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SweetCyanide

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About SweetCyanide

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  1. Ooooh I wanna try >:^D Bony White Dude Snitches On Everyone Sexy Redhead Has Intense Blood Kink Teen Vigilante Too Angry To Die Demonic Bartender Goes To Church, Combusts Undead Doctor Has No Medical License Sexually Frustrated Surgeon Eats His Cigarettes Ew Ew Ew Ew Ew Ew Lovely Glass Boy Turns Into Schizophrenic Pure Witch Traumatized By Dirty Joke
  2. The men’s bathroom, though by the looks of it, the mixed bathroom, was lit like a darkroom that existed purely for aesthetics. It was dark and ridiculously bright at the same time—and for Roxanne—it was also incredibly annoying. How was she going to wash all this blood off her hair if everything looked red? How was she going to wash off at all when everything in this room was so very unsanitary? Roxanne begrudgingly squeezed the water out of her hair, then ran it under the faucet again, careful to not let it touch the basin. Geez. Is this paint or—? She ran manicured nails down her hair. I need a drink. Rinse, rinse. No—wait— Squeeeeze. I don’t need another drink, god, no! She whipped her hair back. It came down with a wet slap. Outside, the club blasted bops non-stop. Her heart pulsated to the bass of the music outside. Either the walls were incredibly thin or everything was incredibly loud; because she could hear the laughter of drunk and high party-goers loitering out in the hall, the telltale noise of a fight going down, and—the sobbing of a guy in the stall behind her? All of it made for a very stressful experience that nullified most of her six senses. Roxanne squinted at the mirror, feeling her retinas burning. She was disgusted by her reflection (her makeup was horrid!)—but felt mostly disgusted by the mirror itself. She had to eye herself through a space in the glass where there wasn’t a single phone number written in lipstick or a shameless and poorly drawn penis in sight. Not to mention some parts of it were chipped off and broken, like the very bathroom itself. For instance, the sink had a noticeable dent in it—like someone smashed someone else’s very tough skull into the vanity sink, leaving leftover debris. Condensation built up on the glass, maybe due to the rest of the bodies in the room who were either very dead or really alive. To her left, judging by the face, is a very scary mercenary stripped of his cybernetics, slumped in the janitor’s area. To her far right is the exit, alongside a passionate couple smoking weed. And beside her, is Harper, awkwardly rinsing his mouth with plenty of water. She didn’t realize at the time that Harper couldn’t actually talk with severe tongue lacerations. What ensued after was a very absurd interrogation that, out of context, sounded like Roxanne was trying to teach him the alphabet with a knife to his throat. She also couldn’t bring herself to kill him. That would be a little too much, even for her. “How—?” Rox started, immediately startling Harper. “How'd you even know this stuff, Harpz?” Her words slurred. Not from the alcohol, but from exhaustion. The question stayed while she inched close but not too close to the mirror, where she’d unfortunately noticed the lipstick smeared down the corner of her lip. While she fussed over her makeup, Harper looked around anxiously, hoping he didn’t need to actually answer that. He couldn’t really talk, not anymore. “Actually no—don’t answer that. That was—that was a stupid question…” Rox ran wet fingers through her wet hair. Streaks of red followed after, like a crimson tidal wave, transforming until it replaced every strand of black on her scalp. From black and curly, to red and wavy. Harper watched it happen with genuine wonder—wondering if what she did was magic or technology—caught in his thoughts of wonder until his absent-minded gaze clashed with a pair of murderous red eyes that seized his suddenly terrified soul. Roxanne stormed her way towards him in a pair of sharp heels that threatened to stab the shattered floor beneath them—closing in on the tortured punk until he didn’t have much time to react, before this woman pressed him up against the countertop so far back he bent his body over the sink. She placed her hands on his hands, placing her face uncomfortably close to his face—as if moving in for a poisonous kiss. Rox