theme
crime
Adhesion Contract;
n. a contract so imbalanced in favor of one party over the other that there is a strong implication it was not freely bargained.
nefariousbelladonna STILLDONTKNOWTHIS:
[ pvt ] Scoff, Scout's planning on coming over. Are you up for it?

[Private]

Up for …?

Yes.

30 Uncommon Character Development Questions ( send me a number )

edhelernil:

  1. What position does your character sleep in? ( i.e; stomach, side, back, etc. ) Describe why they do this — optional.
  2. Does your character have any noteworthy features? Freckles? Dimples? A scar somewhere unusual? etc.
  3. Does your character have an accent? What does it sound like?
  4. Do they have any verbal tics? Do they have trouble pronouncing certain words or getting their thoughts across clearly?
  5. What are their chief tension areas? 
  6. If you were to pick one song — and only one song — to describe your character, what would it be and why?
  7. How does your character perceive themselves? Positive? Negative? Neutral?
  8. Are they a quick thinker or do they need time to sort through their thoughts?
  9. Does your character dream or are their nights filled with an empty blackness? Describe a dream they’ve had or a night they couldn’t sleep and what they did to preoccupy their time.
  10. If they had a choice, would they prefer a subway or a bus for public transportation?
  11. What do they think of creation? Do they believe in evolution or do they believe in God? What is their religion like?
  12. Describe 5 unusual characteristics your muse has.
  13. Have they ever been so overwhelmed they had to stop and take a break from something? 
  14. Are they a team player or do they prefer to be solo?
  15. Can they multi-task or must they focus on one subject at a time?
  16. What are their best school subjects? What are their worst? List five of each.
  17. Is your character an introvert or an extrovert? How do they handle big crowds of people?
  18. Are they a leader, do they prefer to follow, or would they rather just stay on the sidelines altogether?
  19. If your character was suddenly challenged, would they rather run away or stay and fight?
  20. If your character was allowed to murder one person without any consequences, who would that person be and why?
  21. Your character has been granted 3 wishes; what would they wish for and why?
  22. Does your character trust people right off the bat or does it take them some time to warm up to someone?
  23. Do they prefer romance or affection? What is the quickest way to your character’s heart?
  24. Does your character have any enemies? If so, who and why?
  25. Do they have any weird bedroom habits? Any unusual kinks?
  26. How does your character prepare for bed? Do they sleep at all or can they stay awake for days on end without trouble?
  27. If your character had one thing to say to their parents before they died, what would it be?
  28. Are they afraid of death? Do they have any regrets?
  29. Does your character get restless when things are too quiet or do they favour solitude and silence? Why?
  30. Finally; if your character was forced to eat one thing for the rest of their life, what would they choose and why?
Emotional Ballast

nefariousbelladonna:

twilit-treaties:

nefariousbelladonna:

"I’m glad to help." You nod, and hesitate a moment. He looks…kind of upset. It’s difficult to be sure, because there’s still not a lot of emotion going on there, but at the same time any expression, even fleeting, is made more obvious.

So you throw caution slightly to the wind and reach up with your free hand to gently pap his cheek. It’s impossibly gentle, and while you know he probably won’t really get why you did it, maybe something in his head will make him feel a little better for it. Some part of you is aware you’re basically grasping at straws, but an even stronger part refuses to just let him sit there in his own head.

You are also maybe a little selfish because it does make you feel better, too. Makes you feel just a little less helpless, just a bit more balanced, if nothing else.

You turn your face to her touch, sink into a feeling of familiarity not your own. She smells pleasing, like orchid and dusk and petrichor. You wear the familiarity of her like an ill-fitting coat, feel it catch and tug at your thoughts. She settles you, and you cannot quite comprehend why. You sigh softly, try to ignore the mounting frustration.

