

One word and Alma felt her heart sink. She took a step closer. “Please.”

Flashing a sinister grin, he turned away from them to stare out of the circular window. “Why haven’t you married her, Stephen?”

“I’m sorry?” came her Stephen’s voice from behind her.

“You aren’t wearing wedding bands so I assume you aren’t married.” His hand clasped onto the Darkhold again. “I have searched… hundreds of worlds. Do you know how many I found where Alma and I weren’t married?” He swiveled on one foot to cast a biting look at Stephen. “None.”

“You’ve been Dreamwalking?” Alma asked.

“I was looking for a world like mine,” he said hoarsely. “A world… where I was without you. Where I lost you…” His shoulders fell. “But I didn’t find it. All I found were ones where we were together, where we were happy.” 

“Where I was still alive.” 

It was clear to her, now. All his yearning stares, the way he prickled at the sight of her. She hadn’t died in this universe’s Incursion; her death was the catalyst that had led to it. 

The other Stephen’s sorrowful expression turned into one of pain and bitterness. “I will never understand why I was the only one who lost you.” 

“And you destroyed your entire universe trying to find the answer,” her Stephen said mockingly.

“I never meant for any of this to happen.” His reply was defiant.

“Tell that to the trillions who are dead because of you.”

The other Stephen approached slowly, his eyes locked on Alma’s face. The dim light that filtered through the glass ceiling above them fell on him, highlighting his features well enough for her to finally see him properly. It was unbelievable, just how much he looked like the Stephen she knew. But given just how well she knew him, she could immediately identify every difference between him and the man standing before her. Of course, his hair and beard were styled differently, but he also looked… older. His hair was streaked with more gray, his cheeks more gaunt. The wrinkles around his eyes and between his brow were deeper. And his eyes, framed by dark circles that spoke to his weariness and grief. The Darkhold hadn’t been the only thing to take a toll on him.

“How about this, Stephen?” He almost spat out the name. “I won’t let you use the Darkhold, but I will send you back to your universe.”

“How?” her Stephen asked, his voice dripping with incredulity.

“The Darkhold can connect with other universes in more ways than just through Dreamwalking.”

“Then why haven’t you used it to try and leave this one?” Alma asked.

“Oh, I’ve tried,” he replied gloomily. “I can open portals to any reality I want, but I can’t use them. When I walk through… I only end up back here.” 

Alma exchanged half-hearted shrugs with her Stephen. Something about this didn’t feel right, but it was their only option and America was running out of time. 

“Alright,” Stephen agreed skeptically. 

“Ah, but here’s the deal,” the other demanded. “I’ll send you back to your universe… but your Alma stays with me.”

Alma felt all the air leave her lungs. With wide eyes, her head snapped to her Stephen, who immediately stepped in front of her protectively. “Slow down, Vincent Price. You seriously want me to leave her here? In a dead universe?”

“She won’t be alone. She’ll have me.”

“Yeah… out of the question.”

“No?” The other Stephen clicked his teeth. “Well, that’s just too bad.”

“Come on,” Stephen whispered to Alma over his shoulder. “I’ll find another way.”

His hand settled in the small of her back to guide her out of the room, but the doorway through which they had passed earlier was blocked. Barring their exit was a large Mandala spell, one that Alma had seen Stephen perform countless times before. This one, however, glowed with purple symbols instead of the orange that the sorcerers in their universe conjured. 

“Oh, no,” the other Stephen’s voice came from behind them in a low growl. “You think I’m just going to let you walk out of here? With her? She stays… whether I send you back to your universe or not.”

Stephen all but pushed her behind him. The Cloak of Levitation even puffed out to offer her a little more protection. In her day job, she never felt anything but confident in her ability to protect herself and her team. But if this other Stephen had the same abilities as the one she knew - or more - then all the combat training in the world wouldn’t be enough to defend herself.   

“I didn’t agree to your deal.” Stephen put his hands out defensively. “And Alma definitely didn’t.”

“I can’t let her leave!” the other barked. The storm outside punctuated his sentence with a menacing rumble. 

“She doesn’t belong in this universe,” Stephen shouted over the rolling thunder. “She isn’t your Alma!”

The other Stephen shook his head, eyes darkened with anger and desperation. “I already lost her once. I won’t let you take her from me!” 

With a flick of his wrist, a purple Eldritch Whip shot towards Stephen and wrenched the Sling Ring from his belt. The other caught it gracefully in his hand before throwing it aside. No portals, no quick escapes. Stephen retaliated with a Whip of his own, which clashed with the other in a brilliant burst of sparks. But the other Stephen’s magic quickly overtook his, turning the entire Whip purple and directing its powerful force back on him to throw him against the far wall.   