inhaled. “I’m just going to make this clear, okay?” Harper winced. Her voice didn’t have the same bloodthirsty and borderline maniacal tone she used many minutes ago. It was tired, and weirdly sad—but Harper could barely tell the difference. “If what you said was like, a bunch of really believable lies?” Rox paused, unable to grasp her words. “You’re totally dead. Like, I’ll hunt you down to the ends of the world, kind of dead.” A beat passed. “That’s—you got that, right?” Harper nodded, even more frantic. “Okay. Okay,” Roxanne stepped back, placing a finger to her chin in thought, but Harper stayed on the sink, stiff. “Good. Right. Well.” Another beat passed. “Run along before I change my mind.” Harper blinked at her. Roxanne blinked back. She made a gesture with her hands. “Run.” And so he did. Harper darted out the room, darted out into the sea of drunks, and darted all the way home. Roxanne watched him go. It was an impulsive choice, letting him go like that. Something welled up in her mind, as if it was a bad thing to let him leave alive. If it was her, five years ago, she’d straight-up murder the poor guy and shred his body into tiny little pieces so small he’d fit down a toilet drain. But now? Now she wondered if she was getting soft. It was a horrifying thought, even more horrifying than getting emotional at a rave. BVVV. Something vibrated in her pocket. And that something should be— Roxanne pulled it out, a cute chain of a TV character dangling from it’s edge. —her phone! When she squinted down at the screen, it read: NEW MESSAGE. She knew just who it was. So she made her way out the bathroom; past the couple slobbering each other to death, and back into the club itself. The music hit her, along with new scents both good and bad, coupled with colder temperatures more tolerable than that damned bathroom. Though the music didn’t spare it some silence, this floor was more calm than the rest; people often gathered here to chit chat and dawdle around. Something like smog enveloped everything, so finding people here was like taking a stab in the dark. FRIDAY, 2:00 AM ilikemilk: we’re here where u roxoxoxo: bathroom were u?? ilikemilk is typing… ilikemilk: nvm i see u Roxanne glanced up, looking around for a familiar face before glancing back down at her screen. roxoxoxo: r u at the bar? roxoxoxo: w8 howd u even get in :00 ilikemilk: try like going to ur left Roxanne went left, passing a group of attractive cyborgs she had to peel her eyes from. ilikemilk: no ur other left ilikemilk: getting cold roxoxoxo: this left? ilikemilk: yeah then go straight ilikemilk: then to ur right ilikemilk: yup yup getting hotter ilikemilk: hot HOT super hot ilikemilk: nono not there roxoxoxo: where?? ilikemilk: behind the rlly tall dude with a fire mohawk ilikemilk: piping HOT ilikemilk: ok nice you should see us rn roxoxoxo: so u WHERE at the bar 😕 ilikemilk: *were ilikemilk: anyways stand right there and look straight u should see us right away Her eyes peeled off her screen. She squinted through an ocean of moving bodies. There were booths here, open ones. Ares said something about a reunion, but it was obvious he’d never tell with who. She would have to wait until she’d caught up with him, so she went looking. She stood there, one hand on her hip and the other on her phone. Is that him? No, that’s not a boy. … That guy? No, too tall. Too skinny. Ew, too weird. Too… electronic? Hmm, too young. … Wait—no—that’s him! She meant to wave, but her hand came up short. It paused in disbelief. Roxanne made eye contact with a man. Blue eyes, blonde hair, kind of looked like the kind of guy to be riddled in bullet holes AND somehow closely resembled an ex? Her face moulded into varying degrees of thrill and confusion. Is that—? Her jaw dropped. Teddy?! "Wait. Where'd she go?" I delicately wipe a very shiny tear containing my self-satisfied delight. It takes me a moment to actually say anything beca—ha—oh—man— "Don't worry," says me, slurping on my delectable milkshake, sunglasses on my magnificent face, "she's already here." You know that magician's saying? You show the pigeon, make it disappear, then show it again? This is like that, except I'm showing my buddy the source of his romantic suffering. That, uh, sounds pretty bad—but this isn't on purpose, I swear. I'm like, a spectator—the old wise wizard sending these guys twisted by fate on a bullet-hell hero's journey. These three are pretty much