Welcome! This is a highly selective multimuse featuring OCs and a few select canon characters. Many of the OCs are fandomless and flexible enough to be arranged into other fictional worlds, but a few are fandom-specific. all loved & created by Spark
Hello! My name is Spark, I’m 30+, and this is an RP and ask blog for a variety of fantasy, scifi, and historical OCs and a small handful of canon characters.
Many of my OCs are fandomless, but a few were inspired by or created specifically for fandoms such as Doctor Who, The Borrowers, and Dungeons & Dragons. I am frequently lurking, but pretty slow when it comes to responding to threads and asks, so please be patient! Below are the abridged guidelines for this blog. You can find them in full here.
- This blog is anti-callout and anti-censorship. I'm too old for this drama, man. Write whatever you wanna write. I will block anyone who engages in callouts, especially over fiction. I don't appreciate the vitriolic environment they foster.
- Please do not follow or interact if you are under 18.
- This blog is NSFW and contains triggering content including but not limited to: torture, murder, sexual assault, self-harm, sexism, addiction, drug abuse, descriptions of gore, and death. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, depiction does not equal endorsement.
- My tagging convention for sensitive and triggering content will be #___ for ts.
- I have no triggers and no notable squicks, but please let me know if there’s something I should be mindful of in our threads for your own comfort.
- All art of my OCs is drawn by me. Please do not steal, alter, or use any of my work.
Please give this post a ♥ if you’ve read it! Thank you, and if you have any questions or concerns, let me know. 🌻
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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[left to die] one character leaves the other to die somewhere
Ciro could leave Alexei to die somewhere. I'm not sure what context this would happen in but he could genuinely think, Alexei is going to die here if I can't move him, and he'd think, I Can't Move Him. And Alexei would be telling Ciro to go, there is no removing this heavy (abc) in time, get out of here before the fire comes. and Ciro would say, I don't want to leave you.
"Da. But you will." And as much as Alexei likes to pretend his English is bad - prefers the Russian cadence - they both know that it is not a mistake that he says will. No value judgement, no comment on Ciro's character, no conviction Alexei has that he is inherently leavable: just that Alexei knows that Ciro needs the permission to go, and this is his permission. He WILL go. He WILL survive. He WILL get home to his father.
"Don't be an asshole," Ciro says. Rejects. Argues.
"It will not move." If it would, Alexei would already have shoved Ciro out of this room. He would already have thrown him kicking and screaming out of the only clear way out (the window) that is left. He would have followed.
But it will not move, and he cannot follow, and Ciro needs to go on his own.
"You go," Alexei says, as Ciro tries feebly anyway to make it move - disappears briefly to look for something he can use as leverage, anything, he needs to get this off of Alexei so that they can get out, he needs --
"What if we cut it off?" Ciro is ignoring him. It is desperate. He could cut Alexei's lower leg off. It might give them the space to move in that they could get the rest of him out, if they just - he could just - Ciro's hands are sweaty and already burned and they slip and slide as he struggles to find the pocket knife the Volpes gave him for his thirteenth birthday, a knife that's been embedded in his birth father and in Alexei before (sorry, Alexei), and he just - it isn't sharp enough, he knows. They don't have the angle to break the bone. Alexei would just be in pain while he died.
"What if-" he starts again, having dismissed his own thought.
"Ciro," Alexei tells him. The air is thick with smoke. They swim through it together, breathing in the burnt plastic and ashy metal of the apartment building, and Alexei catches his hand. "I take. I will try. Thank you." It is an easier exit than choking on the smoke until he dies, he thinks, or waiting for the fire to claim him. He will take the pocket knife and use it when he needs it. "Go to your father." A father who will die if he loses another child.
Ciro hates this.
"'zo--" he chokes.
"No." He is not unkind. But no.
"I don't--"
"Is waste of time. Go."
"You're my big brother," Ciro half-sobs, half-begs, half-reaches, half-argues. But it's only a quarter argument anymore. He releases the knife when Alexei's fingers close around it; permission to take it. To try himself. Because Ciro can't for him.
"Da." Alexei knows. "I know."
Ciro hates this.
"Alexei," Ciro asks. The proper name. The full name.
"Lusha," Alexei trades. "Is waste time. Go."
Ciro swallows something terrible, awful, horrible, the worst thing he has ever done waiting to happen, the hardest thing he's ever done coming to a head, and he kisses Alexei's temple and makes him promise to try, please try, cut it off or - or - he doesn't know, just get OUT, OK?
"Okay." Alexei is lying and they both know it.