You stay like that for some time, map the way her presence triggers some instinctive calming. You can feel the edges of some dark behemoth in her, and that knowledge curls sour and hot against your tongue. You are almost entirely relaxed beyond your control and there is a thing riding her thoughts and you don’t care, you don’t care. You are full of the uncaring, and you close your eyes with her hand in yours and her face in your thoughts and you go, uneasy but welcomed, to sleep.

You’re beyond pleased when he not only seems content with it, but he actually leans into your touch. That, above all else, delights you. You hold his hand tighter, more securely, and relax along with him.

When he falls asleep on you, it is a bit of a surprise. You feel like your heart is fit to burst, from how something so simple makes you feel the palest in your life. You nestle against him a tiny bit, and close your eyes, allowing your thoughts to slow down some for the first time in actual days.

Full sleep does not come, but you get closer than you have in about a week, and so you will later decide that it is absolutely a win.

Emotional Ballast

nefariousbelladonna:

"I’m glad to help." You nod, and hesitate a moment. He looks…kind of upset. It’s difficult to be sure, because there’s still not a lot of emotion going on there, but at the same time any expression, even fleeting, is made more obvious.

So you throw caution slightly to the wind and reach up with your free hand to gently pap his cheek. It’s impossibly gentle, and while you know he probably won’t really get why you did it, maybe something in his head will make him feel a little better for it. Some part of you is aware you’re basically grasping at straws, but an even stronger part refuses to just let him sit there in his own head.

You are also maybe a little selfish because it does make you feel better, too. Makes you feel just a little less helpless, just a bit more balanced, if nothing else.

You turn your face to her touch, sink into a feeling of familiarity not your own. She smells pleasing, like orchid and dusk and petrichor. You wear the familiarity of her like an ill-fitting coat, feel it catch and tug at your thoughts. She settles you, and you cannot quite comprehend why. You sigh softly, try to ignore the mounting frustration.

You stay like that for some time, map the way her presence triggers some instinctive calming. You can feel the edges of some dark behemoth in her, and that knowledge curls sour and hot against your tongue. You are almost entirely relaxed beyond your control and there is a thing riding her thoughts and you don’t care, you don’t care. You are full of the uncaring, and you close your eyes with her hand in yours and her face in your thoughts and you go, uneasy but welcomed, to sleep.

FREE HIM

fluttersleuth:

He doesn’t want to play at all. How boring. You’ll just try again sometime later, when he’s a better mood, which, for your sake, you hope will be soon.

"You don’t remember anything about it at all? If I knew where it was, I could try to summon it here or something, you know. But, uh. I haven’t used that spell in a while, anyway, so it’d probably just backfire somehow. So maybe it’s not so bad."

He brings up the MK case, and you kind of wish he hadn’t. You don’t want to discuss it, not when there’s the possibility of the whole Sepulchritude situation being brought up while talking. You know that neither of you want to remember the aftermath of that. 

"Yeah, I kinda forgot that you had to go through that whole thing, too. That was one of the few times I’ve ever worked as a team for that sorta thing, though, and dungeons aren’t generally that big and very rarely have puzzles so big that you have to have more than one person to solve it. Playing solo really is encouraged ‘cause everything’s just so competitive, but you already knew that."

"I’d say it’s less like that here." You look thoughtful, try to remember everything about the Imaginary World of your universe. You don’t experience it much, after all, it’s entirely possibly things have changed rather radically. "But from what I remember, teams are just as effective. Ours was, at th’very least. Dunno how much a that is just our natural teamwork showin’ through." You shrug. You wouldn’t be surprised if the Scoundrels are a rather special case. 

"An’ I guess me knowin’ next to shit all about everything just adds another layer a fun. See how spectacularly we can fuck it up in as little time possible." Innovator would probably kick you for that, you think. 

Emotional Ballast

nefariousbelladonna:

You look fond at the tapping, and don’t bother even trying to stop him. It’s nice, and very cute. You don’t miss the way he avoids saying “I” again, and you vaguely wonder what might convince him that it’s fine and accurate to use it.