after the same thing—so why not neatly tie them up together and hope they don't burn and crash into a dumpster fire? Five seconds later, Teddy should be assaulted with lots of hugs and kisses. Then—he'll stare me down the rest of the evening (or morning?) because obviously, this guy—I'm pointing at myself right now—knew this would happen. Anyways, I should countdown to ten, just to see how fast this chemical reaction takes place. I'll start; Ten- "Howdy, cowboy." Okay, that was quick- Roxy, appearing out of thin air, is looking down at Teddy, who is slumping pretty low into in his chair. It takes only a few seconds, but she starts to squeal like hell, wrapping her arms around the guy while hopping up and down—barraging him with stuff like; how many years has it been, you got more muscles, what're you up to these days, and, wow—you're a cop, now? I could go on and on about this, like how Teddy's starting to look like a beet after she smooches him on the cheek, and how for some unknowable reason, she's looking at me like I'm about to be smothered ne— "Baby, is that you?" Oh, fu- I scramble to duck, dodge, and evade the deadly shower of affection I'm yet to receive, to escape from the jaws of auntie love itself—but— What?! Impossible! She's behind me! I panic, my muscle memory egging me to leap away like some kind of feral house cat jumping away from the inevitable glomp of the human that threatens my very power—but it's too late. Her moves are too quick and I'm snatched in the claws of snuggle-wuggle-physical contact time. "Not the FACE—" "You're so tall now, baby!" "ROX-" "Look at you, so handsome now!" "ROX PLEASE-" "Oh, I missed you! Come here and gimme some wuvvin!" "AAARGHH—" Okay, seriously, I need to get on with this—briefing doesn't take all day. All night? Goddamnit. What time is it? After everything's settled, Roxanne's sitting on the table engaging in a banter with disco person—I mean—Yau—fangirling at how cute she is and how adorable her hair is—while Teddy's glaring at me like he's plotting some kind of super intricate revenge plan involving my future children. Eventually, I finally spill the deets. The tea. My milkshake that brings all the boys to the yard. BRIEFING IN PROGRESS. . . —Weapons are getting smuggled into the Core. They're linked to the recent terrorist attacks and bombings. The MTPD's going nuts over it. —They're showing up in places that mirror garbage disposal routes. Everything's in Yau's file. Track down the garbage truck that hasn't yet reported to it's berth in months. —Speculation leads to the destroyed Lightning Rail at Old Palgard. PLAN (A) —Bust some terrorist ass and hope they don't bust ours —Wait do we need an airship?? —Fly off into the sunset explosions ablazing — $$$ Profit $$$ cha ching ching PLAN (B) —Uhhh I didn't really think that far ahead —Improvise —Adapt —Overcome
  3. The two share a glance at one another; equally aware of the Lord Protector's intentions— "... I will require a full report to submit to the Lady Hildebrand," —of having Ser Hawthorne to politely choke on her own tongue and shut her mouth until the day she's had enough of squawking, added that she is tasked with a task not quite necessary at all. At his behest, Pluto finds himself nearly laughing off his horse; somewhat stifling his amusement to a restrained smile. He witnesses the moment the lady knight suppresses her poisonous tongue from ending the Lord Protector's day in one second; though it would have very well been a tug on the Lord Protector's infatuation with the Lady Hildebrand. "Aye, sir." Hawthorne instead says, followed by faint chuckles behind Iyalon's back. Pluto places a gloved hand on her plated shoulder, drawing himself nearer by leaning sideways off Powder. "I'm sure you'll know of it soon, but ah—I take it you're well if I leave you to your own devices?" "Yesyesyes," jokingly says Hawthorne, "I'll scour the land with an eye fir detail and spare our Lord Protector my good humor." He chuckles. "Prithee endure your desires to humor him. I take it he's in a foul mood these days." "When's he not in a foul mood?" "Whenever you're gone, of course!" They laugh. Pluto sits himself properly and kicks Powder's side. So then, the muzzled knight lags behind. The seneschal adorned in light armor and an honorary cloak follows after his heart-brother, placing his steed beside his. Pluto merely looks at Iyalon with that smile of his, a pang of remorse invisible. "I