Ciro takes off his own shirt before he goes, peels off the water-soaked material to give it to Alexei and offer him some protection from the heat and the smoke and the Awful. He peels off his belt, "You can tourniquet it," even though he knows that it won't work. It won't work. He's going to die here. Ciro is going to leave him to die here and he's going to do it knowingly and he hates this. He says, "Lorenzo--"
"Go." It is an order.
"We're gonna take care of Petr," Ciro says. "OK? He's gonna have someone. He's my nephew." His brother's son.
Alexei has not cried in front of Ciro before and it is too hot to do so here.
Medical, but it's Dr. Volpe so he knows precisely what is going to happen and how much it's going to hurt without anesthesia :3c
[medical] one character undergoes a forced medical procedure/practice - preferably while fully conscious and unable to stop it - meme (accepting)
There's not going to be help in time.
He is staring at the metal rod impaled in his abdomen and thinking about the various scenarios he can picture, for its landing zone: if he has nicked his large intestine or kidneys then it's currently pressurised by the pole itself, and that's keeping him from going septic. If the rod continues further - and it doesn't stick out the other side of him - then it might have hit the pancreas, which isn't quite as terrible as immediate septic shock followed shortly by death but it's not exactly ideal, either. Ciro rests a hand on it gently, almost experimentally, numb to the pain and --
"Stop."
Alexei yanks his hand away from the rod and Ciro looks up. Sound floods back all at once: the little aircraft's engine wheezing in its dying throes, the pilot's scream that cuts off too abruptly for his liking (mercy, he knows; he knows what pain sounds like). Papa is some distance away, still coming to, and Ciro realises with a lurch that he hadn't checked on his family, first: it is only the fact that Alexei touched him that made him look up at all. Too fascinated with the pole. Too stunned by the -
"Holy shit," Ciro's hand seizes suddenly in Alexei's, and he forces himself not to double over on the rod, bile and something worse flooding into his throat. How is Alexei not hurt?? Ciro wonders, but he looks and he sees that Alexei in fact is cradling a broken arm and what looks like a dislocated shoulder and he's come to Ciro first because he, unlike Ciro, has thought of his family before he's thought about himself. "You're bleeding," Ciro gasps, which is stupid because he is pretty sure they're all bleeding.
"You are on pole. You win."
Ciro does not want to laugh and he whines, keen and high in the back of his throat actually, as his fingertips touch very experimentally at the stretch of his stomach.
"CIRO!" Papa is awake enough to yell. Ciro cannot see if he's injured.
"I"m good, Papa," he forces himself to say, but he cannot bring himself to tense his muscles well enough to shout, and it comes out weak and flat and tired. He's dizzy, he thinks.
"Over here!" Alexei calls on Ciro's behalf, and Harry scrambles to his feet. "Is hurt."
Even if it's not in his pancreas or in his intestine or in his bowel or in his liver, Ciro thinks, it can't stay there until they can get someone out to this tiny hill in the Italian countryside. He can feel the pressure of his own blood, skin staining purple-blue as the internal bleeding mounts and pools.
"Ciro - son! Son --" as he nears, Ciro can see (dizzy; distant; dissociating from the searing pain) that Harry is the best off of the three of them, except for how frazzled he is, absolutely terrified to lose a child again. Ciro doesn't know how papa puts up with him, sometimes. Keeping Ciro alive seems like it's a full time job. "What--?" Harry starts to ask, but Ciro can see in his face the moment that he registers the metallic rod - part of the plane - that's sticking out of the part of his abdomen just below the stomach. It turns Harry's own skin a ghastly, ghostly pale, and he knows just by looking at him that Harry's pulse here is fast and weak and afraid.
Dad's on blood thinners since the heart attack. Ciro wishes he could find a way to stop scaring him this badly, to stop hurting his family this way, to stop being so fucking weak all the time.
"How bad?" Papa asks, and Ciro isn't sure he is directing the question at anyone. Just says it like, is this it. Like, do I need to brace for impact because I don't think I can do this again. Instead of waiting for an answer Papa turns to Alexei, "'Zo, where's the fucking ambulance already?"
"Is no signal. Gion has gone." To find one. "We put mayday. They will come."
Ciro is drifty and feels sick and he voices what he has thought since he first woke up which is: "I don't --"
Fuck.
They stop and wait for him to finish and Ciro hates that they look so hard when what he's telling them above the bile in his mouth and the pain that shoots through him with every breath is: "I don't -- have time -- for finding."
