#the muse page is pretty much perfect; i just am having trouble figuring out how to upload audio clips to it

[all-cursed]

should be able to start writing tomorrow! i just have to get doc’s tags written up (ambrose’s are about to be posted; i’ll post them before i go to bed), and then everything that’s most important is done. i’ll be transferring any asks to the gang on my other multimuse over to here so that’s something to look out for. and as always feel free to send stuff in - i’ll maybe reblog some memes later after posting ambrose’s tag drop

EDIT: also a promo asdlfkag i do need to commission someone for one of them pretty soon too. that’s kinda important as well lmao. (prolly on the same level as getting proper graphics for the main blog page, but above the need for the music and navigation nonsesnse

[mandoinevarro]

NO REFUNDS

Words: 5.1k :))

Rating: E, baby

Warnings: Smut (surprise surprise), bad words :0, masturbation, a biiiit of praise kink, face fucking, cumplay? let me know on the comments, etc. etc.��

a/n: Happy Star Wars day!! The first few lines of this are an attempt at dumb comedy, but humor me a little and you’ll get a reward (smut) along the yellow-brick road

Finally, the lanky kid behind the counter stops air drumming with two chicken bones gnawed dry and trails his dopey eyes from the gloved fist on the table, up a bracer, and along a flexed arm, until they settle on the Mandalorian helmet staring him down and waiting for an answer. The employee removes the music bandeau from around his ears and settles it down, its noise so loud Mando can hear it from where it lays. The kid scratches the whiskers of facial hair growing patchy on his cheeks and thoughtfully nibbles on one of the bones, trying to figure out what one does when a client shows up.

“Uh, what?”

“I need to speak to the owner,” the Mandalorian repeats slowly.

“Oh, uh.” Mouth gaping like a fish too stupid to know it should fear hooks, the kid calmly turns his attention to the four walls of the hardware store, searching for guidance in the fluorescent signs hanging around the room and dictating the store’s rules like they’re ancient scriptures:

NO CHILDREN

WILL BUY STOLEN GOODS FOR LOWER PRICE

NO IMPS

NO REPUBLIC OFFICIALS

NO REFUNDS

NO APPOINTMENT, NO MEETING

“You, uh,” the kid continues, lingering on that last stanza and flicking open a dusty agenda that probably hasn’t been touched since the war ended, “you got an appointment, uh, sir?” He drags a greasy finger down the planner, squinting at nothing and pretending to read the page that Mando can clearly see is empty.

The bounty hunter sighs, holding on to the last reserves of patience that hang precariously on the cliff of his self-restraint, threatening to let go and leave him to his own anger. “No. But she’ll see me.” You better. You better fucking see him. “I was sold equipment here a few days ago, some of it faulty. I need to speak to her.”

The navigator. The fucking navigator. Of all the bunch of overpriced, black market scraps you’d somehow convinced the Mandalorian to buy from you last time, it just had to be the navigator. He still has his old blasters. Pumps are cheap. Even the deflector shields he could’ve done without for a couple of months. But the fucking navigator. The lack of droids on the Crest means that Mando relies solely on the navigator to set coordinates. Without it, he wouldn’t be able to find his way out of a system, let alone make hyperjumps. Even worse, the model is so old, its glitching isn’t recognized by the control panel, so he had to hover around the atmosphere of this damned planet for three days before figuring out what it was, throwing off his schedule and losing track of two bounties in the process. All because you sold him a damaged version of the one part he can’t do without.

But your gaping-mouthed kid worker seems too unused to visitors to really care about Mando’s request, too entertained nibbling on a bare bone and eyeing the costumer in front of him as a knowing smirk cracks his lips and he says, “I dig it.”

“You…you ‘dig it’? I don’t…”

“The whole, y’know.” He draws circles in the air with the bone, signaling the beskar armor while he wipes the sauce around his mouth with a sleeve. “The, uh, Mondolarian vibe you’ve got going on. Very retro, dude. I dig it.”  

Mondo…? Bewilderment overshadows irritation for a second, and Mando focuses all his energy into searching the kid’s vacant eyes for a sign of intelligent life. “I…I am a Mandalorian.”

Fucking stars above, it’s never easy with you. If not your endless teasing, it’s the exorbitant prices, your unwillingness to compromise, or your scurrying around so he’s forced to play cat and mouse with you. Your latest impossible challenge for him to tackle is, apparently, getting a straight answer from the obtuse employee you must have handpicked from a catalogue of idiots to torture Mando. Maker, he’s surprised your store hasn’t gone bankrupt yet. He can’t imagine anyone else in the galaxy putting up with your whims. And he only does it because…well, because…

After dedicating a couple of seconds to crafting the perfect response for what appears to be his very first client, the kid muses, “Well, shit, what do I know.” He flashes a toothy smile as he rereads the dogmas on the walls. “Says nothing about Mondolarians here, but, uh—”  

“—Look,” Mando bargains with your gatekeeper, trying to level the exasperation escaping the vocoder, “I only have one faulty part. Let me talk to the owner, and—”

“—Shit. I bet it was the microvalves.” Your staff of one hangs his tuff of hair in shame, swaying it limply from side to side, before staring straight at the visor apologetically. “My bad, dude, I’ve been trying to get them right, but I always fuck them up. It’s hard, y’know? Red with red, white with white. Why not red with white? Or—”

“—No. What? No. Listen to me. You sold me a busted—”

“—I sold you?” the kid scoffs, his eyes suddenly snapping wide and offended, ignoring Mando’s clenching fists, which usually make normal people cower. “Excuse me, mister Mondolarian sir, but I don’t, uh, don’t recall selling you shit, in fact—”

“—Not—not you personally, the store, look, just—”

“—in fact, I’ve never even met a Mondolarian before and you’ve, uh, no right—no right— to judge my microvalves that I worked hard on—”

“Let him in.” Your voice carries its usual amusement as it cuts between the Mandalorian and the kid, breaking off the bickering from both ends and drawing their attention to the melody’s source. You lean on the doorframe leading to your workshop, holding a pair of pliers in one hand and a wrench in the other. Grease is smeared on your face, where teeth bite down on a playful smirk and the twinkle in your eyes speaks of terrible intentions—like always. You tilt your head back to the room behind you. “C’mon, Mando. Let my receptionist work.”

With a sigh, the hunter moves towards the separate room, not before glancing back at the receptionist, who throws him one last disapproving look and wraps the bandeau that never stopped blasting music around his ears.

“Why do you keep him here?” the Mandalorian grunts as you push yourself off the doorframe to move inside your studio.

You shrug. “It’s him or droids.”  

Mando trails after you inside the cramped workshop, filled to the brim with piles and piles of sensors and motors and all the other scraps from dubious origins you collect, fix, and resell. He closes the door behind him and pushes a large tube hanging from the roof to the side to walk closer to you.

Facing him, you plummet on your wheeled chair with a sigh, your arms dangling off the armrests, still holding the wrench and the pliers, like you’re the monarch of your little kingdom of junk granting him an audience.

There, Mando finally gets a good look at you, and—much to his annoyance—you’re as lovely as always. Glistening and greasy, you’re still beautiful with oil stains on your skin and fat droplets of sweat trailing your temple. You beam at him from your squeaky throne with that faint grin that attracts nothing but trouble. Maker, no wonder you always manage to talk circles around him. But not this time. This time he won’t fall for your little games. He won’t, he won’t, he won’t. Tonight he’s walking out of here with all of his money, no matter how much you bat your pretty eyelashes at him.

The Mandalorian squares his stance and straightens his back in a futile attempt to intimidate you, strutting ahead firmly and pointing an accusing finger at your face.

“You sold me a—”

“—a busted navigator.”  You roll your eyes and push yourself to your legs abruptly before the hunter can get any closer. He stops dead on his tracks. You wave the wrench and the pliers in the air like the conductor of an orchestra. “I sold you a busted navigator.” The vowels are dragged out with an exaggerated tune to make fun of him. “Yeah, I heard you the first four thousand times, Mando.”

Without looking, you drop the pliers to the side. They land dead center on an open storage box. Perfectly. Almost rehearsed. Something clicks. The Mandalorian suddenly finds the missing piece of a puzzle he didn’t know needed solving, and he feels his shoulders deflate and release some of the anger that drove him to your store in the first place.

You peacock closer to him, one foot in front of the other and swaying your hips as you look down to the wrench in your hand. “But, you should know by now,” you murmur once you find yourself only inches away from the beskar, your voice morphing its earlier mock exasperation into the tone you only use whenever you two aren’t talking business. You look up at him, failing miserably at masking the mischief in your eyes. “I don’t do refunds.” You lift the wrench and grin as it taps the beskar breastplate lightly with a tink.

And before you can blink, Mando’s hand flies to your wrist to clutch it roughly, squeezing without hurting you, but with enough strength to force your fist open. Just like he knows you like it. The wrench falls to the floor with a bang that makes you jump. It’s Mando’s turn to smile when he pulls you by the wrist to press you closer against him. The cocky glint in your eyes dulls into confusion.

“I never said it was the navigator,” he informs you lowly.

You tense under his grasp and shift your jaw. “You knew I’d come back,” he continues, encouraged by your grimace. Staring at your feet, you half-heartedly try to wriggle away from his grasp, but he grabs your other wrist instead and holds you flush against the cold beskar. “Okay. I’m back. Now give me my money.”

But his satisfaction is short-lived, because if there’s anyone in the universe who knows no shame, that’s you. So you simply bite your lower lip and move your head from side to side to shake hair and embarrassment off your face. When you look up at the visor again it’s with that brazen insolence that secretly gets the Mandalorian going like nothing else in the galaxy.

“A girl gets lonely in here,” you purr. Your wrists relax, and make no attempt to pull away. “Can you blame me for wanting you back a little earlier?” Your plush lips curl into the perverse smile of someone who’s holding all the cards, making heat rush involuntarily to his crotch. And it drives him fucking insane. He could have you tied, shackled, or bent over, and you would still sneer at him like you had him wrapped around your finger.

At his silence, you wedge a leg tightly between his thighs and massage it against the bulge between. Your gasp in fake surprise when his length hardens at the first hint of a brush, too unused to any sort of physical contact to remain neutral to your bold caresses. He bites down hard on his lip to suppress a moan. He won’t give you the satisfaction.

Mando’s learnt, though, that his restraint only feeds your audacity. Only makes you taunt him more. His lack of response spurs you on, and you crane your neck forward to lick a slow line along the beskar of the chest. You blink at him playfully as you go, stuffing your tongue back into your mouth once you reach the top edge of the breastplate.

You must find it funny. How his ribs expand and contract in anticipation. How he tends to roll and unroll his fists in an attempt to suppress the instinct to throw you on top of the table so crowded by clutter that he can barely see the surface beneath and fuck the smirks off your face. How he always gives in. How he stiffens both scandalized and impossibly aroused every time you introduce him to some newer, filthier act. You must think it’s so fucking funny.

And as much as the bounty hunter wants to shove you back against your crumbling wheeled chair, he knows you’ll only enjoy it more. So he simply lets go of your wrists and steps back.

“I’m only here for my money,” he lies.

The vicious grin grows wider. “Oh, so you’re making me work for it tonight.” You step back and lean against a table with your arms crossed over your chest, purposefully pushing your tits against the cleavage. Mando shifts in his place. Licking your lips until they glisten, you give him a once-over. You study him inch by inch, and an uncomfortable rope knots in his stomach when he realizes that this is how his bounties must feel when he watches them wordlessly.

Your eyes settle on his visor, and a decision seems to cross them as you walk over to sit on your creaking chair. “Or maybe you just want to hear me beg.” You part your legs wide and clutch the armrest with one hand while the other disappears under the waist of your pants. The contour of your hand shifts up and down slowly inside the crotch of your trousers, and your lips crook into a full O as they release a deep, foul moan. “Is that it?” Your eyes are glossy and malignant, trained on his visor. “You want me to beg for your cock?”

His leather gloves ball into fists, trying to coax blood into his head and away from his…well, his other head.

Yet you hold him in place with that sinful stare and the lewd whimpers that you know get him off, and yes, fuck yes, he wants to hear you beg and sob for him all night as much as he wants to clog your throat with his shaft and make you swallow your teasing.