figured when you'd chime in," he starts, eyes forward to the vast and seemingly never-ending field of jagged rocks and uneven terrain, "had me worried you were utterly bitter that I'd picked the worst knight to bring along. Endure it for about... a few days. A good week, even. I'm certain it's not all that bad compared to the path ahead. Perhaps it'll place you in a brighter mood if I suggested the possibility of one of us falling to our doom at the waterfalls?" Pluto glances at Iyalon, a smile twisting into a smirk. "I jest, obviously." ______________________ —kiken'na pass Unforgiving waters. Twisting roads of jagged rock. Steep cliffs whose faces are prone to crushing travelers beneath them. The Kiken'na pass is more than dangerous for those willing to endure the trek to the Hinode Clan. Only those born in the mountains are able to navigate these treacherous paths with ease; and though many have fallen victim to this terrain, it is said tragedy only befalls those who do not have the blessing of the Hinode. "Oh bollocks—" Splashes of water. The noise of armor hitting wet stone. Pluto glances behind his shoulder, too preoccupied by the current himself. "Ser Hawthorne?" "I'm fine!" Hawthorne declares, managing to stand up against the strong current, the cold numbing her skin. "I'm fine." After hours and hours of travelling, bantering, and enduring Hawthorne's antics; the knights and seneschal leave their steeds someplace safer than a wild river with enough strength to shove them off the top of a cliff—subjecting themselves to the very cruelty of the cold Kiken'na. Perhaps this ridiculously strong river is how his heart-brother feels whenever subjected by his cruelty. Pluto believes the irony in this to be quite humorous. "Seems like one of us will fall, after all." He says with a joking tone, pushing through the current at a steady pace. The gold in his body is enough weight to keep him on his feet, though the same cannot be said for his companions.
  4. —MEANWHILE, AT THE CLUB NOW PLAYING: show it 2 me - night club Booze. Bops. Bitches. These three things were all it took to keep Roxanne a happy woman. Luckily for her, the Purple Penguin had all of these things and more; the Martial Town clubbing experience. Clearly, a massive upgrade from the rat-marinated bars she'd had to endure all those years ago. She never would've thought that in the entirety of her miserable lifespan, she'd get to chug down jellyfish cocktails, dance to near-death at hologram parties, make out with a cyborg— and murder a poor guy in cold blood at the bathroom to get a meaty paycheck. All in good faith for the Order. The music was bumping. The people were raving. The disco lights are out to flaunt their stuff, but Roxanne sat alone, wine in hand and cigarette in the other; admiring the stripper at the hexagon instead. No time to start clubbing when she's here to catch a rat. A big one. Crimson pumps. A revealing nightclub dress. Long, wavy pitch black hair. Cherry-red lipstick. Eyes so tired that no amount of beauty sleep could fix it; Roxanne was absolutely gorgeous and absolutely miserable at the same time. Three months. Fuck. She took a swig of wine, wiped her mouth and smeared her lipstick. Three months since the Order sent her for a hunt. A month of losing her guy, and another two months of doing fuck all. One more month and they'll take her tongue. After that, her teeth. Then, her eyes. And they'll just keep taking til' she's nothing but leftovers—and that was the ultimate price to pay for a target unkilled. Roxanne inhaled. Whatever. Whatever! Not like it isn't my first time panicking about these fucking consequences. Find the little rat and curbstomp the shit out of it. How hard can that be? Her eyes eventually went back to the stripper at the hexagon. The one in the skimpy glitter outfit, sporting the nasty kind of cybernetic that involved amputation. Roxanne smiled after exchanging some interesting eye contact. It's a good way to pass the time; flirting. Especially if you're trying to take your mind off your imminent despair. Oh my GOD. She groaned. Am I crying at the club?! What has the world come to? Is this what getting old does to you? Suddenly you're cantankerous and waiting for the end of the world? Ugh! My twenties are slipping away... Roxanne chugged her wine. Slammed it on the bar. Took a moment to soak in the wild atmosphere, watching the locals and their marvelous way of