He doesn't have time for someone to find them or a medical team to help or for the airport to realise that the plane's gone out of touch and not come back. Ciro is light-headed and bleeding into his own body now and it needs to be fixed.
"No," Papa says. He just flatly disagrees. Ciro closes his eyes not to shut him out but to focus on the information he knows from his work in the medical field, forcing breaths in that are relatively even. There is a thudding pain in his skull that makes him think he's concussed, or just losing too much blood, too quickly. "That's not - we'll get you help, Ciro. Just hold on, son. Just hold on."
Ciro swallows again and reaches for Papa's hand. He finds it shockingly warm; his skin is cold and clammy and he knows he is running out of time to ask what he needs to ask. "Papa," he says.
"No," Harry insists.
Ciro's eyes slide to Alexei and he asks, "'zo - first aid."
Alexei stares for a moment but he does not question his little boss; he takes the half a beat of hesitation that is his registration of what Ciro is planning, and then he disappears for the medical equipment that they kept on board the little red Cessna at Ciro's behest. It's a comprehensive kit. AED and everything. Ciro had worried about Dad's heart.
"Papa," Ciro repeats, while still-too-pale Harry Volpe looks at him and flutters his hands uselessly at the pole, "'mm bleeding. You gotta -" fuck. Ow. He has moved to try to gesture and it fucking hurts and his hand seizes in Harry's for a sec, trying hard to suppress a shudder. He is going into shock and losing too much blood. He needs to stay warm. "You gotta caute----" FUCK, "--erise it. Cauterise. 'n -- look." For injuries. For things that need fixing. For the stuff Ciro can't look for himself.
"Where?" Harry demands. "Where are you bleed--?" because he doesn't see it because it's on the inside and Ciro knows when Harry realises what is being asked of him because he says, "No. No, there's help coming."
"I'm," Ciro rasps, "dying. No time."
Alexei arrives back. Ciro doesn't know how long he has been gone but Harry certainly seems to think it was too fucking long. Without being asked, Alexei pulls out the reflective shock blanket and wraps it around Ciro, and he starts looking for the tools that he, as a mafioso's right-hand man, thinks might be useful to reach the spots inside Ciro Volpe that they need to reach, to cauterise.
He is on board without Ciro having to convince him, and Ciro is endlessly thankful and grateful to Alexei Mikhaylov because he knows his father will be able to do what he is asking - but he is not sure he, Ciro, will be able to explain it to someone as worried as Harry is.
"You want I hold down?" Alexei asks.
"I said no," Harry repeats.
"'zo -- doesn't -- dsn't.." have the hands. The ability. His arm is broken, his shoulder is still dislocated (left that way not because Alexei is unable to replace it, but because it hasn't been a convenient time to do so yet and he will power through until it is convenient), and this is definitely a two-hand job. The blood loss here is definitely an issue but Ciro, too, is dizzy enough he thinks a part of his intestine might be strangulated by the rod, and if that's the case then it's only a matter of time before sepsis does set in. He NEEDS this rod out of him. He NEEDS the intestine freed from where it's crushed - though he doesn't know this - between his hip and the metal axle. He needs to stop bleeding.
Alexei moves without Ciro confirming that he'd like to be held down. It is not what he wants to do, and it is not what Ciro wants him to do, and it is not what Harry wants him to do, and he does it anyway because it will keep Ciro alive and that is worth doing.
Ciro says, "Pa," breathy and weak, "please."
"Is boxcutter," Alexei provides. "Is best." It's what they have, from the first aid kit.
Ciro thinks he must pass out in between this and the first incision, but he wakes up screaming, neck arching up and body still only because there is the full weight of Alexei Mikhaylov pressed against him to pin him in place. He is so cold. The blood that has pooled in his abdomen spills out of him in rivulets, mixes with the soil. He is unaware of the blood so much as the feeling of cold cold cold cold and this odd, searing heat inside of him that is the rod and its position pressing his intestine flat against the bone and he is yelling STOP and GET IT OUT even though the rod has been removed and GET OFF ME GET OFF ME GET OFF ME and he is pretty sure he stabs Alexei in the leg at some point with a pocket knife they'd not thought to remove.
Ciro passes out again at some point, a mix of relief (the burning sensation - his strangulated intestine - releases suddenly and with so much relief; Harry has found it in the open, haphazard surgery and Ciro later will be impressed that the red, throbbing knot of intestine stuck cut off from the rest of its blood supply was enough to attract either man's attention) and pure exhaustion.