But he can’t let you win. You can’t scam five thousand credits out of him and expect him to throw himself into your arms no questions asked. He wants to put an end to your little tyrannical rule on his cock. And he wants his fucking money back.

So the powerful Mandalorian watches helplessly as your hand quickens under your clothing and you throw your head back in ecstasy. That fucking smirk doesn’t leave you, though. Even less so when your palm picks up some speed and you hear his breath hitch involuntarily at the visual, loud enough to override the vocoder.

“C-come on, Mando, don’t—” Your hand sinks deeper into your pants and you hum at the adjustment. “Don’t you wanna teach me what—what proper cos-costumer service looks like? Huh?”

His cock jumps in his pants when you say his name in a wanton gasp, and Mando can see you’re sweating and moving your hips faster against your palm. He’s so hard it hurts.

Your smile falters and you frown impatiently as the pent-up tension threatens to snap in your body.

“Don’t cum,” Mando blurts before he can stop himself.

“Or what?”

“Or I won’t give you what you want.”

Your movements halt on command, and the hunter almost envies the control you have over your own body to be able to backtrack on the very edge of your release. You hold your hands up in triumphant surrender as you watch the Mandalorian approach and stop just a breath away from your body. He stands tall before you, crowding you with his size and turning down the volume on the nagging voice that reminds him that he’s letting you win.

Eyes on the prize ahead of you, you lick your lips and snake a hand beneath your sit. You pull a lever and the chair plummets a few inches until your mouth is directly in front of the rigid tent growing in his pants. Expert fingers undo his belt and lower his fly, but, stars, nothing is fast enough when Mando already feels the veins of his cock growing thicker and thicker. Skipping all formalities, your hand sneaks inside, cups his balls, and pulls all of him outside. He groans when you grab his shaft and squeeze hard from base to tip, your bare palm catching awkwardly on his equally dry skin. Mando melts into the sensation all the same, but you seem displeased with your palm’s lack of fluidity.

“Fuck. Hold on.” A pair of fingers disappear into your mouth and down your throat as far as they’ll go. You choke on them dramatically and your eyes water slightly, but they shine when the two small intruders drag outside your mouth, pulling a thick string of elastic spit with them and dropping it on his shaft, pulsing with anticipation. You lean forward and look up through your lashes as you unroll your tongue slowly and more gooey saliva dangles from it. It’s too dense to spill onto its target, so you pluck the heavy ropes from your mouth and smear it manually on his cock, while a thread of it hangs on your chin.

“Fuck.” Your tiny clenched fist wakes up every nerve in his body as it drags up and down his shaft, obscene and perfectly lubricated. Mando’s hips buck into its grasp involuntarily, so suddenly that you flinch at the unexpected jolt. It’s a small comfort for him, to see that he can also surprise you. But then you’re giggling again, locking him in place by grabbing the buck of his belt with your free hand.

“Eager,” you remark. You lean forward and place a chaste kiss on the tip that digs into his spine. Maker, it was barely anything, but he’s so hard and your mouth is so close. “Aren’t Mandalorians,” you tease, “supposed to have self-restraint?”

Mando’s only answer is a low groan and a gloved hand that tangles on your hair and pushes you forward. You resist, though, instead wrapping a fist around his base and dragging your hot tongue up his underside, stopping just before the tip. A tortured whimper echoes around the helmet, and the Mandalorian is not sure if you could hear it because his muscles pull tighter, drawing his attention to his cock and your mouth and the fact that the latter is not wrapped around him for some reason. As if you could read his mind, you suddenly engulf him whole. Spit gathers on the edge of your lips as you suck on his length, swallowing around the tip and swirling your tongue around his girth.

“Fuck, you’re so—so fucking g-good at this.” You hum in response, sending vibrations through his shaft that make his knees buckle. He always forgets how good it feels with you. He forgets that you take him perfectly like all your holes were made for him to fuck. That you make his blood run hot with every swing of your tongue and every spasm of your cunt and every insolent remark that escapes your lovely mouth, now busy pleasuring him.

You settle on his head and suck on the bulb, hollowing your cheeks to let him feel the delicious inside of your mouth. Mando grabs handfuls of your hair with both hands, still trying to extinguish little whimpers before they leave his throat. And you can tell. He knows you can tell because determination clouds your eyes as you yank him closer by the belt. You drag your tongue in a circle around the ridge of the head, before dipping into the slit on the tip and finally earning a punched out groan and some beads of precum as a reward. Somehow, you moan and chuckle at the same time, opening your mouth as strings of spit fall to the floor.

“You’re hard, Mando,” you coo, pumping his length while you rub it on the side of your face, “throbbing and so, so hard. You should’ve come to me sooner, baby. You’re desperate.” You suck on the head again, and the Mandalorian’s grip on your hair turns to steel, pulling you into him and no longer asking. Moaning, you let him, taking him as far as you can and wrapping a fist where you can’t reach. Your other hand releases his belt and snakes down to your lap, fumbling with the waistband of your pants.

Somewhere in the swamp of sensations drowning his thoughts, an idea flashes in Mando’s head, and he holds on to it before you can suck it out of his tip. One glove lets go of your hair and quickly grans the hand lowering into your heat to resume touching yourself. His cock still in your mouth, you look up at him with furrowed eyebrows and a silent question.

“You can’t c-cum,” he explains, forcing words out of a throat that right now only wants to moan, “un-until you give me my—my refund.”

You groan and roll your eyes, taking your mouth off him with a pop. “Fuck no,” you breathe as you pump him faster and harder, almost making Mando lose his resolve. Almost. His hold on your wrist tightens. “It’s store policy.”

“Y-yeah?” You continue sliding your fist along his shaft, as you lean forward and lower your face to start lightly licking his balls. The room spins around Mando, and his grip on your hair pushes you into him until you suck on one ball gently. “Is—is it store p-policy to—ngh—to f-fuck your clients?”

You chuckle against his taint. Your head straightens to set your attention back on his tip, where he’s leaking an almost embarrassing amount of precum. A thumb brushes over his slit, gathering the pearls and bringing them into your mouth to taste him. The way you rub your core slightly against the chair is sneaky enough, but the Mandalorian catches the movements and tugs your hand and hair tighter as a warning. Your shoulders slump.  “I’ll give you half,” you offer.

Mando guides your hand lower and curls it around his swollen cock, silently begging for your attention. His hand wraps over yours as he squeezes your fist and drags it along his shaft at a pace of his liking that sets his insides ablaze. “Eighty.” The helmet falls back as he revels in the wet sounds of your hand sliding back and forth his cock and giving him a nice enough memory for when he inevitably goes back to the Crest and is forced to take care of his needs himself.

You let him guide you, cupping his balls with your other hand and swirling your tongue around his darkening tip. Mando’s chest trembles with a long moan at the toe-curling feeling of your warm spit and your clenched fist working so hard for him, until you drop him from your mouth and answer, “Seventy.”

“N-no, I—”

“—Seventy,” you repeat and twist your hand away from his grasp, leaving his seeping cock throbbing and abandoned, “or you don’t cum.”

Fuck, he was close. He was so fucking close, before you turned the tables. Like fucking always. A part of him cradles his already bruised pride, shaming him for—yet again—not being able to hold it together around you. But his cock tugs harder. More insistently. It pulls every fiber in his body and screams at him to give you whatever the fuck you want.

“Fine.” He nods his head once, before his better sense can convince him otherwise. “Seventy.”

A full, beautiful smile that almost makes Mando forget he’s getting scammed graces your plump lips. You waste no time shoving your hand inside your underwear again and moving your arm frantically as you give him a couple of throaty whines. You open your mouth as wide as it’ll go and blink up at him, inviting him to take you however he so pleases. He tangles his fingers on your hair and shoves you against him as you wrap your lips around his cock and muffle your mewls on it.

The Mandalorian starts fucking your face, getting his money’s worth as he moves you back and forth. Your eyes water and you gag with every shove, but you work earnestly for him, hollowing your cheeks and moving your tongue and pulling just about every trick on your toolbox to make Mando’s eyes roll to the back of his head.

And stars, even through your pants and his helmet, he can still smell your arousal. He hears the wet squelching of your fingers working your pussy fast and if he could only get a look. One look is all he needs to cum, he’s sure, one fucking look at your clenching cunt and he’s done.

“F-fuck, l-let me see,” he pants, “let—let me s-see you—see your p-pussy cum, just—fuck—just a mo-moment, please, j-just…”

Tears from all the gagging fall out of your pretty eyes as you open your mouth and stand up, taking your trembling hand outside to fumble with your trousers. Your thumbs are hooked under their waistband and push down slightly before you suddenly stop and stare at the Mandalorian gulping all the oxygen he can get and waiting for you. “Sixty,” you say carefully.

Too intoxicated with you and too focused on the blood beating hard on his cock, Mando couldn’t care less. He doesn’t give a shit about percentages or money or parts or whatever half-forgotten excuse he had to come here tonight. All that matters and all that’s real is whatever he needs to climax, and if it means letting you win, so be it. “S-sixty. Yes. Whatever. Just—just take your fucking pants off.”

One swift movement and your pants and underwear pool around your ankles. Yanking hard on the hem, you manage to pull the right leg off your boot. You don’t bother with the other one, letting it hang on your left leg as you climb back on the chair, spreading your legs and hooking one thigh over the armrest to offer him the best view possible.

Mando’s cock threatens to spill at the sight. You’re fucking soaked. Your folds are blushed and slick and swollen with all the blood accumulated on your cunt. Three fingers rub your aching clit and everything around it with messy strokes, as you stare at the bounty hunter with raw lust and moan for him loud and clear, and this. This is worth the fucking navigator.

As soon as his shaft ghost over your face you lean into it and reach for him with your mouth. Mando takes your head between his hands and resumes his previous brutal pace, his eyesight now directed at the way your cunt spasms and seeps more juices with every circle you press against your lips. And, fuck, you’re taking him like you’re hungry for his cock. Pushing harder and further and faster despite the gagging, you’re making Mando see blotches cloud his vision and feel how his muscles turn into hot, thick magma. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he can’t hold it in anymore. His balls start pulling up as a warning and you’re sucking harder and mewling around him.

“I—I…I’m gonna—I—”

Mando can’t find enough words to put together for the life of him, but you nod and manage a chocked “Mhmm” and bob your head to the pace of your quickening fingers and stars oh fuck—

The wave of his climax hits him hard on his back and makes him curl around you. He braces himself against the top of your chair and the change in position makes his cock slip outside of your mouth, but his vision goes completely black and all he can feel is the rush of pleasure crushing his bones into dust. Maybe your name is falling from his lips, but he can’t be sure. The never-ending spurts of cum falling somewhere hoard most of his attention, and he focuses on that thick and heavy release, so rare for him that he puts his mind into savoring every second.

It’s not until the echoes around his ears dissipate that the Mandalorian hears you’re still whimpering. Hunched over you, he opens his eyes just in time to see you gather some of the seed that he spilled on your neck and bring it down to smear it over your bundle of nerves, rubbing it one, two, three, four times, before you’re sobbing long and loud. Your hole tightens around nothing, your forehead resting on his cuisse, and Mando thinks he could get hard again just from the image.

You both stay like that for a while, curled into each other and panting in turns, until Mando gathers all the energy left in his system to pull himself upright and shove his softening shaft back into his pants. It’s only then that he sees just how much of a mess he made: Cum landed everywhere. It hangs thick all over your face, on your neck, on your hair, on your clothes. He blushes darkly and he’s about to open his mouth to apologize, but you sense it. Somehow. You wink and brush off his shame with a smile and a wave of your hand, standing up to get dressed. But Mando’s quicker. He kneels in front of you and gently raises your underwear until it hugs your hips, wishing for a fleeting second he could press a kiss on the supple flesh there. You grab his pauldron for balance to sneak your foot into the pantleg that Mando holds open for you.

For once, it’s he who breaks the silence. “I…I do want my sixty percent, you know.”

“Of course.” You smile sweetly at him, reaching back to your work table to grab a clean rag, rubbing it against your face and neck. “I’ll even throw in some free microvalves for good measure.”