flaunting their cyberfashion in more ways than one. "Another one," Roxanne said, which was, admittedly, a bad idea. She can't handle another one. Roxanne Robicheaux is one hell of a lightweight. The glass got filled to the brim. She chugged that one down too. Stop being such a whiny jackass! The rat's coming. The hunt's still on. Keep your shit together! "Another!" THREE HOURS LATER. Oh my god—am I sick? Nooo—I'm getting all snotty, OMG, why am I heating up?? Roxanne had predictably, gotten drunk. Eyes drooping, speech slurring, and face on the bar. The rat never came. So Roxanne decided to get absolutely hammered. How am I gonna chew if they take my teeth away!? Are they taking my tits, too? Fuck! I need those!! Her brain was a mess. She was a mess. Still gorgeous, but a gorgeous mess. She picked her head up. Put a hand under her cheek and stared at the dancefloor. Puffed a smoke in thought. Some kind of crisis was commencing, and she didn't like it at all, but—all this—booze, bops, and bitches, bonus the murder—what the hell is it for? Rinse and repeat for the shits and giggles? Some kind of routine bound to those of the Order? Party and death? What the hell have I been doing all my life? Roxanne frowned. Glanced down at her hands, trying to see blood. Eventually, that frown turned into a gloomy smile. God, I'm so tired. The bass from the rave was pounding her heart like a gavel. The lines began to blur. Her vision began to blur. Everything began to blur; moving shapes, blinding lights, constant chaos in her ears... "You look like shit." Someone said. The music from the dancefloor was luckily weak enough to talk here. "I like it." Roxanne managed to turn her head. Some guy sat at the seat right next to her. He looked like your typical criminal in Martial Town; the buzzcut, the gang tattoos, the cybernetic design—except—this one looked not that bad. A little handsome. A little young. But young meant a youthful sex drive, and god knows what Roxanne knew about sex. She knew what was going on in that bullet-ridden cranium. Just a guy looking for a good time. Happens all the time. Some moron trying to get their grubby mutts on the goods. "How's about I buy you a real drink?" He said, placing his hand on her knee. While incredibly intoxicated, Roxanne let out a wheezy laugh. She slapped his shoulder, felt iron, and snorted. Purple highlights from the lighting followed after her. "You're so funny—a real—a real drink? Whazaa a reel dr—ink?" She caressed his inked, dark skin, and squinted through the lens of drunkenness. The perfume on this guy wasn't enough to mask the smell of blood and rust. The stranger gave her a sly smile. His hand trailed, "Something stronger than fuckin' wine, I'm damn sure," upwards, slowly and gently. She laughed. "I'm, ah, hmm... Maddox. Maddox, yeah..." "Call me Harper." "Harpur. Harpor—what's—whazza reel dreenk, huh?" "Slugs." "What's—?" Harper squeezed her ass. Something snapped in Roxanne right away. "Maddox, you know what slugs are, right?" Roxanne slowly blinked. "Yeah." "Yeah? Then you know they the good shit, huh?" She giggled. "Yessir." Harper leaned in close, "Well, how's this sound, sister? You give me a kiss, I give you a slug. Deal?" A beat passed. Roxanne giggled again. She leaned in closer, gliding her hands on an expensive leather jacket. "Yeah?" He gave her a grin. "Yeah." "Deal." She brought her face even closer. Time is funny. It's always funny when you're making out. With a stranger, no less. You can't tell the seconds from the minutes until eventually—there's a jolt of pain, the taste of iron in your mouth. It'd take you more than a minute to realize that your tongue got caught in their hair like barbed wire. Her lipstick stained his lips. It didn't take too long to stain it with warm blood. NOW PLAYING: s & m - rihanna 《 NA NA NA, COME ON! 