Stephen barely managed to scramble to his feet when the other pounced, conjuring a staff made of the same purple magic. The glowing weapon came down on Stephen, whose quickly conjured shield spell blocked one, two, three hard blows. The shield began to spark and fizzle out as a fourth blow came, difficult as it was for Stephen to repel such violent energy.

“Stop!” Alma cried. But as she approached the two of them, she was pushed away again. There was no knowing which one of them cast the spell to keep her out of the conflict. “Stephen!”

Hearing her say his name, the other Stephen stopped mid-swing of the staff and turned to look at her. The distraction gave Stephen the opportunity to hurl his counterpart backward with a wind spell that sent him into a bookshelf that rained heavy leather-bound tomes onto him. 

Stephen offered a cheeky nod of approval to Alma, who could only sigh.

The other Stephen’s resolve to ensure that she remained in this place, remained by his side, was too strong. Alma knew nothing would stop him until her Stephen was dead and he had what he desired. He quickly regained his composure and stood, his fiery gaze once again directed toward Stephen. Linking his fingers together in a diamond-shaped pattern, he conjured a ball of purple-white energy that grew and spun as he drew his hands apart.  

Before he could release it, Alma jumped between the two of them with arms outstretched and a fearful look in her eyes. 

“Don’t… please,” she breathed.

Seeing her in the way, the other Stephen halted the spell and let his hands fall to his sides. The malice tainting his handsome features turned into a look of regret and shame. 

“Alma, I would never hurt you.” He spoke softly, lovingly.

“I know,” she said, and she believed him. But the smile she offered him didn’t quite reach her eyes. 

A sinking feeling was beginning to fester inside her. It sat in her chest, growing, burning, tightening, until her heart began to race. Try as she may, she could see only one option in front of them. One way to stop this madness, to get Stephen home, to save the girl. Her eyes fell closed. 

“Stephen, you need to go.” When she opened her eyes again, she turned to her Stephen, breathless and battered as he was. “We are wasting time.”

“Alma…” A deep crease formed between his eyebrows, accentuating the sadness in his eyes. “Don’t you dare-”

I’m sorry. Alma thought, swallowing down the growing lump in her throat. She turned to the other Stephen and, after a pause that felt unending, heard herself say the words: 

“I’ll stay.”

“Alma.” Her Stephen grabbed her by the shoulders to make her look at him. “No.”

“Yes,” she asserted, though the breathlessness in her voice betrayed her. “If me staying here means that you can save every other life in our universe? In the Multiverse?” She shook her head defeatedly. “I have to.”

“No, you don’t.” His voice trembled.

Alma heaved an even shakier sigh. “Just save the kid, okay?” 

“Alma...”

There was no time to argue with him when they both knew that this was the only choice. Maybe it was a death wish, resigning herself to remain in this splintering universe. Doomed to never again feel the warmth of the sun, hear the rustle of leaves in the breeze, see the people who passed by the office every day. She also thought of her parents, who had already lost her to the Snap and gotten her back. Life had been too cruel to them. She hoped they would understand. Hoped they could forgive her. She hoped Stephen could forgive her, too.

“I’ll stay,” she said once again to the other Stephen, whose body noticeably lost its stiff posture. “I’ll stay with you. Please just… send him home.”

“With pleasure.” 

A smile slowly crept onto his face before he swiveled on the spot, releasing the Darkhold from its tether at his hip in a fluid motion. With a wave of his hand, the furniture slid against the walls of the room to provide ample space for the incantation. 

“I will need your assistance in locating your universe,” he noted as he placed the book in the center of the floor and opened it instantly to the page he needed. It was a request clearly directed at Alma, but both she and Stephen stepped forward. 

The room filled with a tangled web of red orbs that swirled around them in sync with the other Stephen’s movements. Alma found herself peering into their other lives, brief as those glimpses were. In one, she and Stephen were walking through a sunny Central Park. In another, she could hear their laughter as they dodged torrential rainfall between awnings. As the orbs continued spinning, the sound of a child’s laughter floated behind her. By the time she turned to look into the orb it had originated from, it was gone. 

“There.” Stephen’s voice sent her plummeting back to earth. “This one.” He plucked one of the glowing spheres from the web and Alma stepped forward to join him in examining it closer. Therein lay the horrifying image of America, tethered by Wanda’s dark magic, screaming and wailing in agony as her power was being ripped from her.

“Oh, my god,” Alma breathed. “She’s killing her.” She frantically turned to the other Stephen. “Please, hurry.” 

Kneeling, he pressed a hand against the Darkhold and the orbs disappeared into its open pages, casting the three of them into darkness once again. Again, Stephen flipped to the page that contained the spell he required without any need to filter through the numerous other pages with untold curses of their own. 

“Stand back!” he warned them, and they withdrew almost in sync. 