—

Taglist of two so you can keep each other company :) : @rosetophighlander​ @hellomothermoon

[anxiouslyfred]

Midnight in an Office

for @dukexietyweek‘s prompt of Superheroes, I have a page of background for what I want to write and no clue how to make a story of it.

Summary: Virgil is a superhero with a lot of money and no powers, not even full control of his money given it was an allowance from his money hoarding parents. Remus was a Robin Hood criminal Virgil had caught but ensured that only community service would be his conviction. Now Remus keeps turning up and helping, trying to understand this vigilante’s reasoning.

/\/\/\/\/\/\

One day Virgil would understand why weathly gits thought the perfect place for their children to have ‘adventurously safe’ sleepovers was always just the top floor of their main office buildings. It made no sense when their normal days out were to adventure parks, but he wasn’t really arguing the case.

Still waiting for the other 20 year olds to fall asleep was tedious, even the vaguely interesting facts Logan had been rambling about the stars had become indiscernable mumbling by this point. He’d put headphones in at that point although no sound would come from his phone while he had hacked into the buildings security cameras.

The building had, just as much as all the other wealthy companies been subject to thefts recently, suspected to come from a cyber criminal breaking through their security programmes. Virgil doubted that was actually the case, given one of the security team had self referred himself to therapy for hallucinations, completely matching the creations of a man who had stolen from his parents company.

He didn’t really care about that now though, the man should be serving community support in a soup kitchen for the next few months and then Virgil could reach out with a position at one of the law firms looking to dismantle the malpractice the companies were performing abroad. Hopefully that would help put some of the good back into the world that his parents were rapidly draining from it with their money hoarding ways.

As long as nobody showed up in the building he was in currently Virgil would swap to wherever the closest calls to the police were coming from. Criminals had been targetting the poorer areas of the city more recently, making those bad situations even worse. At least the Shadow could be sure of helping the people he respected most in fighting those crimes, keeping struggling businesses from being robbed and giving the people desperate enough to steal a chance to improve their lives.

Before that happened though Virgil spotted exactly what he hadn’t wanted to; a nineteen year old covered in leather tied together by flourescent green shoe laces walking past the security guard to no reaction.

He was up and leaving his friends behind as soon as he spotted that, changing into his costume as the Shadow as he went. His anxiety seemed to mean none of the Grapevines powers held his attention for long. He’d imagine seeing movements and hearing thigns often enough that he could fact check them away, even when provided by someone’s powers rather than his brain malfunctioning.

“I thought we agreed you’d do your service and then let me get you a job working against these buildings. You’d get paid to do what you’re doing anyway.” Virgil stated, staying at the back of the office where the desks and support columns would make him harder to spot.

“Pretty sure I was expecting more charges than impersonation and trespassing when we agreed that. What did you do to convince the company to be that light handed?” The Grapevine countered, a cackle in his voice at how unexpected the lower charges had been.

Virgil shook his head, slowly moving closer, wondering when there’d be an attempt to give him hallucinations. “So you’d rather be in prison for theft and suspected use of mind altering drugs? Because you know the police don’t admit there are powers that influence people’s minds.”

“Nah, chilling in the trash is practically my past time, clearing it up just means I get bigger piles to play around in later. You didn’t answer my question though.” They were facing each other now and there was no attempt being made to touch any of the computers or artifcats that were meant to make the office more personal.

Instead of replying, Virgil turned towards the exit. “Do what you will here. I’ve got to stop the jewellers 3 streets away being the scene of another police killing.” That was more important than some family refusing to use their money for social good from loosing some of it.

Of course the Grapevine followed him, trying to carry on asking questions although that was a little difficult while Virgil was mixing about 5 different hand-to-hand combat styles in order to capture the thief without any damages. It was easier to guarentee community service when nothing was broken or visibly stolen.

At least the Grapevine had enough wit to disappear before the prison arrived.

/\/\

They’d been meeting for a week, each time Virgil tried checking on any large offices the Grapevine would be there, just waiting. He hadn’t done anything Virgil would class as a crime the Shadow needed to combat since making the deal to serve his sentence and then accept the job working against. He was just appearing, trying ask questions.

“Companies like that get every charge they can imagine brought against criminals that target them. I should not have gotten off so lightly.” The Grapevine was musing, following the Shadow off to

“Who said the company knew anything about what you were doing? The owners were just glad you hadn’t broken anything they’d have to replace as their IT teams are already working constantly to try and prevent whatever cybercriminal they’ve blamed your crimes on from stealing more.“ Virgil realised that by now he’d either have to answer the questions or have the guy following him around forever more. He couldn’t decide which he wanted to happen more, having gotten used to someone just treating him like a normal person without all the pomp and manners demanded of wealthy sons.

There was a scoff at that. “If I’m not doing anything how is there any theft still happening? Let those poor IT team catch a break, I’m sure they’re overworked enough already with the nonsense employees of places like this come up with.”

“They are catching a break. I checked in with the IT guys of most of your targets. They worked out it wasn’t done by hacking the system and are playing it up so they can take the other calls they get at a reduced pace.” Virigl rolled his eyes at that. The IT teams tended to be where the most reasonable people worked in any office centric building, which included being the most likely to take any chance they could at slowing the speed they have to respond to the menial tasks people find making trouble with technology. “Are you helping me with this guy or not?”

“You ask that as though the robber didn’t drop his knife 5 minutes ago to stand staring at a monster climbing out from the chocolate bars.” Grapevine might be making a pest of himself in refusing to let Virgil be a superhero without him for a night, but he did have his uses when he felt like helping.

Virgil ignored that thought just as thoroughly as he had thoughts of the others wildly green eyes and lithe physic, moving in for some show fight before wrapping the rope around his wrists in a civilian arrest. He turned to the cashier that had clearly hit a hidden police alert at that point.

“Are there security cameras or can you say the alarm was hit for a crazed man having some kind of violent outburst that ended in a seizure if I give you $300?” He asked, knowing from some research into the Grapevine’s former victims how the hallucinations affected a persons body. Bribing shops to keep the charges low was the only use he actually had for the allowance he parents gave him, although he got plenty of reciepts for various expensive experiences.

Apparently too panicked to speak the shop assistant just nodded, already reaching out to take the money. “Ring it up as a sale of erm, this flight experience, give me the receipt and then do whatever returns process you need to for it but keep the money for yourself.” Virgil requested, turning to check the Grapevine was no longer in sight as he took the receipt before heading home himself.

/\/\

“You bribe people to keep the charges low, and seem to know far more about the people of these offices than any of the other superheroes I’ve met yet never show signs of any powers at all.” The Grapevine hadn’t even entered his parents building this time, just hanging out on the corner.

“And you stand about on corners looking like some sort of specialised prostitute. If there a point to you stating your observations or should I just ignore you and actually do my job?” Virgil snapped back. He’d had a horrible day of pretending his parents weren’t exploiting thousands of people while giving their pocket change to charity for rare artworks to imagine they were good people.

Grapevine jumped forwards then, pointing a finger accusingly, “You’re the son of one of these business families. You have to be, yet you keep becoming the Shadow to fight against their greed.”

“And you’re from the council estate they’re trying to get bulldosed, We have bigger things to be looking at than your deductions of who I am.” Virgil groused, fed up of hearing the flaws he’d spend his lifetime trying to correct if only he could figure out how.

Silence fell for a while before the Grapevine spoke up again. “Will I still get that job with the company fighting against these companies if I break into a few government agencies to make sure the right people reject any attempts made by, which family is that again?”

“If you get caught doing that I won’t be able to make your charge lighter. Government workers need cheques to be bribed and that’d flag my actions to my parents and freeze all my funds.” Virgil hesitated. The offer was beyond tempting. It was some of the good he wished to include but couldn’t while his parents controlled his funding still, but it could also mean losing his friend and crush.

Emotions verses morality always had been a battle he could only separate by chosing which would cause the least ongoing anxiety for him. This situation the thoughts of either had him counting his breathing to prevent a panic attack.

“I love you too, but it still seems like the best chance we’ve got at me keeping my home if you’re actually telling the truth.” The Grapevine’s response made him freeze even more. “No need for those big eyes, Cutie. I know you’d only admit to worrying about keeping me on the streets if you loved me. Now, which company names do I need to look for on those documents?”

The question reminded Virgil of where they were having this conversation, directly outside the building owned by his neighbours. It would at least be safer to talk like this somewhere he could control and know in an instant who entered. “I’m going to my families building now and will be out of costume by the time I’m there so I can unlock it and we can talk where there isn’t the chance of the next security patrol overhearing us. Why don’t you follow me there so we can talk through our love declaration as well as who will need to stop the petition?”

He’d made the decision now to reveal his identity and only hoped the same would be done in return. Love was a terrifying prospect, but out of everything that had happened to him that day, at least it made some sense.

[invitedeath]

SEPHIROTH                          — relationship & plotter call.

hello lovely isolians! it’s been actually ages since i made my first one, or my second one, so i’m coming back with new vigour & hopefully some new ideas to tempt you all into friendship ( or...enemy...ship) with sephiroth!

so liking this post means that you are 100% down with interacting with me in some fashion! ways this might happen may be... → me sending you im’s / tumblr asks to plot or chat! i can be quite a talkative person as a forewarning, as i love discussing rp things as well as getting to know my rp partner!  → if we are already friends on discord or twitter, i might message you that way to ask you about plots or ideas or to run things by you. → exchanging ask memes / meme day things that might be a bit more personal than a general sentence meme. → possible random starters or musings dedicated to your muse, sometimes i get sudden inspiration for these things! i will always check first that you’re okay with taking on a new thread, but yes this is for just... if i get inspired & want to put something up for you! → general tomfoolery and shenanigans in character ( and ooc if you like )

you can contact me via the im system here, by the /ask feature or you can ask for my discord/twitter if you prefer those. just let me know. discord is the most private however so we’d need to chat a bit more elsewhere first just for my comfort! i am in the isola discord sever however so we can totally talk in that server for a bit too!

FRIENDS.

↪ honestly friendships aren’t typically on the agenda for him. he is arrogant beyond belief and considers everyone to be weaker than him or to some degree unworthy of his time or energy. he really does not have any interest emotionally in anyone besides himself, instead he is far more likely to use and discard people when they are no longer needed. HOWEVER, in 2020 sephiroth underwent quite a big character development stage, essentially his long-term goal came to a head and it backfired pretty back when he got all his powers back, so while he’s super strong again now, he’s also semi-content (i guess) with living in isola for a while, if only so he can figure out how the multiverse works (meta, i know). he talks to people now (wow!) and engages in mostly philosophical conversations, about... life. death. etc.

↪  i am down to... vague villain-alliance type deals with fellow power players here. he wont consider your muse a friend, but rather a pawn or even a means to an end, that end being his goal of generally using this island for his means, apologies. preferably the intellectual, over-powered, edgy types will probably gravitate towards him more, but i’m willing to throw anything at the wall to see what sticks. he’s not a nice guy, by any means, but it would be interesting to see how he has to play the game here to his advantage until he regains powers. i especially would like to interact with other villains who are kind of just chilling, maybe they’re veterans in spirale also and they can share a glass of wine over watching all the citizens running around like ants. we could also do a murder if you are into that. 

↪ there are some cases where he might engage in conversation with non-villain types and these would likely be far more dialogue-heavy threads including metaphorical topics or debates. the conversations of life, death, mortality, good vs evil, frailty of existence, legacy, power and corruption, calamities, birthright and betrayal are just some of the topics possible to arise in discussion. that being said, whilst these topics would be of interest to him, the character themselves must meet his standard of what he considers worthy of his time eg. those just willing to argue with him will bore him whereas someone curious to his nature might be treated to an actual conversation. over time this has opened up into most people being capable of talking to him. he has less patience for over-eager plucky types, but anyone with a respectable manner who likes talking a lot will probably find an interesting conversation partner in this... ONLY SLIGHTLY CHILLED sephiroth. he’s not totally chill, he’s just a lil chill.