》 Strands of hair like thin metal wire shredded the meat through his tongue. The young man gargled instead of screaming. More hair—tendrils of more wire—slithered around his neck. Roxanne's pitch black color alternated between tides of blonde, ginger, brown, and red, fluctuating like a display of late warning. The hair around his neck tightened like a snake crushing a rat. The scene was colorful. The party went on. Dancing shapes in the midst of a surprise interrogation. They were alone at the bar, excluding a few wasted drunks. "Thanks, Harper." Roxanne cooed, trailing her nail on his jawline. Harper's grunts of pain were overpowered by the rave. "I needed that. That er," she took a sip of bloodied wine, "that wake-up call. Really sobered me up." Harper was stiff and tortured, an endless river of blood streaming down his jaw to his shirt. She took a big whiff of her cigarette and puffed it in his face. Roxanne trailed her nail down to his arm. "You're not dead yet because of this tattoo, Harpz. But if you move..." She leaned closer. When he expected a bite, she kissed his bottom lip. Harper winced. Roxanne grinned. "Listen," the assassin whispered in his ear. "I think you're pretty cute. So how about we get to know each other more, huh?" Roxanne placed her arms on his shoulders, bringing her face closer to his. "I mean..." She traced his stomach, going down. "If you're not into it, I'll just kill you. Softly."
  5. The music screeches into an abrupt stop. My bony pinky is a bit covered in a speck of red. Confused? Me too. I was picking my ear the whole time this disco man-human-woman wacko started spouting some next-level shit while maybe, just maybe, my incredibly sharp fingerbone was trying to make some leeway in my ear canal to process the words coming out of the mouth I just fed. With milk tea, and with the tea. The. Motherfucking. Tea. I didn't even place a fucking price on it yet, what the fu— With my mind in shambles but my body ready to throw hands, I slowly turn my head to the one guy who'd probably threaten a child with a gun. Obviously it depends on the circumstances—but—at this point, I am so very down to sacking this girl. I meant boy. Or was it both? Wait, are there more than two genders? Fuck! But something's up. Teddy doesn't even flinch. The cowboy's fastest hands in the west don't even look like they're gonna zip down to that sexy gun at his hip. It takes a moment, but the guy looks at me, or rather looks down on me because I'm quite frankly a midget, and silently tells me with the look in his magnificent big blue eyes that he's gonna perform child endangerment through words. And also, he's going to cooperate. I make an almost offended face back, one filled with absolute perplexity as I place my hand on my chest and exclaim noises of confusion. Doesn't really change anything, since Teddy just gives me his iconic 'eh' expression. We turn our heads back to the elephant in the room. I squint. Then place two hands together and inhale. "We've discussed," I gesture. Yau blinks. "You didn't even talk—" "I know what you're looking for, and yes—" I cut in, "it's gonna cost you extra." I rub my bloody and ear-waxy finger on Teddy's sleeve. "I'll be getting more tea. Jerry, stay. Teddy, sit, do NOT touch my cup. Overgrown skittle-colored pubic hair, know your place, I will fucking end you." I'm saying all of this while awkwardly shuffling through the matted walls, feeling for my secret compartment that probably leads to my ultra-secret hideout. And, huzzah! I eventually do. I punch a trap door that swings right open. It's like a little mouse hole I crawl into—a shortcut! Mid-crawl, I stop and ponder. "You probably get a pass because I seriously need to put a lock on that thing!" Yells me, slamming the thing shut ridiculously loud and leaving Teddy with the gal-guy. The vent is tight; dark and humid inside with no air to breathe. Luckily I'm a skinny guy, so I don't even have to squeeze through. Weapon smuggling. The gears in my head are starting to wind up. So it hits me: What they're after is what she's after. And she likes to work alone. Fuck. NEW MESSAGE! FROM: ilikemilk [ares shezmu] — TO: cowmanbuckaroo [teddy leon] ilikemilk: so like ur prolly gonna have a reunion ilikemilk: gird ur loins ↩ ARES: EXIT ↪ ROXANNE: ENTER
  6. thanks for the follow nerd

  7. "Weird boxers." "Weird haircut." I give my fellow kid a big shark-toothed grin, half of my handsome face and body illuminated by a swash of alternated pink and blue from the large glowing aquarium in the dark room. It’s alarmingly dominated by a dozen of docile miniature drillbugs ripped straight out of Tethys waters. These things are like the gnarly cousins of Terric piranha. Or is it Fractal piranha? Fracture Piranha? Frac—? Whatever—listen—they like to burrow into your skin in the blink of an eye and eat you from the inside-out. I bet if you put your hand in that tank you're gonna end up looking a lot like me, you know what I’m saying? Piranha 3D™ aside, let’s pull our attention back to the disco