KROM€RCRIME$.

     ❝ WHEN LIFE INSISTS THAT YOU AIN'T SHIT ? — ... YOU GOTTA BUST ITS FUCKIN' KNEECAPS .

  𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐄 CYBER MAFIA AU roleplay blog ✽ authored by 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀 .

18+ // NOVELLA RP // MULTIVERSE // MULTI-SHIP // OC FRIENDLY .

     PRIVATE ✽ SELECTIVE ✽ UNAFFILIATED .

⌗ ❛𝐊𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐒 ; a heartfelt dissertation on :

⸻ the reclamation of personal power ✽ what success really means in the face of oppression &. in the agony of lost love ✽ to raise a young man through the lens of worldly resentment ✽ sustained denial of the past failures of a foredoomed romance ✽ creating a found family from the ashes of society ✽ the true value of community when capitalism is collapsing beneath itself . ❛𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐒 : learning to shatter the burden of paternal trauma under pressure , or being doomed to repeat the cycle ✽ taking pride in sexuality and intimacy amidst times of censorship &. the rift between social classes ✽ deliberately rewriting faith in oneself after all else is irredeemably lost ✽ discovering newfound purpose in spite of meaninglessness &. removal of identity ✽ how invulnerability amidst trauma only creates a larger rift in one's own heart , especially after profound heartbreak .

✽ ⸻ ❛𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒 :

rules &. lore ✽ muses ✽ verses ✽ mobile navigation ✽ open starters ✽ prompts

     multimuse sideblog ( @surrealta ) ⸻ 21+ blog ( mutuals only )

✽ ⸻ ⌗ ❛𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 ;

@tvmarathcns ✽ @starfaite / @jockingaton ✽ @lord--of--screens / @thereelmike ✽ @holynightmayor ✽ @hxzelwallflower ✽ @ch1pj4ck ✽ @lcvetv / @mikezcne ✽ MORE TBA .

✽ ⸻ ⌗ ❛&. 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐌𝐀𝐙𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 ;

@thesickening ✽ @threecfhearts ✽ @tv-t1me ✽ @circusroyal ✽ @pchms ✽ @tccnstalgia ✽ @dealpartner ✽ @bdkrp / @bdkss ✽ @hypolinkblocked ✽ @malwaremun ✽ @jukudoku ✽ @timidblues ✽ @mixingmuses ✽ MORE TBA .

INBOX CALL. ⸻ Mutuals, like this post for me to throw one of my muses into your inbox. Multi-muse blogs, please reply to specify which muse I'll be interacting with.

By default: this will involve the main verse until I've finished developing other AUs.

Mutuals whom I haven't interacted with before are fully encouraged to like this post btw!!

✽ ⸻ @tv-t1me // ( Cont'd. )

Spamsonne would come to expect such an egregious response; after all, television never changes.

⸻But unlike Tenna, he isn't television.

&. if Spamsonne were the kind of man he used to be, then he'd surely resort to seeming BIGGER &. BETTER through simply winning by the use of his own volume⸻as well as a feckless slinging of profanities &. obscene insults across the board. Instead, he retrieves a stainless steel lighter from his suit's pocket.

Click.

A slow, leisurely motion precedes a fresh Cuban cigar settled between ceramic chops. Chin tilted up to look at Tenna directly in those flickering scan lines. Practically pinning the CRT onto the spot with eyes that lack any trace of warmth, &. boxing him in as if his old partner were merely a butterfly's corpse on display.

Such focus renders his tics nullified; just for the moment.

Truthfully? ⸻ The comment about his nose compels a laugh. A wry, ashen, singular note. Hmmh.

❛You know, Mr. Ant Tenna—above anyone else in the Dark World, it was you who taught me the most valuable lesson there is in business. It altered my perspective entirely as a sponsor, as much as a salesman. Irrevocably, in fact.❜

Then comes a nonchalant ❝come hither❞ gesture from his dominant hand's index finger. Ball-joints creaking ever so quietly.

If Tenna were to lean in, Spamsonne would continue to stare him dead-on. Nose to nose. Just to make sure this sinks in through the tobacco laced amid his breath:

❛You taught me that talk is cheap. The real merit is found in the actions pursuin' what's being said. ⸻Yet, you still want talk. You only want talk. ... At this point, though? With what your actions have shown me? Your budget. Can't. Afford. My rates.❜

✽ ⸻ @hxzelwallflower rang for Spamsonne.

❛... What? ❜

⸻It's the only response Spamsonne can mustard muster, at first.