↪ warriors, outcasts, villains, intellectuals, fellow puppet-master type villains especially, those he ‘befriended’ in past events, perhaps even neighbours to his castle would all be likely connections. friends of those he has worked alongside or met, or those wishing to seek great power and know of his existence might seek him out also, but yes... ““““friends”“““ is a very difficult term for him. he’s getting better.

→ his most recent developments see him as a far more casual version of his canon self, over a year of living as close to a “domestic life” as possible have meant that whilst he is aloof and cold, he is also far more likely to be out and about, buying wine at some creepy gas station at 4:30am for example. he chats when he’s in the mood and might even stick around to cause some chaos for the sake of boredom eating him alive. so whilst he is still very much a dangerous inhabitant here in spirale, sephiroth is currently Domesticated somewhat. 

ENEMIES.

↪ heroes of all shapes and sizes might feel threatened by the ominous presence of a monster who seems inclined to side with chaos as opposed to peace. he’s not outright starting fires here but he is present in the more morbid moments of isolian discourse, an omen of death lingering on the sideline. he has his plans and he may just mock you with them, but in general since he does and WILL cut down npcs ( or players ) alike, he makes for the perfect villain. BE WARY he has all of his powers unlocked and knows the island well. fighting him would not guarantee your victory, especially if you are a freshly applied character.

in feb 2020 he almost brought chaos to spirale too so i’m sure anyone holding a grudge or wary of a potential threat like that would be very aggro towards him.

↪ he has traumas. plenty of them. some of them originate from labs and white coats, meaning he might just view you as an enemy if you’re a scientist or someone who dabbles in human experimentation. his reasons are his own, but let’s just say that if you consider him a good candidate for poking and prodding with scientific equipment, you may just lose an arm.

↪ i LOVE fight threads especially really gritty, bloody types. i would prefer to plot these out so we know what’s going on beforehand, but feel free to develop these with me honestly i love a good old classic villain hero showdown. he’s less likely to get into these without a good reason but if we do one, the winner is randomly determined via generator to make it fair if your character is also uncapped!

→ police/law enforcers/general crime stoppers might remember him for causing a bit of trouble in the past! insert how bad me be gif. try and ??? get him to apologise i guess. arresting sephiroth sounds like the plot of a funny movie. 

LOVERS.

↪ this man has a bf now, can you believe it? 2021...isola gay rights. 

MISC.

↪ pawns and such would be a fun dynamic later. his general presence is pretty terrifying, so it wouldn’t be a stretch if you have an appropriate muse for them to be fearful enough to carry out some little tasks for him. this might be more common later on, but i’m down to discussion for it currently!

↪ places you may find him can include:                 ↪ near his residence ( personal housing; castle in the mistwood  )                 ↪ fibonacci ward ( levels 3 and 4 especially due to the museums and things. but also the lowest levels, he tends to wander around there as if searching for something... feel free to try and figure out what it is )                 ↪ golden ward ( the university if only to borrow books from the library, he can read there for days at a time without sleep or food. he reads all kinds of things, both fiction and non fiction. )                 ↪ archimedes ward ( pretty much everywhere in this ward, it’s my favourite. he enjoys music and art sometimes. hit me with that biblical shit. )                ↪ the mistwood ( 100% down to be that cryptic creature that leads you from your path to your likely doom )                ↪ the city of yesteryear ( typically the underground areas, just investigating really. any strange occurrences would likely draw him there as would any presence of a strong power. )                ↪ atop skyscrapers, looming at the ‘edge’ of the world we can currently explore, typically more active at night, perhaps at the scene of a murder / attack ( plotted ), if he’s feeling extra ballsy he might be found in a bar but its very rare. very VERY rare, wandering broken buildings, invading scientific facilities or buildings. he’s not going to be found in busy, socially strained areas basically.

↪ i’m down for any ideas you might have too for plots so feel free to just message me if nothing here caters!

STATS PAGE | APPLICATION | PLOTTING PAGE

[yourfaveisyanderematic]

Fight or Flight

Hey, full disclosure: did not realize that second one was asking for HCs and not its own drabble.  So I folded the two together into One Big One to make up for it.

Stress was a fact of life, as intrinsic to a person’s reality as breathing.  Being able to work under stress—to make wise and timely decisions, to keep a cool head, to retain and recall crucial information—is a quality that anyone expecting to survive, much less make anything of themselves, must master.  It stood to reason, therefore, that the childish tendency to freeze under pressure, to panic, to make impulsive decisions (or no decision at all) was a detriment and something to be outgrown as soon as possible.  This was how it had been explained to you.

Knowing, of course, didn’t dispel the panicked fog in your head, or help you understand the stubbornly complicated problem in front of you.  Black printed letters and numbers glared back at you from the crisp page, describing a concept you were supposed to understand but might as well have been in a foreign language.  You felt your pen tremble in your hand.

“Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten.  We just reviewed this.”

You jumped.  Fugo’s eyes hadn’t left his book, but the room was so silent that he could hear the absence of your writing even from where he was sitting.  He idly turned a page.  It was strange, thinking of him as relaxed, given how he was only a few minutes ago.

Your throat was so dry.  You swallowed heavily, glancing at the glass of water just in arm’s reach.  Condensation on its surface glistened invitingly, but you hesitated in reaching for it.  Doing so required either putting your pen down (not an option), or…

Cold metal gleamed as you stared at the two knives stabbed into the table around your free hand.  One for each mistake.  You quietly, delicately raised your arm past them before leaning over to grip the glass.  

The water was refreshing and cold, but more importantly it was a distraction.  For a moment, you could focus on something other than the chemistry problem leering at you, or the knives counting how often you’d messed up, or…

You glanced over at Fugo and immediately regretted it.  He had abandoned the book entirely and was now staring at you, his expression almost—but not quite—something you could call a glare.

“Entrance exams are timed, you know,” his voice was gentle but still somehow accusatory, “the amount of time you’ve wasted on this problem would have been much better spent on another question.”

Deep breaths.  Deep breaths.  The implied suggestion was to give up and move on, but something in your gut told you this was a trick.

“I can figure it out,” you replied evenly, “this isn’t the actual exam; I should make sure I can do the material rather than worry about rushing.”

His expression barely changed, but you could tell Fugo approved by the brief lightening in his gaze.  He nodded, curt, and silence descended on the room once more as he waited expectantly for you to get back to work.  You looked back at the page.

14mL of water (18.01g/mol) reacts with 3g of calcium, creating…

Damn it all, your eyes were already watering again.  

When Fugo heard you were having trouble preparing for your university entrance exams and offered to help, you were elated.  He was a prodigy, someone able to easily understand and master the material you struggled with so much, and he seemed like a good tutor…even if he did get violent with Narancia once or twice.  

At first, everything seemed reasonable enough.  He developed a strictly regimented schedule of what you needed to know when, and that turned into regulating your sleep schedule and mealtimes to maximize how much information you retained, and that turned into…needless to say, your life became studying.  You ended up just staying at Fugo’s home to keep up with it all and ‘minimize distractions’.  It was getting to the point where the only time you had alone was when you were either asleep or in the bathroom.

Not that it wasn’t worth it!  You said you’d give anything to get accepted into your dream school, and with his help you were pretty confident about your chances.  It’s just that Fugo was…

Intense.  Aggressive.  Violent, at times.

Scary.

He hadn’t hit you—you never would have tolerated something like that—but Fugo wasn’t exactly a patient teacher.  His memory was perfect, and he only allowed a mistake to happen once.  You were too intelligent to get things wrong the same way twice, he said.

It didn’t matter that you tended to freeze when stressed.  This was just another flaw to be overcome if you had any intention of excelling, and you could do it with enough practice and enough pressure.  It didn’t matter that it seemed impossible, he believed you could do it.  You could do it, and therefore you had to.

If he pushed you enough, you would break through.  You found yourself believing it, too, throwing yourself into your studies to please him just as much as you were doing it to pass the exam.  You lowered your free hand, firmly situating it between the knives once more, and got to work.  Fugo made a pleased hum as the scratching of your pen began once more.

“That’s very good.  Keep moving, that’s all that’s important.  You won’t solve the problem by freezing.”  He flipped another page.

One of the numbers in this problem was superfluous.  Was it one of the masses?  The molarity of the product?  Maybe…you looked at the possible answers and back at your math.  How did you get this wrong last time?  

“If you get them all correct, I think you’re due for a reward.  We can go out somewhere for lunch, we haven’t done that in a while.  After that we could see a movie, I’m fine with pushing your anatomy review—“ loud, erratic knocking reverberated through the house, cutting Fugo’s musing short.  He looked at his watch with a frown.

“I hope that’s not a mission.  What bad timing…stay here, I’ll see who it is.”  He got to his feet, pausing by your table instead of moving directly to the door.  You held your breath as he checked your work; not just because you were nervous, but because he rarely got this close and you could feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek.  Glancing at his face to gauge a reaction was tempting, but he was already turning away, walking out the door and down the hall in quiet but quick strides.

“Remember to show more of your work.  I want to see every step of your logic,” he called over his shoulder, and then disappeared from view.

He seemed pleased.  That must have meant you were correct, or on your way there.  You smiled to yourself and began working again, but paused as you finally gave proper thought to something that had been bothering you for a while now.

“What am I doing?”  It was ridiculous how quickly you’d lost control of your life.  Why was Fugo the one deciding when you were ready for a break, or whether you were doing well enough, or when it was time to go to bed?  Why was Fugo the one deciding how far to push you and what you could handle?

Why was Fugo the one who decided when and how often you left his house?

The knocking—that evidence of another person, an intrusion into a world that only held you and him for weeks—was enough to embolden you.  It was time to set some things straight, reign him in, remind Fugo that he was your tutor and not your owner.  You got out of your chair, kicking yourself for wincing at the light scraping noise (why did it feel like you were doing something wrong?) and heading down the hall, wandering the turns and staircases that would take you to the front door, where Fugo had headed.

It was silent, here, silent enough that your footsteps sounded deafening even though you were doing your best to walk quietly.  Your tutor had made several additions to the walls to accommodate your stay; you passed printouts of your schedule, reference sheets for various formulas and several charts of the human body so you could review as you walked from room to room.  Even the quietness of the house was for your benefit.  Fugo really had made you his one and only priority.

That was the problem, you realized as you approached the sound of a quiet but heated argument, he was too invested in this.  You rounded the corner, finally entering the front hall.  Fugo’s back was to you, and he had the door open wide enough to talk to but not enough for you to see who was on the other side.

“…from her in weeks.  Even Buccellati’s getting worried, I can tell.  What are you doing?”  The visitor’s voice was shrill, boyish.  Familiar.  Narancia?

“Just because you never took your education seriously,” you could hear Fugo replying through gritted teeth, even from here, “doesn’t mean she has the same abysmal standards.  This is an important time for her.  Nothing can interrupt it.”

He had been keeping people away?  It made sense, in a twisted kind of way, but the idea still made your stomach turn.  You thought they just knew you’d been busy…

“At least let me see her, damn it!  This is creepy.”  You looked at Fugo’s hand, still on the door, and noticed with vague dread that he was clenching it hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

“Absolutely not.  It’s clearly better to keep you away if you’re just going to be disruptive—“

Narancia must have rushed him, because you watched Fugo suddenly stumble back, flinging his arms forward to contain the other boy.

“Fuck you!  Hey!  Hey!  Are you in there?  Can you hear me?” Narancia yelled, forcing his head past Fugo’s arm.  They struggled for a few seconds, and then he finally caught sight of you, still frozen in the hallway.

“What’s going on?!  Hey, tell me!”

They’re fighting, they’re fighting.  You had to stop them.  Why couldn’t you move?  You couldn’t even open your mouth for words to come out.

“Enough!”

Fugo moved again, leveraging his weight behind his arm and forcing Narancia back a step.  He pulled back and struck a punishing blow, landing a direct hit on the other boy’s head with an almost unnatural force.  You watched his head snap backwards before the rest of him followed, tumbling end over end down the stairs.

Narancia was only still for a moment.  You were still running forward, on the verge of shouting his name, as he began to stand up, frantic concern replaced by a look of absolute murder.  He took a step forward…and stopped.  You collided with Fugo’s arm, thrown forward to prevent you from getting too close to the door, but Narancia didn’t come any closer, just pointed at Fugo accusingly.