gal I’m supposed to be servicing. God, I phrased that wrong. What is wrong with— The teenager about my age boldly playing Zengi Run on the opposite end of the table is supposedly a bit of a zany character. But really, who isn’t? So I did that face reconstruction a while ago, right? Then I started sniffing out her background—went filing through my contacts, and as it turns out— She’s some kind of law-breaking magitech prodigy. Infamous awhile back for ‘unique’ and ‘somewhat iconic’ tech. Couldn’t find much about her other than a few articles detailing a not-all-too recent heist and an even older article about the Lightning Rail. The grin on my face still staying, I head on over with my tail rhythmically swaying side to side with the low-volumed disco ambience to go place down my oriental tea set on my oriental table placed in the middle of my oriental themed room. After that, I sit my bugbear-on-fire-themed boxer butt down on my oriental chair. I guess you can say I make up for my problematic fashion sense with my natural knack for interior design. I just got all this furniture from Little Weland’s new WIKEA. It's absolutely great. “Tea?” I hold out an oriental cup with a bare-bone hand. “I’m a slut for tea.” The bone stops at a loose bandage wrapped around my mangled up forearm. If you want a more accurate visual representation in your mind’s eye, imagine a half-eaten popsicle. Disco dudette looks up from her game. Takes a once-over at my hand, then goes back to gaming. “That’s not very sanitary.” I place my hand on my chest and gasp. “How rude of you to insult my perfectly sanitary bony boys!” I place her cup back down. “Right me if I’m wrong—but didn’t you just crawl through a sewer?” “That’s roight!” Jerry chimes in, then scutters to my side of the table to plop down. “Young man righ' here sure knows how t’ crawl. Real natural, I tell ye!” A beat passed. That’s right. Is she a disco dudette? Or a disco du— “I’d like my tea with some milk, please.” Says the dudette-dude, not sparing a look. Jerry laughs and perks up. “Right-o, you adorable liddol peach pumpkin! I’ll go get that milk for ye...” He stands up on his two rodent hind legs and casually hops off the table. Jerry walks behind the aquarium and temporarily disappears. I turn my head back to disco person and find that we are both comically entranced by Jerry’s cute little stride. Right-o. There are things surprisingly more important than dying over Jerry; so I pull out a pair of glasses pinned on my shirt and place them on my face. And clear my throat. “Anyways! You’re in a hurry. You’re hurrying. Don’t worry bout it. What you want is simply,” I pull out a file. Place it on the table. “The hardcopy,” I pull out a device right after, “and the softcopy. I doubt these'll take too much of your time.” Disco pumpkin finally looks up from their game. Puts down the phone and starts thumbing through the hard copy first with experienced briskness. I place my chin on intertwined skeletal fingers. "License plates of all the garbage collection trucks in the Core. Not my usual line of work, so don't expect me pulling some prices out of my ass." Jerry comes right back out of the aquarium, walking and pushing a tray on wheels with a little milk bottle on it. He leads it to peach pumpkin where they internally squeal at the sight of a widdle mouse pushing a tray with tiny widdle rodent feet. I give them the tea. They take and pour the milk. Disco haircut takes a satisfying sip of milk tea. “Thorough. Ok. You’re not awful.” I give em a one second grin. “Safer than digital, less trackable.” “I provide more than license plates, too. Say the word and I’ll get to it like a fuckin' workaholic on cocaine.” Disco lad scoffs. “Watch your language, sir. That’s so unprofess—” KNOCK, KNOCK Did I just hear that right? And not that bit about language, “What the he—” KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK No. Wait. KNOCK KNOCK Could it fucking be? KNOCK KNO— I press a button under the table. “Cinnabon, intruder alert.” Sound of a security gun revving up outside. An almost audible yell at the door. Oh, you gotta be— “Holdonjustasecond!” Says me, already out of the room before I even finished my sentence. There’s only two out of five people who’d know how to get here. Martial Town Police Department— I go up a small set of stairs leading up to my vault door and stick my eye through the peeping hole. —and Teddy motherfucking Leon.