He does not wake up again when the chopper arrives, or when he is loaded into the aircraft, or in the surgical hospital room where they do what needs doing and start him on the strongest antibiotics they have.
The cessna's crash doesn't even make the local news.
a list of ways people might be mean!
send either one of the prompts or 🐸 and I'll generate a number 1-50
[interrogation] one character is interrogating the other. they can do this the easy way or the hard way.
[choking] one character is strangling the other.
[left behind] one character leaves the other behind - good for plane crashes/fires/zombie attacks/etc.
[left to die] one character leaves the other to die somewhere
[left for someone else] one character decides that someone else is more important than the other character.
[drunk] one character is drunk and is a mean drunk.
[drugging] one character spikes another's drink or food with a drug or poison
[ignore] one character is begging for something - and they are ignored.
[torture] one character is being tortured
[doxxing] one character doxxes another (publishes their address or private info online)- e.g. SWATting, having randoms show up at the house, etc
[horse head] in the bed. we know how this goes. it's a death threat.
[mail bomb] there's a mail bomb in the mail when a character goes to open it.
[buried alive] someone is buried alive.
[filmed] someone is being hurt and there is a character who's chosen to film it. the film can be shared with loved ones etc - good for whump.
[extortion] one character is being extorted or blackmailed, OR someone is trying to extort/blackmail them.
[biting] someone is being held/restrained and they're biting, scratching, kicking, fighting their captor
[loved ones] one character threatens or hurts the other character's family
[public humiliation] one character humiliates another, in a public setting/venue - maybe using a 'secret' they have to hurt them?
[fire] one character is affected by a fire - their house burns down, they get burned themselves, etc
[burning] one character is burned by something other than a fire (chemical, iron brand, etc)
[arguing] one character is angry with the other and goes to start an argument about it
[fighting] one character physically initiates a fight with the other
[sleep deprivation] one character deliberately keeps another character awake, knowing that they need sleep
[mutilation] one character is mutilated by another - scars, loss of body parts, branding, etc
[ownership] one character is claimed as another person's property - tattoos, collars, etc
[shooting] one character shoots another
[detention] one character is tied up or locked up somewhere, and is unable to leave
[restriction] one character is chemically or physically restrained - leather straps, tied to chair, sedated, etc
[medical] one character undergoes a forced medical procedure/practice - preferably while fully conscious and unable to stop it
[surgery] one character is forced to experience a surgery conscious and in pain
[sabotage] one character is deliberately sabotaged by another
[isolation] one character is isolated somewhere with no interaction/input from the outside world. they're alone alone alone alone alone.
[training] one character trains another the way one might train a dog/horse/animal
[invasive] one character has been injured and in providing first aid, the other character is invading their privacy/personal space (removing clothes, etc)
[questioning] one character is being asked questions about something they obviously don't want to be asked about
[water] one character is held underwater, being waterboarded, or suffering the water in some way
[deprivation] one character is being deprived of one of the basic needs for life - food, water, air
[brainwashing] one character is being brainwashed/manipulated/gaslit into certain behaviours or beliefs
[cult] a character is in a cult or cult-like environment - story ideas e.g. leader of the cult shames them, two characters in the cult/want to escape, etc
[vicarious] a character is made to feel responsible for something they have no control over (loved one being tortured, bad decision at work, etc)
[bait] one character is used as bait - with or without their knowledge
[replacement] one character has lost someone and is, intentionally or not, using the other character as a replacement (could be upset that the replacement isn't the same)
[stress positions] a character is forced to hold a position that is uncomfortable or exhausting to hold
[robbery] a character has their money or valuables stolen from them in e.g. a mugging or breakin
[theft] a character has valuable information, work documents, personal photos, etc stolen from them
[sobriety] a character attempts to coax an addict into drinking/using again
[pass-agg] a character keeps getting mean notes from the neighbour
[finances] a character has their finances tightly controlled by another
[disbelief] a character finally tells someone about their terrible experience and they are Not Believed
[witness] a character witnesses a crime, especially a violent crime
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The smoke is acrid and clawing as it draws into her throat. Liliya stands in the cool winter air and sucks hard at the cig so that the heat of it drifts up to her fingers and curls in spirals into her lungs, before closing her eyes and leaning back for the cool brick of the wall behind her.
America is a piece of shit country. Its winters are full of pissy half-sludge weather that doesn’t bite the way it should, and she’s always been impatient to be struck. The cigarette is burning her fingertips now and she refuses to let it go, ‘cause it’s one of three she has left and she’s gonna fucking savour it before she does this job for the big boss. Zasrenec. Liliya could go the whole rest of her life without owing that guy a favour and it would be too fucking soon. He carted her off to fucking America for this, you know? No warning, no polite knock on the door, plane tickets and not even a full pack of smokes.