“This isn’t over.”

“Yes, it is!” Fugo shouted, and you were finally able to see the fury that distorted his handsome features.  “I don’t care if you’re on my team, Narancia, you try that again and I’ll kill you.  That’s the only warning you’ll get!”  It must have been unusually hot outside, because heat rose from the pavement in waves, warping your view of Narancia’s face.  Blood was streaming down his chin—no doubt his nose was broken—and while his eyes were watering, you didn’t think it was from the pain.

He didn’t say anything more, though, just turned on his heel and stalked off.  Fugo pulled you further away from the door, rougher than he’d ever been before, and slammed the door shut.  He was holding your arm tightly enough that you were starting to lose sensation in your fingers, but loosened his grasp immediately when you tugged away from him and stepped away.  He took several deep breaths, visibly shaking, but you didn’t dare try to touch him.

“…go back upstairs.”  He said in a low growl, after the longest pause.  It wasn’t a request, but you were too frightened to comply.

“I can’t.”

In the past, the glare he gave you would have scared you into immediate compliance.  Now, however, things had changed.  The naked reality of your situation prevented you from playing along any further.

“I wasn’t asking.”  Something—and you say that because it certainly wasn’t Fugo—grabbed you by the shoulder and pushed, sending you staggering back several paces.  What the hell was going on?  

You could hear your heart pounding in your ears now, and the stress made your breath come in quick and sharp gasps.  Fear worked its fingers into your limbs threatening to paralyze you, but you forced yourself to move your legs, to stand taller and meet his gaze even if you knew he was stronger than you.  

Keep moving, that’s all that’s important.  You won’t solve the problem by freezing.

That thought occurred to you first, his words echoing in your head as Fugo took another step forward and grabbed you by the arm once more, pulling you along.  The next thought that occurred to you was the fact that you were still holding your pen.

It was a beautiful thing, an expensive thing, given to you when you first started studying here.  A fountain pen, with an elegant wood case and a razor-sharp nib that fit easily into your hand.

It sank just as easily, you found out now, into Fugo’s arm, the one that was holding you.  He shouted, more from surprise than pain, and reflexively let go, allowing you to pull away from him and run.  You bolted for the front door, wrenching it open, but stopped before you ran through.

The world had changed for you, in a way you hadn’t realized until now.  The distortion you noticed earlier wasn’t because of the heat at all—it was actually quite cool today—but a strange, whitish-purple haze that shrouded the door and front steps.  Your instincts screamed at you to halt, to get away from it, as the withered grass and melted corpse of an unlucky sparrow registered.  You took a step back, but then remembered who was behind you and turned around.  And froze.

“Oh my god, what is that?” you whispered.

It was tall, tall enough that you had to look up at it even from here.  It moved in time with Fugo’s advance, strangely splotched skin fading in and out of view.  It growled, a low ragged noise you were only registering now, even though something told you it had always been there and you just hadn’t noticed it before.

Fugo paused.  Blood had already soaked that part of his jacket, and you watched droplets hit the linoleum as he pulled your pen out, holding it like some would a knife.  He looked you up and down, considering your words.

“You can see it?  Interesting.  I knew you had promise, but I had no idea it would go this far…now I really have to make sure you reach your full potential.”  He stalked forward.

You had nowhere to go.  You didn’t understand what was happening, but the haze was still there, and something told you beyond a shadow of a doubt that going through it would kill you, as easily as it did that bird.

Given the look on his face, though, it looked like Fugo might kill you anyway.

“Since you can see my Stand, it should be easier to explain this to you.” Fugo took a deep breath.  Even now, he was making an effort to speak to you calmly, but you still shrank back as he advanced.

“You have nowhere to go.  If you keep trying to run from me, I can’t promise you’ll be able to attend school in the condition I’ll leave you in.  I don’t care what kind of new ability you have, there’s no way you’ll win against me.”

He wouldn’t hesitate.  You saw it in his eyes, in the advance of the monster next to him, relentless and unforgiving.  Fugo was Death, and who could fight Death?

Panic screamed in the back of your head, but you weren’t frozen anymore.  You stepped towards him, not in defiance but in compliance.  

Submission.

“Okay.”  your voice was a whisper.  As if a switch had been flipped, Fugo’s face brightened, an expression that once made your pulse quicken.  You flinched as he brought his arm close to you, but the monster didn’t move with him, just watched silently as he draped his arm around your shoulders and began leading you up the stairs.

[lachalaine]

HOW I RUN MY BLOG

SPEED: my god i am slow. i am the slowest of the slow - the slowest slow to ever BE slow. i have threads in here from two months ago and asks from three months ago and it’s not that i don’t have the will nor the muse to answer any of it tbh. it’s more so that i just don’t have time. between juggling work, friends, family and the additional need of trying to make up my overtime hours for the dates i’ll be overseas in august and october, it’s been more than a little difficult to try to keep everything afloat. that’s one of my issues. 

my second issue is that i... tend to try to write in depth threads and responses, as much as possible; and i’m a perfectionist of my work to the worst degree. to the point that if i don’t have the right idea or the right flow of words at the time - my work is not getting posted. at all. in fact, i’d likely rather delete something i spent two hours working on rather than take the risk of posting it only to hate it for the rest of my life. it feels like shame for some reason i don’t ??? get it ???

like i want to try to create variety, but also i want to try to build an actual story. something that will be fun for both me and my partner, that will be a thread that will have some possible semblance of weight to future interactions. and sometimes the ideas don’t come as quickly as i would like. or they do, and then my brain runs out of vocabulary. and throttles a pillow i hate it, i hate that my standards for myself are like this, but my god - it’s the only way i can be confident about my work and know that i’m not wasting mine or anyone else’s time and it just has to be my own standard of perfect or i run myself into the ground with my anxiety and have a minor breakdown and that’s the worst thing i can do to myself, honestly asdbhsabdha !!!

REPLIES: i write long replies, unfortunately. though i never expect people to match ( and honestly it fluctuates; sometimes it’ll be long, sometimes short, so there’s no pressure or requirement at all really ) , and all i care about at this point is i’m given something to work with and it’s not the kind of thing where it’s a reply for the sake of a reply. i also would prefer to have threads where people add stuff to the threads, and like... i don’t really have to run the show by myself to keep things interesting? that would be nice tbh. in terms of length however, i will likely do at least two or three paragraphs, because one paragraph threads don’t quite encompass everything my muse tends to feel, and sometimes it can get longer - meaning like... two word document pages long. though that type of novella is usually reserved for people i know can match it, otherwise, i try my best to keep it as succinct as possible. 

my brain sorta has this.... organization thing going tbh? where its like i can only do ask replies today, or i can only do threads today, or i can only do headcannon or ooc stuff today. sometimes it even goes by verse, where it decides if it can manage pokemon threads, or main threads, or fate threads, etc. which i understand isn’t quite the... best way to go about things, and it’s weird. very, very weird. but that’s also really the only way i’m able to sort of figure out where to put my attention nowadays. so everything gets replied to in truth, it just. it takes a while. :c :c :c please be patient with me, i’m trying my best!! 

STARTERS: i hold starter calls a lot. sometimes it can be every two months or it can be ( most likely ) when i get a new influx of followers and i want to interact with them. though it can tend to take a while for me to get them out, even if i have them on a list. usually its because i want to try to create starters that will be interesting enough to keep going ( which is sorta my overall theme with everything on here, if you’ll notice ) and sometimes the ideas don’t quite click. or, like with the organization thing, my brain needs to be able to conjure up starters in particular for anything to work. 

more often, i will do inbox calls instead, and those i do personalize according to the muse i’m sending it to. that way if the other mun replies with a response i like, i can continue it into a thread, so that’s sorta like a reverse starter call in that way, i guess. i always clear out my starters owed though, i promise. it just takes me a good while. 

INBOX: sucks in sharp breath 

i’m gonna be way honest here - once upon a time, i didn’t get that many asks at all, so i thought like, if i got like 20 of them, that already was a heck ton and i had to get the number lower. and then somehow i got an influx in asks a few weeks ago and that number jumped to thirty. and then it kept going until forty. and then i thought ‘okay you know what, so long as its not 50, you can still get it down, you’re good!!’  

let me tell you - i am at 76 right now and i am confused as all fuck as to how it got to this point. BUT I HONESTLY DON’T MIND. i love getting asks !! even if i take a while to answer them, because like the starters, i try to give it an actual moment and not a quick snip of an interaction that doesn’t matter in the long run. so asks? same length - two or three paragraphs and more, nothing less. and i tend to do anons first because i know whoever sent it might check back and i don’t want them scrolling through the whole blog thinking they missed it, but tbh, i try to do my older asks first overall. and sometimes there are some asks that require a lot of emotion on jackie’s part, so those get long and take a wee bit longer than most, but i always try to make the wait worth it. luckily, things appear to be going kinda well on that end tbh. i have a good pace set up so i don’t feel like i’m drowning in stuff, and if i could just have ONE DAY WHERE I CAN WORK, I CAN CUT BACK THAT NUMBER EASY, I SWEAR TO GOD. 

i just. i need that day dashdhabdha

but on that note, please. feel free to send me anything you like at any time, i’ll get to it asap, even if i have six asks for you in my inbox still from past memes. and tbh, i’d rather i always have the option available to answer that particular interaction rather than leave it so it never happens no matter what. so always remember, as always - 

FEEL FREE. 

SELECTIVITY: severely selective. to the nth degree. i follow about less than 180 rp blogs because the rest are aesthetics at the moment, though i’m always looking for more. i try to find blogs with muns that i feel really care about their muse as a whole, and blogs that have a pretty good grasp on writing. i decide whether or not i can make jackie work with them somehow, and then i sorta check the writing itself to make sure i can jive with it, and then that’s when i decide to follow. 

i have. a very particular standards with other blogs that need to be checked off tbh? because i want these interactions to actually matter. so besides the writing, honestly the thing that rings out the most for me would be their passion and their ideas. like, i want to make sure i can create something new with this mun so i just try to see if they will match what i give them with their own ideas, because coming up with a majority of the plots on my own is the most exhausting thing, and i can’t do that consistently. if i can get that sense from them that they’re willing to try to push their own ideas forth, that’s really what makes me follow them back asap !! on the other hand, i also check the mun - make sure they’re not the type i’ll likely have trouble with down the line. i check tags, i check ooc posts, i check everything. i am a self proclaimed blog stalker and tbh, its the only way i keep my dash in check. and so far its worked out very well so it’s all good on my end, even if that means less people to interact with.

quality over quantity, always. 

WISHLIST: FIGHT THREADS. POTENTIAL ROMANCE THREADS. FWB THREADS??? though i am selective on that one. SMUT THREADS FOR ROMANCE PEEPS. PLATONIC THREADS. ADVENTURE THREADS. HARD TO GET THREADS. CRIME THREADS. JACKIE FUCKING UP YOUR MUSES LIFE THREADS. ANGST. MURDER. HEARTBREAK. INJURY. ROAD TRIPS. NAPS. LATE NIGHTS IN THE CITY. JAIL. HAUNTED HOUSES. MUSIC FESTIVALS. MUSIC COLLABORATIONS. FATE VERSE THREADS. POKEMON THREADS. PERSONA THREADS. I DON’T CARE, I LOVE IT ALL, JUST GIVE IT TO ME, AND IF YOU HAVE A PARTICULAR THING YOU WANNA TRY, LEMME KNOW AND I’LL MAKE A VERSE FOR IT NO PROBLEM !!! 

but also i have a wishlist here :”> and i will love you if you boop me for it, thank you !!