Laying beside Eileen in his king-sized mattress; feeling her soft palm set upon his cool, topless stoneware chest. Feeling the way her soothing heartbeat remains a slow, rhythmic boom-boom-boom which slowly pours into &. inexorably fills the emptiness where his own would be, had it existed.

When one considers it, this bed is far too large for someone of the Don's diminutive stature; at least, for the times where Eileen isn't there to share it with him.

But when he really pauses considers the humor in what she's saying in this state of sleep-drunkenness, a crooked smirk finds itself spreading across Spamsonne's visage. Blooming akin to midnight ink in water.

Gradually, unfurling into an endeared chuckle.

❛Mayo? To your subconscious, I'm mayo, of all things, more often than not? ⸻ Couldn't have been a Ragù alla Bolognese, or Pesto alla Genovese? Hell, I'd even take bein' Marinara. Or maybe an even simpler Cacio e Pepe! ❜

Silicone fingertips find themselves in her silken &. tidal locks of vibrant russet, as his synthetic eyes drink in the way muted neons streaming from the adjacent window frame Eileen's Seraphic features. Even when she says the most nonsensical things, she makes him feel so warm in a way no one else could.

❛Anyways—tough question. Though since you're askin' me, I think it's because ketchup an' mustard naturally belong together. ⸻Don't they?❜

... It's the closest she'll get right now to an outright ❛I love you.❜ Though the indirect admission itself, a gift wrapped with care &. tentatively left upon her doorstep.

✽ ⸻ @starfaite rang for Spamsonne.

❛Oh, there's la mia piccola sirena. You speak to me yet again about my breasts. Always, always speakin' about my chest, aren't you? I'm a sapient object being objectified even further, your honor!❜

The complaint isn't actually posed as a true complaint; instead, Spamsonne devours the attention she tosses his path. Consuming it not unlike the times where he roamed the streets positively starved for measly scraps of data.

He continues with a faux note of offense played sweetly, en staccato,

❛⸻An' what of my smile? What of my eyes? My suit, my hair? My necktie? My personality?❜

Pausing for a moment. Letting the silence that parts linger with dramatic tension. Leaning towards her, now.

❛Well, perhaps we don't need to touch on that last one.❜

Wink.

✽ ⸻ @jukudoku rang for Spamsonne.

a singsong voice seeps into the room, as if slithering in from the tiniest spaces between the nearest window and surrounding wall. like water that can't be entirely repelled, a noise one is unable to entirely forget. all to seemingly speak directly to spamsonne. o' puppet, poor puppet, still tormented so; just how long will you last? how far will you go..? what can you endure through sheer force of will? and what will mean your end -- causing what 'heart' you have to still..? despite the noise, there's no attempt by anyone to enter, no claws scratching the glass, no snapping jaws, no echoing laughter unendingly bouncing off the walls to announce the inevitable. was any of it even spoken in the first place?

Tic.

A bead of sweat drips down the pointed slope of Spamsonne's nose onto a cool sheet of paper, a simple ledger. Its imprint leaves a distinct light grey speck.

Arms remove themselves defensively from his own frame. Palms come to rest upon the wooden desk, with Spamsonne lurching forwards, not unlike an animal being stalked by a significantly larger beast in an obscured jungle during the mortis of night.

Plastic eyelids widen to reveal the whole of his soulless plum hues that drag across every wall &. corner of the room. Soon scraping the ceiling. Then, a sharp torque of his upper body to graze the window.

Of course there's no sign of a physical presence here.

That voice; none other than the harlequin, it compels the don's bone china teeth to grate against itself—upper lip curling into a vexed sneer. Jabbing his chest with a forceful thumb while he's already on razor's edge.

❛I don't need to hear this shit, especially not from you,❜ Spamsonne mutters under his breath with solicited venom laced in that black, ungodly tongue.

A hand comes up to quickly swipe back the stray lock of hair beginning to lose its signature ❝S❞ shape.

Grasping onto a sense of control. Grasping until his ball-joint knuckles ache. Grasping onto his sanity as if it were dangling from an unstable cliffside above the sea.

Grasping &. grasping &. grasping &. grasping &. grasping⸻

Eyes wide with frenzy. Teeth grit with mania. A sudden jerk of his head; a sudden clearing of his throat.

❛I can endure it all. I have endured it all. I'm still here, whether I got a beatin' heart or not. I can endure anythin' as much as you say you can do anythin'. ⸻An' I know you can't fuckin' beat that, clown. One day you'll DO SOMETHIN' that you can't endure. Then, it'll be me who's laughin'. Yeah. ❜

Fingers clenching onto the corners of his workstation as if it were the throat of an unsuspecting jester.