A lot of time, you conclude. Too much time for something that would probably fix itself. Still, you itch to help him, to make him feel- Well, feel anything at all.

"Mhm. Snooping Scout, your matespirit." You say, sounding pleased. Your fondness of the little redhead has grown since he let you puppysit Morgan, though whether or not it’s the dog or the man you cannot say. You gesture vaguely. "He was the one that you did all of this for. The ritual, I mean."

Idly you wonder how Scout’s been actually doing, because you’re not sure how much to trust his public posts. He might be saying he’s feeling fine, but he’s just got himself a Patron. You’d be shocked if he managed to feel better right away.

Then again, Scout is one of the two most stubborn men you’ve ever met. Maybe he’s already beat down his Terror. 

You look unsettled at the mention of your erroneous birthing, unable to forget the violation of yourself right to your core. You revisit it nightly, know it as familiarly as you know the throb of your pulse. You lay with her hand in yours and try to absorb this new information. You had assumed - well, very little. You don’t like to think about the ocean water in your lungs, the harsh howling of terrors best left unimagined.

Holding Bawd’s hand ins stupidly, unfathomably comforting right now.

"Hm," you manage after some time, You feel anger from a great distance, source-less and baseless and more irritating for it. You don’t know how to feel about all of this new information. You barely know how to feel about existence.

Thank you.” You don’t feel very thankful, but it feels the most appropriate response to her candid responses.

((It’s really hard to reply right now! Sorry fluttersleuth, nefariousbelladonna, posting back to you is gonna take some time.))

#OOC
fluttersleuth STILLDONTKNOWTHIS:
(( hi! happy birthday!))

((AW YEE))

Emotional Ballast

nefariousbelladonna:

You look a little surprised, then amused at his question.

Right, he wouldn’t know. But still, after all that went down between the two of them… Oh well, at least this is an easy question to answer.

"Deadeye Detective. He’s your kismesis. He was there for, mm, support." You say, smirking a little. You can’t help it, no matter that it won’t get remotely the same sort of reaction as you’d get from him otherwise. "He’s got a ring from you too, actually-"

You pause. You think. It had been so chaotic afterwards, so terribly emotional that you hadn’t really recognized it, but. As clear as day, you can remember that Deadeye did not, in fact, have his ring on. And you can’t imagine why, considering it was just the three of you, and it doesn’t really seem like Deadeye to just forget something like that.

Something to look into, you suppose.

"He didn’t have his ring on, for some reason. But he does have one." You sound terribly, terribly curious about this all.

She seems to enjoy telling you about him, at least. Your … involvement with him. You cannot parse why this would please her, why her smirk is so familiar and known to you. You huff in irritation, tap a perfect counterpoint to her pulse against her wrist.

The rings, you know, are a marking. Possession, perhaps, a statement of mine in platinum and precious gems. Promise and answer both. You do not understand why that would matter to you. Why the thought of that man - Deadeye, you remind yourself, there is a name for that face now - not wearing it jabs so horribly serrated and wicked into the softest parts of you. 

"Are there others? That … I -" here the word is bitter, distasteful, incorrect. It could not have been you. “That have accepted such a token?” Why wasn’t he wearing it, you think, and then why does that matter at all

Emotional Ballast

nefariousbelladonna:

He holds your hand, and you feel your heart flutter. You give it a gentle squeeze back, and smile a bit at him. It feels just like usual, even if he doesn’t really understand it just yet.

You’re intensely flattered that even when he’s like this, he seems to know and recognize you as someone good. It makes you ache a little, and you can’t quite keep your smile from widening at the thought.

"I…guessed as much." You admit, shrugging a little. You life up your hand a little bit, twisting it so that he can see the ring on your finger, as plain as the moons in the sky. "But you know, you’re still him. Perhaps muted, but you’re not totally different. You’re still the man that gave me this ring."