There are dark circles under her eyes (thank Sephora for concealer) when she finally drops the cig and stamps it out under her heel, watching it dull into ash on the pavement. Liliya isn’t cut out for this, but who is? She gets her bread to her family the way everyone in Russia gets their bread to their family – in whatever fucking way they need to.
“OK,” she tells herself, rolling her shoulders out, the stress of the day coiling up into the tense muscles of her neck. She is thirty-two years old and has three younger siblings she cares for back home, and two aborted mouths to feed she couldn’t support with anything but a coat hanger. A car belching pollution roars by the little brick restaurant and she pauses long enough for it to pass before she slips back into the alley behind and unlocks the small, wooden, ordinary door that separates her from the restaurant.
She is not stupid. This is Volpe, a name known even in Russia circles: she does not know what has caused her to be sent here but she knows it is every bit a suicide mission as it is an ‘honour’. The merzavets at the head of the bratva, Kolya, is trying to get her killed as a two-for-one deal which is as cheap as it is stupid. But it is a thumb she is under, for now at least, and she does her job well. They all do their job well in the bratva, where favours are owed and loyalties are nothing except transactional. She tortures this man, maybe dies; her family is forgiven the debt of their home; she will own the place in her own name by the time she kills that merzavets and takes his fucking place.
Her heels echo neatly with each step toward the back of the restaurant. Large teams lead to large leaks, so it is Liliya and one man she brings only for witness, to film the event, ensure she has proof. She will kill him before she leaves. American.
She passes the ill-equipped kitchen (little Chinese place – ran out of business long before she got here) and stops to smooth her hair in the reflection of a silvery pan she does not recognise, large and semi-spherical and stained black with flame. Her eyeliner is dark and pointed into neat, even cat’s eyes, her lipstick a deep red and untouched by the cigarette. The heavy plait of shock black hair lies solid on the front of her shoulder. All as it should be. Her plum pencil dress and soft fur capulet are neat and spotless.
The coolroom lives behind a heavy metal door that warns of temperature difference and enclosed space, hooked up to a generator to keep collectors from knocking at their doors and asking questions she does not know how to answer without a gun. There are three bolted locks she has to slide out of position and she does so with attention to her manicure, because she’s only just had these done with neat little diagonal strips of glitter among the gradient maroon, and she is not looking to waste the money.
“’Rise and shine’, precious,” she says as she enters the cold room; there are quotation marks around the phrase, an idiom she’s trying out in a language that is not her own. This is a Winter that feels like a Winter, this cold air that blasts out at her from the walk-in fridge-freezer that she’s been using to keep this little man who looks just as fat and as sad and as lecherous as Kolya. She should have smoked in here, she laments. The bite of the nicotine in her lungs is only good when it burns away the cold.
The man, Volpe, hangs (semiconscious at best) from two meat hooks she’s placed delicately into the muscles of either shoulder. The chains strain tight against the man’s weight, hooks digging up and in, resisting the tug. It looks uncomfortable. She’s sure it is.
Liliya has left him his underwear only because she thinks he’s frankly pretty gross without his underwear on, and she finds it useful to the cause that he’s had no option but to soil them, to keep them on like that in the cold so it freezes into his dick and his ass and he is left dangling there like a gross, rotting pig, forgotten about in this room.
Davide, her eager one-off hire, has done a good job of keeping this room just cold enough, not quite cold enough (for long enough) to kill him or even leave him unconscious but oh, so very cold, in between. She shall have to thank him before she kills him.
“Oho,” she coos, when Volpe barely looks up at her. His eyes are the distant thing of self-defense (dissociation; distance; a way out) and she is afraid that, unfortunately, escape really isn’t so simple as that when she’s in here with him. “He is awake. You are ready to do again?” she questions, but it is not a question she intends him to answer. Liliya thickens her accent when she interacts with English speakers. It helps to separate. Too often they think she will want to be friend, or even – worse assholes – to be marry; she is no man’s wife.
Liliya presses a gentle hand to Harry Volpe’s sweaty temple, and slides it down to his cheek. There’s a piece of duct tape pressed over his mouth to keep him from spitting, but she knows it is too dry in here and too frozen for him to have the saliva anymore; her thumb presses against the edge of the tape just hard enough for the edge of her nail to dig into his skin before she says, “I remove. Give breath. I feel nice today. But I warn: you are not nice, I am not nice.”