&. when he speaks again, Spamsonne's voice lowers into a deeper register; a desperate snarl unbecoming of a man building his own empire. Puppet body &. vocal cadence alike, tremulous with the force of adrenaline coursing through the oppressive vantablack from within.

❛... Then, it'll be ME.❜

The room devours his despair &. returns it twofold in its hollowed resonance. Aching, aching in the gravitas of his vow.

Tic.

Tic. Tic.

Spamsonne hasn't fully realized that his fingers have since moved from their former place, to instead entirely rumple the ledger now speckled with his own perspiration.

The time still remains 6:06 pm.

It's that same dream again; Spamsonne knows exactly how it plays out, exact each time.

In his office⸻during a blackout. The sole entrance to the room is open to reveal a blinding white light. He is seated at his desk.

The clock on the wall ticking backwards as he lifts his head, feeling the density of a solid ball of lead. The numbers are all symbols once spoken to him directly. Its hands are skulls. When his focus hones in on the clock through an absence of dual toned shades, there aren't clock hands anymore with which to tell the time.

Casting his acrylic sights down at his hands. They're still ball-jointed. They're bleeding. Bleeding red. That isn't the correct color. It's pooling beneath his palms. Warm &. thin.

Then comes the itching sensation from behind his narrow rows of teeth. Feeling as though there are insect legs crawling, scraping, tapping, chittering, buzzing, from within his ceramic maw. It rides up into his skull.

The back of his head aches, as if abruptly becoming a lit burner on a gas stove turned on with a clic-clic-clic-clic-clic-clic.

Spamsonne can't move. His heart is pounding. Since when does he have a heart? It's screaming from within. The chittering grows louder. The heartbeat pounds until he can't breathe. Why is he breathing when he doesn't have lungs?

There's a half-smoked cigar set a short distance out of his reach. A single stream, an indulgent plume of tobacco. The ichor puddled beneath silicone palms trails towards the cigar. Light tapping of crimson rivulets trickle off the opposing side of the desk's smooth, varnished wooden surface.

Then?⸻ that dreaded, horrid sound.

Riiiiing. Riiiiing. Riiiiing.

❛No,❜ Spamton manages to rasp, but only hardly.

Riiiiing. Riiiiing. Riiiiing.

When he blinks again, the rotary phone is set in front of him. The office obscures itself from view. Now, there are only slate gray walls around Spamton. Steadily closing in with the sound of stone grating against stone.

❛Sto—ggh⸻!❜

When Spamton tries to protest, there's a choked, gagging sound from his artificial throat, met with a mass of swarming beetles pooling &. cascading from hinged jaws. They scatter everywhere. Fingertips dig desperately into the table to leave jagged &. harsh lines of splintered wood. Taste of old iron remains tangy; bitter, in the puppet's mouth.

Once emptied, Spamton's bloodied fingers find themselves curled into his synthetic strands of hair. Burrowing. Entangling. Pulling, pulling until hot tears stream down; coolant for a vehicle which has already rusted into a hopeless jalopy.

Riiiiing. Riiiiing. Riiiiing.

⸻ ❛PLEASE, [$&%#ING] STOP! LEAVE ME ALONE!❜

...

The room grows quiet; unnervingly so. The beetles no longer stir. The walls cease. The phone isn't ringing.

But the moment he breathes⸻

Spamton hears the garbage noise.

Eyes snap open as Spamsonne sits up in his desk. Shifting left-right-left-right.

Segmented digits immediately seek the smooth planes of his ceramic visage to ensure he's in one piece. Then, in a real moment of fragility, the mafioso's arms wrap around himself seeking comfort; nearly constricting with unexpressed self hatred. Jaw clicking once. Twice. Cool sweat pearling at the hairline to then cascade in thin streams.

The clock on the wall reads 6:06 pm.

In the meantime, I've been setting up a multifandom multimuse sideblog, in the hopes that juggling those characters and these characters intermittently will ease some of the self-inflicted pressure on my end. ( If anyone wants to follow early on, it's @surrealta. )

So... for now, I'll be considering this blog on a semi-hiatus. I will still respond to roleplays when muse strikes, and I'm still definitely open to plotting future threads.

But, the truth is that I'm aggravated with myself⸻I've been meaning to do so many more things on here, and it seems life has been chipping away at my ability to be more consistent. I'm falling behind heavily and I... really hate that. I hate feeling like I'm letting anyone down, or even just myself.

⸻Now, before I get to any other threads, I will try to prioritize developing other verses so that I'll have more to work with when it comes to actually plotting with you all.