From the book, he drew a red, thread-like beam of energy with a trembling hand. The beam crackled and fizzled erratically, spitting out bright white sparks that skittered across the floor in every direction. Stephen’s hand curled halfway and the beam began snaking through his fingers. He let out a cry of exertion as he struggled to control the energy, which coiled and coiled with ever-increasing speed. 

Finally, the beam formed into a quivering sphere of unstable dark magic, which shot forth from his palm when he opened his fingers. As it met the far wall, it exploded into a portal - a swirling, amorphous cloud of smoke akin to a brewing storm with streaks of red and black that cut through the darkness like lightning.  

“Well, that’s my ride,” Stephen murmured to Alma before he hesitantly approached the billowing vortex. 

As she watched him, Alma suddenly felt herself being wrenched backward by an invisible force. The rubber soles of her boots squealed as they dragged across the wood floor, the sound of which caused Stephen to whip around to look at her. She, too, turned her head to see the other Stephen, still on his knees before the Darkhold, with an outstretched hand holding her in place beside him. 

“In case you had any ideas about taking her with you,” he growled.  

Alma locked eyes with her Stephen and the two shared a look of regret, of uncertainty. There was so much she wanted to ask of him. To say to him. But the urgency of their situation didn’t lend itself to that, so she had to settle on the most important things. 

“Tell my parents I love them and… that I’m sorry.” Her voice shook. “Contact my superiors in Florida. Tell them everything that happened.” Oh, and I love you. I still love you. She nodded in resignation.

“Alma…” he began, but she cut him off.

“Stephen, go.” Bittersweet tears stung at her eyes. “America needs you. Go.”

He lingered for just a moment, lips parted in words unsaid. “I will come back for you, Alma. I promise.”

What a hollow promise it was when he had no way of returning to this universe. But she believed with every fiber of her being that he would never stop trying. 

Alma stared blankly as Stephen stepped through the portal, which dissipated instantly and left no trace aside from a char mark on the wall where the spell had made contact. When finally released from the spell that restrained her, she slowly moved forward with eyes fixed on that spot. Her hand lifted to touch it and found that it was still warm beneath her fingertips. 

[myemotionalsupportcharacters]

Old Friend - Part 2

Series Masterlist Type: Series Pairing/s: Jinx x Female!OC Summary: When Jinx runs into a ghost from her past, despite the chaotic events already at play in her life she gets drawn in. Warnings: Will feature mature content: Gore, violence, sexual themes, etc. {Disclaimer: I do not own any characters except those marked as OC, I hold no rights over anything from the Arcane/LoL Universe. Otherwise, all content is my own and any similarity to real people, events, or any other fiction is unintentional. Please inbox me if you believe anything within my work violates this disclaimer.}

"Powder? Powder! Little Man told me-" Arika burst through the door as the bag fell from Powder's hands, sending small blue crystals bouncing across the floorboards. They skittered and sparked flecks of blue into the air.

"I can help them." The small blue-haired girl looked up at her friend as she stepped through the doorway.

"Pow Pow, what's going on? Little man told me someone took Vander. Where is everyone?" Arika rushed over to pull Powder into a hug. It was obvious the girl had been crying, her eyes red and raw, the residue of snot still trailing from her nose.

"They left me." She sniffled into Arika's shoulder, clutching the girl tightly to her. "But I can help them. Violet told me to stay here, but I can help. I know I can."

"Okay." Arika nodded, pulling away. "Tell me what to do. Let's help them."

//

"I'll wait for you all in the sewers once the bombs go off." Arika pulled Powder in for another hug. "We're going to help them."

Powder nodded, her body trembling lightly before she stepped away.

"And you'll be there to fix our cuts and bruises?"

"Like always." Arika promised before turning and running off to the closest sewer hatch. There, in a tunnel directly under the abandoned cannery she waited., watching the muck of the Lanes pass by until the first bang went off.

It was powerful, shaking the foundations of the building above and resonating through the tunnel. Arika smiled, Powder's bombs had worked. Then there was another, and another so loud Arika doubled over covering her ears and somewhere above her the ceiling began to cave in. Orange and blue light fighting for dominance as she looked up through the hole, unaware that there was one more bomb yet to go off. In the moment of silence, she heard the sound of cymbals coming from behind her. It was another of the bombs she had helped to make not half an hour before. It had frozen before its final clap, and Arika couldn't move. Rooted to the spot in fear. Fear that if she disturbed the air even in the slightest, it would set off the monkey. So she waited, mere seconds felt like minutes as she tried to pull herself away, to run.

The monkey seemed to grin a little wider before it finally blew, the blue crystal crushed between its prongs. Arika saw the air dusted blue and she was thrown backwards, felt it sizzle and pop against her skin and tingle down her spine. The air shifted again and she was caught mid-flight, suspended as the blue seemed to coagulate and swirl around her before pouring through her body. A high-pitched scream crackled from her mouth, like a kettle boiling and she felt her body ripped apart. The blue sparks sliced their way back out of her and fizzled out in the air.