As nice as she is, she rips it clean off of his mouth, fully aware the glue has solidified in the frozen cold of the room. It takes the stubble of the past couple days with it in patches where Harry’s not been able to loosen the hold of it.
What did Volpe do that had Kolya sending her after him? She does not know. Does not care. Maybe is dick measuring contest – she has not been asked to measure but she is sure that Volpe will insist on showing her when he thinks is time to kill her. She is sure Kolya will have sent a ledger with the measurements before and after erect.
Liliya’s is bigger, and she does not need to measure.
Most likely though, she thinks, is the Russian man. The little boy she sees with Volpe before Davide has helped to take him – with fake Italian name but he speaks the tongue fluently, this Lorenzo, she thinks she even maybe recognises him. (Later, she will learn that she does not recognise him, but in fact recognises Lorenzo as his mother’s son. Anyastasia is deeper here than any grandmother to Petr has any right to be. You do what you must, to survive.)
The longer that Harry has spent here, the more he’s come to learn that Liliya has a particular method. Torture is a messy business and she is not much one for the mess of it all; she walks in impeccable and walks out just the same, but she has not taken her glass of wine with her today. It is the sort of thing she likes to drink in front of him when she knows he is heavy with hunger and dehydration and cold, and the warmth of alcohol is something she can savour casually while he watches.
“How are shoulders?” she asks, gently. Liliya’s hands massage the muscles there, the ones supporting his entire body weight against the hook. Liliya is a surgeon, has chosen placement carefully: she wants to hurt but not paralyse, wants it to ache and ache and still give him the option to writhe like a fish on a hook, only digging it in deeper and deeper with every bit of fight he gives. He is mostly only hanging, now. “Are hurt?”
Her hands slide down his shoulders to the front of his abdomen, and along his ribs. She has cut into the intercostal space between each rib here, not deep enough to hit the lung but deep enough to scar, and her fingernails enjoy scraping up the attempted scab of a healing body to dig into the blood again. His flesh pulls away from each rib like an accordion, if she pulls hard enough. The human body’s skin is shockingly flexible, even in this freezing cold. And bacteria, viruses? Very few survive here. Too cold.
Volpe is hanging and dehydrating slowly to death as his chest bleeds and bleeds and bleeds again, sticky and crusty with blood. His underwear don’t even stink, not in a room this cold. She is thankful for this, but even still, she is thankful for the smoke that is still caught in her lungs.
“You know this is restaurant, hm?” she asks. She does not fully expect a response, not here, not like this, not as he tenses himself to avoid lurching away from her fingernails, to keep the meathook from adjusting into his spine. It really could paralyse him like that, expert surgeon or not. She has put them in a safe place, but is up to him to keep them there. She has told him as much. He can choose. She is kind. “All sort of food, of drink. Can give to you. Da?”
There’s this terrible contrast between her words and her actions, the divide between tearing her nails into his chest and then the soft of her palm on his cheek and temple and how she turns his face, still gently, toward the little blinking red light of the camera in the corner of the room. She likes that it’s clear it’s recording, that the red light blinks and blinks at all hours of the day or night, that there is no sunshine or light outside of this and the flourescent LEDs above him.
“Da,” she decides for him, and pats his cheek just twice before she reaches into her little purse for the small, alcohol-mixer sized bottle of water that tastes vaguely of the leftover vodka. It is not nearly enough for a man of Harry’s size, but it is the first water he’s had access to in days, and she warns, “One go. Take breath first. Do not drown.”
Kolya has asked her to send a message and punctuate it nicely. A message does not get to its recipient when it’s dead.
It’s for this reason that she shoves Harry away by the shoulder when he is too eager for the water (the chains jangle, above him): “Ah,” she tuts. “Slow.”
He is not awake enough to accent any message she could give him, anyway. She tilts his head back manually, to help pour the water into his mouth.
What a mess, she thinks. What a fucking mess. She went too far last time.
“We do more,” she says. “Next time. You want break?” A wobble of the chains again, this time just because she reaches up to jiggle them with her hand. She will let him down, she thinks. Not disconnected, not to pull the hooks out, but the chains can lower to the floor to make it easy to load a pig carcass onto them; she will let him down so his body can rest, and then she will come back. This is dirty work, and she wants another cigarette while she thinks about what she’s willing to do and how much blood she is willing to risk getting into her hair.
She draws back to the door and slaps the button that will drop him down in a heap at her feet. She does not turn around to waste her time looking at him there.