It’s so sappy, you actually feel a little embarrassed. It’s strange, feeling so outrageously pale for Scoff when he can’t quite grasp the feeling, but at the same time you can’t exactly stop. And you think it’s proof enough that he’s still himself, anyways, that you feel like cuddling close and papping him dizzy. That he can calm you down by something as simple as holding your hand.

You want very much to believe her words, her assurance that you are still him. You are incomplete still, parts of you still gape wide and raw, ready for the pieces of yourself you do not have. How can you be him if you are unfinished, if you are only some pale shadow pretending at existence?

Troubled, you put those thoughts away. There will be time for them later, perhaps, maybe they will just fade and be forgotten. You don’t know which you’d prefer.

Bawd, at least, seems to gain some comfort from your presence, from her hand in yours. It costs you nothing to lay with her, after all. Even if all of this is just some elaborate, malevolent construct designed to trap you, you would not mind so much. It is warm here, and so far Bawd hasn’t turned into some dark reaching thing seeking the heart of you. 

You let your thoughts sleet unhindered through you, pluck one from the swarm.This has been bothering you for some time, now, and perhaps she can put it to rest.

"Who was the man with you?"

Emotional Ballast

nefariousbelladonna:

You watch him trace your hand, and it’s so familiar, but not, that it aches. You don’t move towards him, or dote on him whatsoever, despite how much you desperately want to. You want him to do this on his own, without you asking for it, because- It’s just important, to you.

And if he doesn’t do anything more, you can handle it. You’ve handled everything else.

"It’s alright." You say, though your voice betrays you by choking up a little. "It’s- It’s enough that you came over here." You bite your lip, because as good of a liar as you are, lying to your moirail like this, practically on the cusp of a feelings jam scenario, feels wrong somehow. 

But you don’t want to just dump your feelings on someone that doesn’t want to hear them. That would be worse than wrong, in your book. It’s a terrible feedback loop of wanting Scofflaw, but not wanting to make him uncomfortable, and bottling it up, and wanting Scofflaw even more.

You rub at your temple with one hand, still not moving the one under his.

She lies to you, right to your face. You are merely curious, watching her grief course through her like molten lead to your eyes. You feel inadequate, false, a pale copy of what she wants. You think about how easy it would be to snap the delicate bones of her wrist, how easy it would be to draw out her blood and her dying breath until it was only you left here.

You think about how your body does not respond to the idle curiosity, how some part of you brushes aside that thought like it’s not even worth considering. You had asked her who you were to her, but perhaps you should ask the yawning great rip in your mind who she was to you.

There’s a slick moment of vertigo, a quake in your limbs. You cannot tell which way is up for one blinding moment. You hold her hand and it feels right, but you are left without knowing why. You blink dark spots from your vision, take an even and measured breath. You ache for her, right to the marrow, but it is source-less and direction-less and you don’t know what to do with it. 

"I think I know you." You consider your words like they’re books unto themselves, let the statement hang for a moment before ordering the next set in a way language convention dictates is understandable. "But I do not know the me that knows you.” You would fear (if you could fear) that all you are is a shell, some hasty construct built from mental and emotional flotsam. Some hurried reconfiguration of an original you can no longer remember. You would fear, if you could fear, what this means for the you thinking.

Emotional Ballast

nefariousbelladonna:

Scofflaw getting up is the last thing you were expecting, considering you had thought he was…not aware. You try to create an expression of calm, because you don’t want to add unnecessary stress to him, but your face doesn’t seem to want to listen.

The question takes you by some surprise, and you wait until you’re certain your voice won’t break until you speak. And then you wait a bit longer, to figure out exactly how to put it. The use of “he” makes your heart hurt more than it has any right to.

"…You’re my moirail." You say, and the words come as easily as ever. A relief. You unwrap yourself a bit from your curled up state, to set a hand near him, as much an offer as a plea. "My starlight."

And it’s true, really. Scofflaw might be acting different, but he’s still your Scoff, at his core. Perhaps at his true core, honestly, and you’re a bit comforted to feel the same tug towards him that you do when he’s all smiles and bravado.