HONEST NOTE: i love all my mutuals. i love all my non mutuals. i love people that like my posts. i love people that reblog my posts. i love when people feel comfortable enough to plot with me. when they’re comfortable enough to send me stuff randomly. when they’re patient with my sloth like tendencies and still they find the muse to respond to my threads even if a whole month has passed. i love people that are understanding and don’t mind the wait, because i do promise that i don’t delete anything. it’s there, and its waiting, and its only taking a while because i want to provide you with something good. something that will make you smile, and make you want to pursue the interactions with my muse. i want all this to mean something, and its never because i’m bored of you or your muse or our thread.

my brain just has a filing cabinet i never asked for. 

but honestly, come plot with me, just boop me randomly, send me all the things no matter what it is. i promise you i will LOVE IT and in truth, NOTHING at all makes me HAPPIER than that. and though fair warning i am exhausted a lot which impacts my response speed ooc - it’s honestly never because i don’t want to reply. my timezone as a whole is shitty and my energy levels doubly so, and i want to be sure that once we start talking or plotting, i can give you as much energy as i can spare, as much energy as you deserve. not five minutes of conversation and then i pass out. so if that means taking some time to respond, please understand that i’m trying my best. 

please be patient with me, that’s all i ask. and i promise you, i will make it up to you. as best as i can. as fast as i can. no matter what. 

thank you, i love you, have a amazing day xx 

TAGGED BY: S T O L E N

TAGGING: anyone who actually went through and read this as a whole heckie !! I JUST NEEDED TO GET THIS OUT IN CASE ANYONE WAS CONCERNED BECAUSE I SLOW, PLEASE UNDERSTAND. I’M TRYING MY BEST I LOVE EVERYONE WITH ALL MY HEART AND SOUL AND ENERGY I PROMISE T.T

[otakween]

I'm Standing on a Million Lives - Volume 2

I feel like vol. 1 was clunky as hell and full of cliches. This volume wasn't much better, but there was at least an attempt to take the story in a direction that felt unique. Sometimes I wish they just made this a JRPG instead though. (Wait, are there any isekai JRPGs?)

Ch. 5

-In this chapter we get some Hakozaki perspective and she muses about how she hates men and wants to be stronger. I am glad we're getting more character development, but I was rolling my eyes when she was like "it's not fair, Yotsuya's such a perfect specimen and I'm so frail." So sick of being told how amazing these bland, incel MCs are -sigh-

-Plot point 2 is that the gang saves a group of travelers being attacked by monsters and then realized they saved a bunch of criminals on their way to execution. We get some fantasy religious persecution thrown in for some spicy world building. It seems like there's a big focus on ethical quandaries in this series.

-We learn that Yotsuya's "cellular metabolism" magic allows him to heal minor wounds. Neat little mix of science and magic there.

Ch. 6

-More world building and some strategizing. I honestly rather the characters talk about figuring out the "game" rather than talking about their dumb backstories or having harem shenanigans, so this was refreshing.

-I guess we just don't know at this point, but I'm kind of confused about how real the current reality they're in right now is. Is it a simulation? Parallel universe? The future? The answer will really impact how douchey I find MC who keeps not caring about the NPCs safety.

-It was interesting to hear both sides of the persecuted and persecutor's views on deities vs. royalty. Also appreciated the real world parallels the characters made which helped me understand the situation. Some of this seems decently well thought out.

-The dungeon they get trapped in at the end of the chapter gave me Legend of Zelda dungeon vibes.

Ch. 7

-More world building (the chapter is interrupted halfway by what looks like 2 pages out of a DnD manual) and strategizing. This chapter was pretty decent.

-The idea that the characters stats transfer to the real world feels really arbitrary to me. Like, why would just the stats transfer if not other things? (Items, costumes, etc.) Seems like they just put that in there for some extra, contrived conflict

-The constantly changing POVs felt normal when it was just character-to-character, but in this chapter they abruptly threw in a 3rd person narrator and that just felt sooo clumsy. That's gotta break some law of writing.

-Rolled my eyes at all the "look at how strong/badass Yotsuya is" bits. Especially the author's constant need to be like "the girls need a MAN, because they can't measure up to his MANLY strength."

-They finally explained the costuming thing! Again, I would have liked that explanation sooner. This author really doesn't know how to naturally include exposition.

-Shindo making a sexy face and saying "Yotsuya-kun <3" felt really out of place at the end there...really not sure where that came from

Ch. 8

-Okay, I feel like the author has really hit their stride with the strategizing and world building. This feels pretty different from vol. 1 now which was more action and character heavy. One thing that troubles me is that the pacing is pretty slow, which makes me wonder where all this will be going in the next 8+ volumes. (Well technically it's not done publishing so maybe it'll just be hella long lol)

-Other than Yuka, it feels kind of inconsistent whether or not the girls are in love with Yotsuya. I feel like it's implied by default because "anime," but it would be way more interesting if everything was kept platonic :/

[firethatgrewsolow]

Tiny Dancer - Part Two

**Hey guys, here’s part two of three (or maybe more, who knows lol) - hope you like it!  Thanks for following along.**

As the night wore on, the girls came and went, but Robert couldn’t keep his eyes from drifting over the small privacy wall to the niche next door.  Dani was swaying to the rhythm of the music, the guitarist draped across the sofa in front of her.  He lit a cigarette, declining the offer of another private dance as he studied the lines of her back. She wasn’t like the others, and he’d seen plenty over the course of the past year.  Such a sweet, innocent face.  She seemed out of place, but her moves belied any lack of experience.  Fucking Pagey.  The singer knew better than to make a fuss, though.  He tried to shake it off as she spun around, their gazes colliding.  The faint smile she gave him made his heart skip a beat, and he looked away, fumbling with his glass.

It was getting late, and her Mr. Page had yet to make a move, seemingly content with sharing drinks and light conversation.  Dani turned, thrusting her head back to allow her hair to tickle the top her backside as it grazed his lap.  Her rhythm hitched as hands enveloped her hips, tugging her down.  Ahh, here we go.

“Darling, I think I’ve got a much better locale for this.  My hotel suite, perhaps?” Jimmy purred, his lips curling up.  

Danielle stilled, at a loss for words.  She’d gotten requests for this type of thing before but never from people like this.  It was one thing to fool around in the confines of a VIP room but quite another to … take it somewhere else.  Besides, it wasn’t the guitarist’s suite she wanted to be in.

Robert observed them through the corner of his eye.  She was on Jimmy’s lap, his hand around her hip.  Whispering something in her ear, he trailed it along her side and around her breast, which was nothing short of perfection.  Jesus Christ, her nipples were so fucking hard.  Bloody hell, so am I.  He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Fully aware of his band mate’s inspection, Jimmy drew Dani closer.  “Maybe you should dance for Robert, love.  Just once.  He appears to feel a little, um, left out.”  The guitarist leaned up, calling out to his friend, “Don’t look so forlorn, Percy, come join us … she’s has a delightful talent.”

Robert’s gaze snapped to the band leader, and he slowly stood and ambled over, hoping against hope that his bloody erection would go unnoticed.  He reclined on the sofa opposite them, laying his jacket over his lap as the slinky opening of Back Door Man sounded through the club.  

Oh, The Doors, how quaint.  But good for our intents and purposes, I suppose.  Jimmy gave Dani a gentle nudge, swatting her backside.  “Well, go on … dance for him, Danielle.”  

Dani took a step toward the singer, sensing a thread of tension between the men.  

“Isn’t she magnificent, Percy?” Jimmy drawled, amused by his friend’s obvious arousal … and complete discomfort by the state.

Keeping his coat firmly intact, Robert swallowed as she moved between his legs.  She’d taken off everything except her heels, rocking her body to the sultry beat of the song.  She was magnificent.

“Do that thing I like, love. You know, where you … yes, that’s it.” Jimmy smiled, admiring the vignette.

Twisting around, Dani arched her back, gradually bending over, her hands encasing her ankles.  She spotted the guitarist in her peripheral vision, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.  He’s enjoying this … he’s enjoying toying with us.

“Splendid, yes, Robert?  Quite the vantage.”  

With a heavy sigh, the singer pursed his lips, letting his eyes roam where they wanted.  Goddamn.  He wasn’t sure what kind of game Pagey was playing, but at that point, it didn’t matter.  Christ, he was hard as a rock, and she looked so soft … so bloody sweet.  He gritted his teeth, forcing his eyes away.

Relishing the frustration etched on Robert’s face, Jimmy stood, his fingers winding around Dani’s silk wrap.  “Now, turn back around, love, and say goodnight.  It’s time to go.”  

Time to go?  Danielle’s heart began to pound.  With him?  Things were moving fast, too fast.  And with the wrong person entirely.

“What the fuck, mate!”  

Bonzo’s voice rang out, along with a shrill scream.  As another cry pierced the air, Dani craned her neck to survey the scene.  Bedlam.  Several members of the crew had taken some girls on their shoulders, clearly roaring drunk.  It was a mass of naked limbs and stumbling men, bumping into furniture and each other.  Two of the bouncers flew into the room trying to untangle the mess, only to be pushed around by a couple of the entourage.  Oh, no … there’s Mick.  A huge man she didn’t recognize came racing up to Jimmy with a pace that she never would have imagined possible.

“Get out of here, Jim!  You too, Percy.  Get to the cars.  I’ll see to Bonzo.”

“It appears the time is now.”  Jimmy took her arm, following Peter down the steps of the VIP section.

Passing the entry to the dressing area, Dani hesitated, pulling her wrap from his hand.  “Wait, no … I can’t just leave!”

Jimmy expelled an exasperated breath.  “Whyever not?”  At her silence, he cocked his head impatiently.  “My dear, you have approximately five seconds.  Because I am leaving, and as much as I’d love for you to join me, I’m not waiting.”

Donning her cover, Dani took in the madness on the floor.  Serge had rushed in, his head wildly swinging back and forth as he roved over the carnage.  His eyes found hers, and he lurched forward, saying something she couldn’t make out, spittle flying from his lips.  In an instant, Mick appeared, wrapping his arm across the man’s shoulders.  As he wrangled him away, the guard turned in her direction, mouthing one word.  “Go.”

She stole another peek at Robert.  You’re probably out of a job, anyway.  “My things … I’ve got to get my stuff.”

“We’ll be in the car.  Richard will fetch you.  Let’s go, Percy.”

Falling in step behind Jimmy as Danielle pushed through the felt covered doors, Robert found himself lagging, finally stopping altogether.  He watched his friend disappear and whirled around.  This was his chance, and he was taking it.  With a quick look behind him, he slipped through the same doors the dancer had taken.  The stark lighting was startling, and he stilled, letting his vision adjust.  Hearing the clang of a locker, he crept slowly toward it.

Dani caught the figure of a man as she tightened the belt of her coat.  “Robert!  What are you doing back here?”

“I wanted to, ah … make sure you’re okay.”  The singer tentatively padded closer.  “Maybe see if you needed … any help.”  There would be hell to pay, but it didn’t matter.  He took another step.  “Do you?  Need any help, that is?”  He began to smile, and she did, too, their real communication unspoken.

Danielle peered into his eyes, so kind and hopeful … and maybe a little randy, she thought with a tiny shiver.  Grabbing her bag, she threw it over her shoulder.  “Let’s go out the back way.”

Robert beamed as she reached for his hand.  Jimmy may have wanted her, but she wanted him.  

Stalking through the club for the third time, Richard lit a cigarette.  Pagey wasn’t going to be happy.  Why can’t he just find another fucking bird.  But he knew … it was Jimmy’s show, and it was his job to make sure the band leader was kept satisfied.  Which Jim won’t be tonight.  He prepared himself for slaughter as he trudged back to the car.

“Well?” the guitarist snapped as Cole dropped into the seat next to him.

“I can’t find her.  She’s just not in there, mate.”

Jimmy drummed his fingers against the leather, weighing the options.  The idea that she wouldn’t want to come back with him was simply preposterous.  Wait a minute … where’s Robert?  “Is Percy in one of the other cars?”

Fuckin’ hell.  Richard blew out a long stream of smoke.  “Nope.”

Seething inside, the guitarist slowly nodded.  “I see.”  Let them find their own way back.  He tapped the driver, signaling him to leave.

A lamp was on when they entered the suite, lighting it up enough for Dani to look around.  It was small, a junior suite, really, but very nice, certainly nicer than any she’d ever stayed in.  Robert poured them some wine, and she headed to the bathroom to pull herself together.  She could hear the radio turn on as she touched up her makeup, running her fingers through her hair.  This will have to do.  She turned to the door, doing her best to quell her nerves as she sorted out the events of the evening.  My God, what a night.  And the real one was just beginning.  The shiver came back with a vengeance.