“You have break. I ask more questions. You answer.”
and I'll write a scene where our muses kiss, even if they aren't shipped together. it is it's own thing and doesn't have to lead to an official ship. a "what if scenario"
a list of ways people might be mean!
send either one of the prompts or 🐸 and I'll generate a number 1-50
[interrogation] one character is interrogating the other. they can do this the easy way or the hard way.
[choking] one character is strangling the other.
[left behind] one character leaves the other behind - good for plane crashes/fires/zombie attacks/etc.
[left to die] one character leaves the other to die somewhere
[left for someone else] one character decides that someone else is more important than the other character.
[drunk] one character is drunk and is a mean drunk.
[drugging] one character spikes another's drink or food with a drug or poison
[ignore] one character is begging for something - and they are ignored.
[torture] one character is being tortured
[doxxing] one character doxxes another (publishes their address or private info online)- e.g. SWATting, having randoms show up at the house, etc
[horse head] in the bed. we know how this goes. it's a death threat.
[mail bomb] there's a mail bomb in the mail when a character goes to open it.
[buried alive] someone is buried alive.
[filmed] someone is being hurt and there is a character who's chosen to film it. the film can be shared with loved ones etc - good for whump.
[extortion] one character is being extorted or blackmailed, OR someone is trying to extort/blackmail them.
[biting] someone is being held/restrained and they're biting, scratching, kicking, fighting their captor
[loved ones] one character threatens or hurts the other character's family
[public humiliation] one character humiliates another, in a public setting/venue - maybe using a 'secret' they have to hurt them?
[fire] one character is affected by a fire - their house burns down, they get burned themselves, etc
[burning] one character is burned by something other than a fire (chemical, iron brand, etc)
[arguing] one character is angry with the other and goes to start an argument about it
[fighting] one character physically initiates a fight with the other
[sleep deprivation] one character deliberately keeps another character awake, knowing that they need sleep
[mutilation] one character is mutilated by another - scars, loss of body parts, branding, etc
[ownership] one character is claimed as another person's property - tattoos, collars, etc
[shooting] one character shoots another
[detention] one character is tied up or locked up somewhere, and is unable to leave
[restriction] one character is chemically or physically restrained - leather straps, tied to chair, sedated, etc
[medical] one character undergoes a forced medical procedure/practice - preferably while fully conscious and unable to stop it
[surgery] one character is forced to experience a surgery conscious and in pain
[sabotage] one character is deliberately sabotaged by another
[isolation] one character is isolated somewhere with no interaction/input from the outside world. they're alone alone alone alone alone.
[training] one character trains another the way one might train a dog/horse/animal
[invasive] one character has been injured and in providing first aid, the other character is invading their privacy/personal space (removing clothes, etc)
[questioning] one character is being asked questions about something they obviously don't want to be asked about
[water] one character is held underwater, being waterboarded, or suffering the water in some way
[deprivation] one character is being deprived of one of the basic needs for life - food, water, air
[brainwashing] one character is being brainwashed/manipulated/gaslit into certain behaviours or beliefs
[cult] a character is in a cult or cult-like environment - story ideas e.g. leader of the cult shames them, two characters in the cult/want to escape, etc
[vicarious] a character is made to feel responsible for something they have no control over (loved one being tortured, bad decision at work, etc)
[bait] one character is used as bait - with or without their knowledge
[replacement] one character has lost someone and is, intentionally or not, using the other character as a replacement (could be upset that the replacement isn't the same)
[stress positions] a character is forced to hold a position that is uncomfortable or exhausting to hold
[robbery] a character has their money or valuables stolen from them in e.g. a mugging or breakin
[theft] a character has valuable information, work documents, personal photos, etc stolen from them
[sobriety] a character attempts to coax an addict into drinking/using again
[pass-agg] a character keeps getting mean notes from the neighbour
[finances] a character has their finances tightly controlled by another
[disbelief] a character finally tells someone about their terrible experience and they are Not Believed
[witness] a character witnesses a crime, especially a violent crime
Just watched Supergirl and ough Clark loves his cousin to bits. I should be able to get back to him in about a week or so. Right now I am stuck on this blog alone.
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Watching perfect blue with the bestie and AH I love mimas apartment so so much
I love that there's clutter everywhere and her clothes are hanging in the bathroom and he hops over the table and she's got dried flowers hanging everywhere and it's like so LIVED IN
Usually in shows the bedroom is so very impersonal and clean and I love that hers is HERS and her stuff is all over the place
Look at ittt
And !! It gets messier as her mental state gets worse! Which is so sick
setting this down at @lovedbyaster's feet but also i think this could be interesting with bezi @caterva if you want skgjslkgj
There is a thief in the castle walls, but Princess Eira Hywel does not particularly mind it. In fact, she's been aiding them.