Something drives you to take her hand between your own. You trace the delicate bones with your thumbs, fit your fingers over her wrist to feel her pulse. So very similar to yours, so very different. You do not understand this.

Part of you feels unwound by it, and that is even more infuriatingly confusing. You are torn between removing yourself and moving closer to her. You do not like either. You hum as you let your thoughts run slow, try to pick them apart with little success.

"I don’t understand." Clinically, you know. Moirail, lit, balance-point, counterweight, other half. But to you, to her, you do not understand this. Your frown deepens, you close your eyes as you try to parse this into something you can understand easier. The darkness breathes with you and into you, you breath out it flows away like so much dust.

"I am sorry." The words have no meaning for you, but to some part, they’re right. To some part of you buried under layers of fog and cold disinterest, they mean more than the sun itself. 

Emotional Ballast

She intrudes upon your silence, and you can all but hear the roiling fury and hate in her. You are, perhaps, jealous. She can feel what you cannot, what part of you feels too keenly. She sits upon the bed designated as yours and watches you as you watch her.

Part of you demands you go to her, smooth out the frown on her face until she’s calm and yours again. Part of you does not understand the need to do so, cannot comprehend the flurry of emotions that you struggle to hold.

You heave yourself up onto the bed beside her, absorb every little detail of her face. You are out of your depth, you are standing in shallow water well known. You frown, very faintly, cannot marry the conflicting sensations into a whole.

"Who am I - is he, to you?” You want to know so badly, you want her to tell you nothing. Who are you, if nothing more than a shell, if nothing more than a falsity constructed to protect a mind trapped in a waking nightmare?

FREE HIM

fluttersleuth:

Your nose turns up at the smell of the cigarette, but you don’t say anything. You’re not all that used to the smell of smoke. You tried smoing once, because you thought it’d make you hardboiled and badass, but all that happened was that you started coughing and you had to put it out and discard it and forget about the experience completely. It’s an embarrassing memory and you try to tuck it away where it won’t be brought up again.

"I’m way fast, though, Scoff. I dunno if you could keep up," you say teasingly, not yet ready to give up on being playful with him. "Did you manage to find your spread sheet?? I dunno anything about what your dungeon-crawling is like. I got nothin’ to work with. But I guess that’s just one of the reasons why this sort of thing is usually solitary. Too much can go wrong in a team."

You note Sleuth’s discomfort as you smoke, and take some measure of pity. You make sure to keep your exhales tight and directed towards the ceiling, where the smoke drifts before dissipating.

"I dunno, Sleuth, I reckon I could more than keep up with you." Well, mostly. You think your speed stat isn’t nearly as high as his, but you have various tricks up your sleeve to counteract that. You shrug at his question, though. "Haven’t found it yet, no. Didn’t really look too hard, to be honest." You give him a wry smile. "Here, though, teams usually do better than just one person. S’how we managed the whole MK fiasco."

And wasn’t that a fucking adventure? 

You sit in the alley, hands resting on your knees as you watch the street outside your little dark hiding hole. It is … noisy. Grating, in a way you never thought you’d miss. The regular you she had said, like you’re just a passing moment, a chrysalis for some terrible and vicious mind.

You are unsettled, because this knowledge cuts into you, into all the pieces of you. You do not want to be just a shell for the reawakening inside you. You do not want to be discarded, used up and thrown away.

You grow increasingly furious, but in a distant and cold way. You do not have your own anger to draw on, there is no white hot fury that belongs to you. You sit and you feel hate like a passed on emotion, washed out and faded and not enough.

You retreat from your thoughts and the blinding light of the streets, slink through the shadows so familiar to you until you’re back with her. You leave your phone on the floor, shattered apart under your heel.

You can be found laying useless on the floor of the room you’ve been using, eyes unfocused and lips working as if you’re holding a conversation.