Robert stood up as she stepped out of the bath.  She was in the pretty chiffon he remembered from the hall and tall, fitted suede boots that came slightly over the knee.  So lovely.  She draped her coat and bag across a chair as he handed her the wine, leading her to the sofa.  “You are … just a picture.”

“Thank you.”  Danielle fidgeted at the singer’s scrutiny, trying her best to conjure conversation.  What’s wrong with you, girl?  You’re where you want to be.

She’s nervous, Robert mused as he drained his glass.  She wasn’t nervous thirty minutes ago. “Are you going to be in trouble?”    

“Probably,” Dani conceded, fiddling with her goblet.  “If I even still have a job.  Are you?”

Robert snickered, reaching for the bottle.  “Yeah, most likely.  But it’s worth it.”  His smile waned as he traced her features.  It was like two different people.  Ballet or burlesque?  Which one is she really?  Maybe a little of both.   “Why do you do it?  Why do you dance there?”

With a snort, Danielle shook her head.  “The money, of course.”

“Well, yeah, but … what I mean to say is why aren’t you with a … what do you call it?  A troupe?”

“It’s not that easy.  I’ve been trying, you know.”

Robert nodded silently.  He knew a little about being a struggling artist but not much, as the success of Zeppelin and been almost immediate.  “I’m sorry, it’s not that I think it’s bad that you work there … it’s just, you really do dance beautifully.”  

“That’s very sweet.  Sometimes I think with my shape, I’m better off at the club.  They don’t really like ballerinas with, um, particular assets,” she said with a smirk.

“I happen to very much like your … assets.”

They shared a quiet laugh, and she sipped her wine.  “I do have an audition coming up … in a couple of days, actually, and with a pretty big company.  I figure if I’m that good, I’ll stand out.  Kind of like you guys did at the festival in July.  I saw you at the Fillmore, too … twice,” she added as his face filled with pride.  “And now you’re going to play at the Boston Garden.  It’s incredible.”

“You’ve been to that many shows?  Really?”

Dani was taken aback by the uncertainty in his voice.  “Do you … do you know how good you are?  Don’t you realize it?”

Robert shrugged sheepishly.  “Yeah, we know it’s pretty good … but sometimes the critics … they’re tough on us.  You know what it’s like on stage, right?  You know how you give it everything you’ve got and … well, in any case, good luck with the audition.”  He held up his glass for a toast.  “Break a leg, right?”

Dani was surprised by his candor.  And insecurity.  It seemed mind boggling to her.  In just over a year they’d gone from nothing to what was obviously going to be the next big thing.  She tipped her goblet against his and downed her wine.  “Let’s hope I don’t actually break a leg,” she teased, savoring the pleasant buzz in her tummy.  “So, what do you want to do?”

He set down his glass, taking the empty one from her hand.  “What do you want to do?”

Butterflies exploded as their eyes met.  “I don’t know.”  Yes, you damn sure do.  

“I have an idea,” Robert whispered, gliding his thumb under her chin.  He leaned in, suddenly flinching at the pounding on the door.  Goddamnit, Bonzo!

“Open up, Planty!  We know you’re in there!  And with that bird, too.  Jimmy’s bloody pissed off!  I think he’s gonna put a spell on ya!  You’re fucked, mate!”

He and Dani exchanged looks, both trying to stifle their giggle.  Placing a finger against his lips, he slunk toward the door, wincing as the drummer kicked it.  He knew full well that if he didn’t respond, his friend would just tear it down.  Hell, he might do it anyway as he’d certainly done it before.  Robert mustered his best sleepy voice.  “Go away … I was in bed.”

The drummer barked a thunderous laugh.  “I bet you were … and with that little girl, yeah?  Pagey told me I could break down the door if I wanted.  And maybe I do!”

He kicked it again, and Robert jumped back.  Christ.  “Fuck off, Bonzo!  I’m sleeping … gotta save my voice.”  Hearing some mumbling, he placed his ear on the panel.  It was Jimmy.  Shit.

“Do give my regards to Danielle, Robert.  We’ll talk in the morning.”

Talk in the morning.  The singer clenched his jaw, sucking in a breath.  That doesn’t sound great.  As he listened to them make their way down the hall, he grinned, turning to Dani.  “I guess we are in trouble.”

“Better make the most of it,” she shot back coyly.  “You were telling me you had an idea?”

“Yeah, I do.”  Robert settled next to her, nibbling his lip as he eyed the lines of her dress.  “But first … will you, ah … will you dance for me again?”

The words were quiet, almost bashful, the antithesis of the lion-like man that prowled the stage.  Dani could barely wrap her head around it.  One thing was the same, though, the charisma, the magnetism.  She wanted him badly, more than anyone ever in her life.  As the sexy riff of Honky Tonk Women filled the room, she brought her hands to the sides of his face.  “Shall I keep my boots on?”  

“How’d you guess?”

“Just a hunch,” she replied with a soft smile.  “I know a little about what boys like.”

She stood, Robert’s gaze moving lazily over her frame.  That, you most certainly do.

[drink-n-watch]

I figured an actual classic horror monster would be a great pick this week!

How have I avoided Black Butler in this series so far? I am the derp. Clearly, it’s the perfect series to find fun ill fated characters with interesting quirks. As much as I would love to subject you all to a detailed and loving tribute of my beloved Alois Trancy, I just can’t handle the inevitable backlash in my comments. Not even for me, I don’t mind if you guys criticize me. But my poor little blonde boy has already gone through enough without your unjustified animosity (stop that, I can hear you groaning through space-time) So instead, I will keep my thoughts on best boy in my heart where they belong… That’s not where thoughts belong you say? This may explain some things…

3 guesses on who I chose

It’s completely accidental that I seem to be slowly turning this series into some sort of half throughout feminist musings. I just happen to appreciate well rounded and unusual female characters. (Or maybe they meet tragic fates more often…nah…) In any case, one again I bring you a great… powerful… interesting female character that was way ahead of her time. Baroness Angelina Dalles-Burnett.

I know a lot of the core audience of Black Butler probably didn’t pay that much attention to Angeline in the first season. This is one of those shows with a cast full of Big Personalities and it’s tough for anyone not in the main cast to stand out in any way. Even the fantastic Phantomhive servants usually get overlooked. And how is anyone suppose to get noticed when standing next to Grell. Sutcliff is a diva who sucks all the attention out of a room. Poor little Angelina never stood a chance.

And yet, this lady is an icon in her own right. First, she’s an epic cosplay:

‘Cmon! I wanna wear this to work!

Second, she’s Ciel’s only living (well…you know) relative and despite her occasionally aloof personality she cares for him deeply. In fact, we come to learn that Angelina is surprisingly selfless and devoted to her family and loved ones. She was able to put aside her own personal issues and share her sister’s happiness even as it caused her to give up her own. Regardless of jealousy, she remained loyal and loving towards those closest to her. 

In fact, she openly stated that if the two people she loved most are happy, then she would be happy as well. And although she harboured feelings for Vincent for a long time, she nevertheless greatly respected and loved her husband in his own way. She was always honest with him and they were genuinely happy together. How often do you see that in an unrequited love story?

She was also witness to the destruction of the Phantomhive manor. Until Ciel’s miraculous return, she truly believed that she had lost absolutely everyone she loved in the world, including her husband and unborn child. And despite that she soldiered on and kept up her duties, for some time at least. There’s no doubt this event took a toll on her, but it didn’t destroy her as it would have many others.

see that artist’s page here

And when Ciel did reappear, she welcomed him back with open arms. Unquestioningly. She never resented that he wouldn’t share the details of his disappearance with her or had any misgivings about his suspicious new butler. She simply did the best she could to take care of a wounded little boy, asking for nothing in return.

Possibly most impressive, this lady is a licensed doctor in the 1800. I don’t think we are told when exactly her license is issued but she would probably have been one of the first women to earn that distinction. And she did so against her own parent’s wishes, which was also incredibly difficult at the time.

Are you having trouble recognizing the lady I’m describing? I assure I’m not making any of this up. Angelina Dalles-Burnett is an admirable women and worthy role model. But maybe you’re more familiar with Madame Red. Angelina’s nickname in certain circles, due to her fashion choices.

There’s an rather well known feminist theory that women can’t ever truly be considered complete people in their own right, until we allow them to be flawed. Not cutely, innocently imperfect in ways that only make them more adorable. But bad. The idea is that women are people. And people are sometimes just awful. Horrible, despicable and unlikable in every way. I’m not saying this is the case here, but man, you got to admit, Madame Red is one fantastic antagonist.

who asks for bread with pasta?

SPOILERS FOR SEASON 1 OF BLACK BUTLER***YOU HAVEN’T SEEN SEASON 1 OF BLACK BUTLER AND YOU’RE READING THIS? I’M SUPER FLATTERED, THANK YOU!

I’m just gonna cut to the chase her. Angelina Dalles, also known as Madame Red, is Jack the Ripper. I’m pretty sure you knew that. If not – BAM – I just blew your mind, right? No you’re just super confused and thinking about dropping this post? Uhm wait….

OK, so if you don’t remember, after her husband’s death, and the fall of the Phantomhives, Angelina just numbly returns to work as she really has nothing else left. In part due to her circumstances, she finds herself regularly treating prostitutes who want abortions. Due to her recent repeated personal traumas, coupled with the fact that she lost her on child and husband (making it more or less impossible for her to try to have another child), Angelina soon develops a personal hatred towards her patients. She considers it an affront towards herself and possibly God, to throw away a life and happiness simply because it is inconvenient. It may not be clear in the series, but Madame Red starts her killing spree before meeting Grell. It is her own idea.

Just as historical female doctors are uncommon, so are historical female mass murders. Usually, ladies get to be black widows, poisoning husbands. To have one independently carrying out such violent crimes of her own volition is… I actually don’t know. I don’t want to write empowering. That’s not what I mean. There’s just something weirdly gratifying about having a lady who’s a real bad guy. Not pushed into it by a third party and yet not an incomprehensible monster either. Just a fractured, flawed person who went very very bad.

those colours are beautiful (original)

Her rational makes perfect sense in context. Her actions are her own. She never repents, asks for forgiveness or even gets any justice. Her eventual demise is caused by her unwillingness to do more harm at the hands of a supposed ally, rather than her getting the punishment she deserves. This tragic irony is one of the many examples of the pitch-black humor that makes Black Butler so deliciously and cruelly amusing.

And so today, we are here to remember a woman who was simultaneously a hero and villain all on her own. A character so fascinating that for a little while at least, she even managed to capture Grell’s attention. Someone you may have forgotten about, but you really shouldn’t have! And lest not forget, a truly fantastic cosplay.

Black Butlers and Red Madams (Countdown to Halloween) I figured an actual classic horror monster would be a great pick this week! How have I avoided Black Butler in this series so far?

[blainemoriarty]

Hi! I'd like to try rping with you but the rules/bio pages are incompatibke with either my phone or my my app. Would you be a dear and copy/paste them here so I can know if we are rp compatible please? Much appreciated! @cameron-allen

Of course!! Sorry about that–

** Also, if you have any other questions regarding either my rules or Blaine’s storyline, feel free to ask!

Rules

Just some basic stuff:

Blaine is gay. I will not ship him with women, or put him in any sexual/romantic situation with a woman (unless we discussed something otherwise). Don’t let that scare you off from plotting with me, though! I’m more than happy to roleplay with female muses, and even if they are in to him, that could make for an incredibly interesting plot. Blaine just won’t be attracted to them in return.

This is a semi-selective roleplay blog. I reserve the right to choose who I roleplay with and when I answer.

I’m open to roleplay with OCs or characters from different fandoms. This is a crossover account, after all, and Blaine is so out-of-character that he might as well be an OC himself.

I’m not very picky with who I ship Blaine with, when it comes to male characters. The relationships themselves can be as unhealthy and toxic as you please. Also, age-differences are irrelevant.

NSFW will be tagged. I’ll do my best to tag triggers, as well, but please let me know if I miss anything.

Blaine is a male prostitute. This should be a trigger warning in itself, I think.