Some months ago, Eira had begun to notice that paper and ink had begun to go missing from her personal chamber. Then, not long after, books too had begun vanishing from her reading nook one by one, sometimes returned, sometimes she suspected gone for good. A childhood copy of the Holy Book had been taken, as well as some old primers and fae-tales which she hadn't touched in so long that the only reason she'd noticed they were missing were the stripes of clean wood on otherwise dusty shelves.
It was peculiar. Eira enjoyed the novelty.
Eventually she began to intentionally leave extra wells of ink and small sheaves of paper out on her writing desk along with books she'd become bored of. Every few weeks, they would disappear. Eira loved it. She treated it like a game, wondering which books her mysterious thief would decide to take, and took guesses at who the thief might be. One of her waitstaff, surely? A handmaid, perhaps. Most were literate enough but she knew that the eldermost of them, Maeve, could not so much as write her name. Maybe she'd grown curious and was too embarrassed to ask? But then Maeve was very loyal and very old fashioned; if she even had the inclination to teach herself to read and write, she would have returned the books at least. Or the culprit could be quiet Ursula, Eira thought. She'd had a child some years ago and it would be reasonable to expect that she might like to teach him the basics. But then the boy couldn't be more than three or four now... Too young to care about writing or reading, and unlikely to know how to handle a quill at all.
It seemed to Eira that there was only one way to find out who this thief was without ruining their sense of secrecy: She would lie awake all night pretending to sleep and wait for them to slip into her chamber. There would be the problem of avoiding the physician and the nightly sleeping medicine he insisted on her taking, but she was sure that would be an easy enough hurdle, fits be damned.
So that was just what she did. Tucked deep into her heavy blankets, foul medicine seeping into the soil of her least favourite potted plant, Eira watched her dark room from beneath her lashes, thrilled at the prospect of finally solving the mystery of her literature-hungry thief.
Dark under eyes (not from a lack of sleep; this is genetic, I think)
Plays the dulcimer and mandolin; had an intense bluegrass phase as a teen
Loves novelty clothes and credits Ms. Frizzle and Dolly Parton both for her interest in teaching and her sense of style
Is a little deadpan and "low energy" at first blush, but comes alive when working with students, talking about cryptids, or going on a cryptid hunt
Probably autistic with a special interest in folklore and the supernatural
Grew up Baptist; dad was an ex-alcoholic and undertaker who credited his sobriety to his newfound faith in the Lord, and Mom was a Sunday school teacher
If asked, Birdie just considers herself "religious" in the broad sense; believes in a higher power, probably the Christian God, but also leaves room for other possibilities and fully believes in ghosts
Lesbian; tried for years to date guys but they never felt right, however she is still in the closet and fully expects to become an old maid
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"Better than she did when I told her I got my ear pierced," Dr Volpe says. He's volunteering here, a little urgent-care medical clinic that's not strictly part of the job but attracts many volunteers from his ER; this place is open late into the night and the vast majority of services are free, and it's as good for business doing health promotion here as it is keeping his finger to the pulse of what's going on around the city. Sometimes he steps away to call Dad. Most of the time he just likes to know what's going on in Volpe territory, and get a few extra hours under his residency belt.
The glass shards plink in the little tray when he bumps it out of the way, seeking out the safety pin. "I'm gonna wrap your hand," he says, "when I press your fingers I'm looking to see if they turn white and come back with blood quickly. It's how I know if the bandage's too tight. You're probably gonna have to re-wrap these yourself to keep the wound clean."
Pain in the ass sort of injury to get, in that location, actually. And a weird sort of place for a defensive wound. "You know what they were upset about?"
Kay's mouth presses into a tight, thin line. It could be the lighting, or the cold of the room, but it almost looks like his freckled cheeks are flushed.
"It was a mix-up," he admits. "They thought I was hitting on their girlfriend. I wasn't, but try telling a drunk guy that. Impossible to reason with."
Kay, a bit greenly, looks back to his injured hands, both fascinated and sick over the series of slices and pockmarks on his palms. He was grateful for doctors but, God, he could never imagine himself in their position.
"How often should I change the bandages?" he asks, focusing on the way Dr. Volpe checks his fingers. A little squeeze on an index, a middle, a ring... the flesh blanches and slowly pinks again each time.