She lay there in a puddle of blood, gurgling and twitching, tears pouring uncontrollably from her eyes. She was dying, she could feel it. With every drop of blood, her life was being pulled from her. She stared up through the hole in the ceiling, watching the lights flicker, flames licking the walls sending almost unbearable heat into the stinking sewer.

Powder was up there. Violet, Vander, Clagger and Milo. They were all up there, depending on her to be there for them. To help them. Yet here she was, bleeding out beneath their feet. Were they even still alive? They had to be, and they would need Arika's help when they made it out. Who else would sit and stitch them up? Force them to rest? Strap up their injured muscles? Sanitise their wounds?

The pool of blood changed its flow. It was hard to notice at first, the blood looked like it was stagnating more than flowing back. Slowly, Arika's vision brightened, and she could feel her hands again. Feel breath pulling into her lungs, her heart speeding up. She could feel the pain, but that hardly seemed to matter in comparison. She rolled her head to the side and watched as the blood was pulled back into her body, her wounds stitching themselves into neat silver-white lines.

She was stuck there for hours - still unable to move but regaining feeling and strength - until she was able to drag herself up from the floor and stare up at the slowly dying flames. Using the rubble she made her way up, the destruction was immense. Bodies had been burnt to a crisp, unrecognisable, and Arika counted too many. She ran around the compound over and over again, but no one was there.

No one had met her in the sewers either. It had been too long. They were all gone. She ran back to the Lanes. No one was there. They were all gone.

Arika ran back to her home and packed a bag. There was nothing here for her now. She grabbed the tin can from under her bed, all the money she had collected from her shifts at the good doctors. She didn't know how far it would take her, but she couldn't be here anymore. Not without them.

Thanks for visiting, see you again soon...

[writingonesdreams]

OC Associations tag game

Based on this post by @develop-your-oc

Rules: Describe your OCs As...

⏳ TIME

— dawn - Hal (the beginning, rise after a fall, the melancholy of night ending and new working day beginning)

— noon - Zephyr (clear, sunny, steady stream of light, bright and cloudless, blinding shine you can't see through)

— dusk - Leander (the light that fizzles out, the last rays that burn the brightest, the sun that gets in the eyes, the sky that bleeds in red and orange like an explosion)

— night - Skye (the owl, the silver dots spilled on the black blanket revealed under the patches of clouds so clear in the dark, the silence and the peace, the racing mind)

🤝 RELATIONSHIP

— friend - Hal (the sad and ancient and lonely one who looks for connection, lost his bonds but never betrayed them, mourning but waiting, trying and hoping)

— lover - Zephyr (the loving, the wondering, the one who feels for everyone and everything, compassion and love spread around)

— ex - Leander (the ex friend, the former friend, the one who failed, the one couldn't reach out and lost)

— enemy - Kieran (everyone is an enemy, the world will burn, I hate them, I hate them all, I kill them all in my mind, on repeat, they would see me fall but I will show them)

✨ SEASON

— spring - Skye (the crisp and clear air, new beginnings, new tries, green and new and about to bloom)

— summer - Zephyr (warm and steady, doesn't change as much anymore, regular exchange of sunny warmth and freeing rain)

— autumn - Leander (changing, moody, colourful, adventurous, still scorching hot but sometimes blistering cold)

— winter - Hal (the cold, the empty, the ice, insides in snow, for the frozen tears don't fall anymore, looking for peace in the white and grey)

🌀 DESTRUCTION

— tornado - Zephyr (windy and spiraly, as the feelings inside get out of control, but no one can know how they turn and turn)

— wildfire - Leander (when it shines it burns, true hot and hight, red and yellow it will burn your eyes, red flower that leaves nothing but ash)

— earthquake - Hal (the mountains moved and took to the sky, the forests grew and thickened, the shelter and protection, the barrier and island of loneliness)

— tsunami - Skye (the thoughts, all the thoughts, they keep running and they spill and take take take, everything in their wake)

🌄 LANDSCAPE

— mountain - Zephyr (the high peaks, reaching for the stars, always higher, you almost can't see the imperfections bent in the mist)

— forest - Hal (the living barrier, the green and deep, the safe and shadowy, lush with life)

— ocean - Skye (the feelings and the thoughts, the hidden depth, the secrets and the mystery, you won't know what you stand on until you dive in)

— desert - Leander (the sand so gold, so hot to the touch, turns to dust when you try to catch it, spills out between fingers, what will your anger leave you with, a wasteland of bitterness that could have been beautiful)

Tagging for my new weird tag game peeps that might like it: @thewalkingnerdx @kosmosian-quills @sleepyowlwrites @ren-c-leyn @catharticallysarcastic @bloodlessheirbyjacques @myhusbandsasemni @nectargrapes @hannahs-creations