Both the mun and muse are of legal age. I will roleplay with underage muns, but I would rather not roleplay smut with you if you are under eighteen. The reason for this should be clear enough.

I’m fine with doing threads in which our muses already know each other. I know how awkward it can be when you send an ask that’s replied to with “Who on earth are you?” That won’t happen here. Unless you wanted to.

The mun reserves her literacy for threads, for the most part. If we chat ooc (which would be awesome) be warned that I tend tO TALK TO U IN ALL CAPS LIKE THIS !!!

I tend to post a lot ooc, since this is my only platform to do so, and also may reblog stuff that isn’t particularly relevant to my muse. Please respect that. All of my ooc stuff will be tagged if it bothers you, and if I share anything that you find triggering or just don’t like, simply shoot me an ask and I’ll tag it for you so you can blacklist it. Easy-peasy.

I will automatically attempt to turn answered memes into threads, whether I’m the one who answered them or you are. Keep this in mind! If you don’t want something to be turned into a thread for whatever reason, don’t be afraid to let me know!

I don’t use small or formatted text in my replies, because that’s a lot of work (especially since I’m on mobile most of the time) and I think that the quality of the writing itself is much more important than how pretty it looks. So naturally, the same standards apply to my partners. Format your replies however you like, or don’t format them at all - I’m much more concerned about the content itself.

Icons are very rarely used on my part - mostly because I don’t have many and I’m on mobile most of the time. If you want to use icons, that’s fine - let me know when you send an ask. If you answer my ask using an icon, or tag me in a starter using an icon, then most of the time I will wait until I have access to a computer to reply. That means the time between my replies will be longer. Rarely, I might reply to an icon thread without an icon, in which case I will try to make up for it by writing oodles of text. This is either because I’ve been on mobile for a while and am anxious about making you wait, or have a lot of muse for that thread and want to reply already!

About

Name: Blaine Anderson

Age: 24

Place of Birth: Ohio, USA

Current Residence: London, U.K

Sexual Orientation: Gay

Occupation: Male prostitute

Family: Daniel Anderson (Father, deceased), Gabrielle Anderson (Mother, deceased), Cooper Anderson (brother, estranged)

And now…

   Daniel Anderson was the youngest of six children born into a wealthy Irish family, moved to the United States in his twenties to set up his own life and escape the suffocating atmosphere of his old household (while still making use of his share of his parent’s money, of course). He was a very devoted Catholic, and wrote mystery novels with his free time - they never did make it to publication. He came across as cold and unapproachable, caused both by his own, personal, emotional issues, and a deep, internalized idea of what a man should be that was far heavier than the weight of the Anderson family’s legacy. He married young, to the youngest daughter of another rich family, Amara Canton. They didn’t like each other at all, despite having a son together, and argued constantly until they finally divorced. Daniel met his second and last wife about a year later, and together they had another child.

  Gabrielle Mendoza was a third generation Filipino-Americam who had music running through her veins. She had the voice of an angel, and taught Blaine every instrument he knows how to play. She met Blaine’s father when she was twenty-seven and he was thirty-four; he’d recently divorced a woman whom he’d married solely for his family’s benefit and with whom he already had a five year old son, Cooper. Daniel fell in love with Gabrielle almost immediately. She was unconditionally kind and caring, even when Daniel seemed stiff and cold. She did what no other person had ever managed to do for him - she made him softer.

 They were married in little less than a year of meeting each other, and Blaine was born within another.

  Blaine was born on April 15th, 1992. His mother had always described him as ‘a tiny man with big dreams’ - tiny, meaning a five year old boy in a ridiculous bow-tie, dancing with his mom in the warm sitting room that served as their ballroom. Music was always something that he loved, and came as naturally to him as breathing. Of course, his father had certain opinions about his son’s passion, but Gabrielle would never let him rob Blaine of the one thing in the world that never failed to make him happy. (Besides, his father loved seeing him that way)

  Trouble came to Blaine in the form of his brother. Cooper didn’t like Blaine, and he despised Gabrielle. He even held a particular distaste toward their shared father, a remarkable amount of anger for a ten year old boy. The adults tried not to take it personally, and blamed it on grief - his mother had died, after all, not long after divorcing his father. It was understandable that he would be bitter over someone else’s happiness during such a dark part of his life. Blaine, however, couldn’t have understood that, and couldn’t help but think that he’d - at three years old - done something horribly wrong to ruin Cooper’s life.

 It wasn’t difficult to see why Blaine would believe such a thing. Cooper was mean - he was unjustly cruel and clever enough to disguise it. He bullied Blaine in secret for most of their young lives, knowing exactly how to manipulate his little brother into believing that it wasn’t really bullying, Cooper was just teaching him a lesson, Cooper was just making him a stronger person, Cooper was just punishing him for messing up that one dance move that he should’ve gotten right on the first try-

Blaine quickly began to hold resentment toward something that he’d once been passionate about. Nothing he did seemed to be right, or good enough, and the stressful need to be perfect trumped his enjoyment. Pleasure had turned into a source of distress - and it would stay that way for a long time.

 There was a short period of freedom when Cooper went off to college - if it could be called freedom. The derogatory thoughts about himself that had been drilled into him still haunted Blaine, but he could focus his perfectionism on other things, now. With Cooper out of the picture, at least, Blaine had some control over his own life.

  That all ended once Blaine turned fifteen and Cooper returned home. Blaine was at the peak of puberty and his body had a mind of it’s own. Cooper, being the kind of person that he was, took advantage of this. Blaine saw it as Cooper finally liking him - or, hopefully, loving him. For Blaine, the unhealthy charade between them was him finally being accepted and wanted by his big brother.

  For Cooper, it was the perfect way to hurt his little brother.

Their ‘relationship’ was a one-sided attraction laced with manipulation and abuse - both physical and emotional. Cooper hated Blaine; in his eyes, Blaine was symbolic of everything that had ever gone wrong in his life, and the perfect means-to-an-end of his lifelong, misguided quest for vengeance.

 Very simply, Cooper wanted to hurt Blaine. And that’s exactly what he did.

Blaine’s parents were both murdered a year after Blaine and Cooper’s relationship began. Cooper had left (he was always leaving for extended periods of time, during which Blaine’s mood usually took a turn for the worse. That was probably why) and the next time Blaine saw him, he was standing over their parents’ bodies. He didn’t know it was Cooper, of course. Not until much later on.

 After their deaths, Cooper left, and never contacted Blaine again.

 Blaine’s last year of high school was a blur. His family’s now-empty house was suffocating him. His country was suffocating him. He needed to get out, and college was his opportunity to do just that. Luckily, his stressful but successful high school career paid off, and he was accepted to a prestigious art school in London. He lasted there for less than two years before dropping out.

 Grief was a difficult thing to work with. Mixed with trauma of every shape and size, Blaine was barely able to function at all.

 How Moriarty became interested in him, Blaine would never figure out. At the time, he was just a whore. A resourceful whore, who knew how to get what he wanted, but anyone could

 Nonetheless, Blaine was contacted on his website (which he still refuses to discuss, because it contains some very old, very exposing photos of his barely nineteen-year old self) by the king of crime, looking for a whore.

 Foolishly, Blaine agreed to meet with him.

Surprisingly enough, Blaine wasn’t contacted just to be fucked - at least, not just by Moriarty. He proved himself to be a useful tool when it came to getting information out of people, without the mess that forcing it out of them would result in.

But why had he chosen Blaine? There were plenty of other sex workers throughout London, more talented and popular and charming than he was…

 Inevitably, Blaine stopped torturing himself over such things. Instead, he did something even worse to himself - he fell in love.

Jim Moriarty was, arguably, one of the most dangerous men in the world. Falling in love with him was probably the most idiotic thing Blaine had ever done. At the same time, what little seemingly-genuine affection that was given to him was also more than anything he’d ever experienced before. Perhaps it was all part of Moriarty’s ‘plan’, or maybe it was his own mistake (doubtfully), or maybe he the feelings he showed were genuine (even less likely), but whatever it was, it worked. Blaine was hooked.

Of course, that meant he was loyal to a fault. Especially since, alongside his romantic feelings, Blaine had quite a bit of fear. Once again, Moriarty was one of the most dangerous people in the world, and his violent outbursts made no exceptions for Blaine if he was irritated or not.

 Whatever there was between them, it was made very clear that Blaine was expendable.

 That was no surprise.

Aaaand also a crap ton of demon!Blaine stuff in case he interests you as well–

Incubi (Mun’s Interpretation):

Succubi and incubi are demons that feed off of orgasmic energy, created soley to please other demons, although it isn’t uncommon for them to feed off of humans as well. It’s rumored that the first succubae and incubi were fallen angels or nephilim, but only the more superstitious of the bunch (like Blaine) believe in this.

According to most sources, any succubus demon is also an incubus demon, and vice versa. Their title depends strictly on which gender they present as. An incubus demon would only “become” a succubus demon if they wanted to reproduce (which, thanks to handy demonologists like Sebastien Michaelis, I get to give you a ridiculously detailed step-by-step guide for.) In their succubus form, they would “collect” (ewugh) a human man’s sperm, and in their incubus form would “transfer” that sperm to a human female and impregnate her. Most sources agree with this, although a few mention that an incubus and succubus can also have a child together. Either way, the child produced is called a Cambion. There’s not much information on them, so let’s just say that they’re baby demons that later become either an inbcubus or succubus, determining their presenting gender once they’re of age and their “powers” appear.

Since incubi are also sometimes referred to as ‘fauns’, their demonic forms most likely have goat or deer aspects, such as horns or antlers, and equine legs. Rarely, they may also take the form of a ball of light (very similar to a will o’ the wisp). This only happens if an incubus desperately needs to burn off extra energy or needs to lure in new sources of it, and not all incubi know how to assume this form. Blaine doesn’t.

Sex demons feed off of the sexual energy of other people, but they don’t need to orgasm in order to feed. The process doesn’t harm other demons, but can harm humans, but this heavily depends on the demon that is feeding off of them. More powerful demons can feed off of humans in their dreams, but this is a rare talent.

An incubus’ body or form changes depending on how much energy they’ve consumed. As mentioned earlier, some can turn into a ball of light, but the body of every incubus and succubus has its temperature change. To put it simply, an excess of energy makes their body cold, while a lack of it makes their body warm, in order to be either alluring or repelling. If an incubus has too much or too little energy, their bodies can turn into dust, and they die. The obvious solution to a lack of energy is by feeding off of someone’s energy, but to cope with too much of it, most incubi will find another incubus or succubus to have sex with. Since they can’t produce energy on their own, feeding off of each others acquired energy evens everything out. This would suck if two of them wanted to be in a relationship, but their biological needs make monogamy nearly impossible, and none of them really have a desire for that kind of relationship. Often, outside of the harems kept by Hell’s royalty, incubi and succubae prefer polyamorous relationships instead.

Blaine:

Blaine presents primarily as an incubus, and rarely takes on his succubus form. He doesn’t really need or want to (he has no desire to reproduce, at all). He’s not the most powerful incubus, but he does have more status than some of the strongest, since he’s got two masters, one of which is the king of Hell (not necessarily Supernatural’s Crowley, but it can be) and another who is stronger than all of Hell’s heirarchy put together (my confusing au Jim Moriarty).

Blaine was born as a Cambion, the offspring of an unknown demon parent and his unknowing human mother, Gabrielle. He was raised as a boy because of mankind’s gender-binary thing (this is the case with a lot of Cambion children), and that stuck with him even after he discovered that he was a demon, when he turned eighteen and Moriarty sought after him. That was a long time ago, and he’s still very comfortable in his incubus form. In a way, he got lucky.

Despite his weakness as a demon, Blaine is still much stronger than any human, and smarter than most demons, which makes him an excellent spy. That’s the purpose he serves for Moriarty, who he considers his true master, and he’s unconditionally loyal. Blaine practically worships him, despite not being able to be intimate with him, since his power is so much that Blaine would turn into dust by even being too close to him during sex. As for Crowley, Blaine doesn’t mind him much, even if he feigns dislike towards him to please his true master; he’s not a terrible owner. A bit sadistic, unsurprisingly, but not terrible. (Or maybe Blaine is just very easily wooed)