  8. Everyone had fallen. Everyone, except for him. Man, did he wish he’d fallen like the rest of them. "I'm afraid there's no leaving." The sound of footsteps. The echoing groans of the rows of stairs above him. His own heartbeat. An amalgamation of spirits bred by pain festering on his hand, wailing and crying like they’d never before experienced the sight of blood. “Besides," Raccoon cursed, unable to internalize his frustration. "I need target practise before we get to the real show." If he wasn't so preoccupied with the intensity of his situation, Raccoon would've replied with a dull comeback characteristic of his inability to formulate a good insult. Because right now, he was cornered, hiding under a staircase, gripping his wrist like a madman because, Sweet mother of Gaia there's an arrow in my HAND! "You've gotta be fucking kidding me," He mumbled to himself, "oh, you've gotta be-" This was just insult to injury. He was already bleeding prior. Fleshy red scrapes on his arm and cheek with a bit of splinters, maybe, but this—by far—was the biggest splinter of all. An arrowhead jutted out the center of his palm. The other half of the arrow shot straight through the back of his hand. The muscle surrounding it pulsated a non-stop loop of pain, and a thick river of good old blood oozed out to say hi. About a few moments ago, he'd cast a talisman barrier. And that required you to put your hand up in the air. With all the arcane procedures running through his head, the last thing he was thinking of were dozens of arrows with the literal ability to nullify said talisman barrier. Predictively, the arrows sliced right through his razzle dazzle like hot knives through a soap bubble. He reluctantly glanced down at his gnarly little flesh wound. The blood made him absolutely sick to the bone. Should he be pulling this thing out? But doesn’t that make you bleed even more? Is this mission just going to be about him throwing up all the damn time? Keep it together, man! He pressed his head against the wall. Keep it together. He started looking through his glasses—also stained with fresh blood from the arrow earlier. You're just having a bad day, he started feeling for something, maybe his pipe, most likely his gun, you're just having a bad day. You know what? Start thinking. Where's the team? Down there. Need to get to them. How? How do I get to them while trying to get rid of this FUCK—this—nice—guy up there? Think. THINK. THIIII- He came to mind. Right, yes, of course, you stupid dum—Raccoon thought, his thoughts overlapping each other in chaotic disarray. Nevertheless, he went straight to work like the professional he was. He shut his eyes and did his thing. His, ‘zone out’ session as he would call it. He drowned out the noise, opened his third eye, and called out to him, he who was beyond the physical realm. First, it was his snarl. A disembodied, guttural snarl that traveled in all directions. Second, the appearance of lazy trails of smoke rising from the floorboards; trails of smoke coming alive to intertwine into clumps of spiraling mass. And finally, the formation of the body—the face, the fangs, the recognizable stripes on its coat—the white tiger had taken shape, once again summoned to the living world, circling his master in predatory instinct. He hadn't noticed the spirits around him had actually gathered in fear. They expressed their concern by twitching erratically in all places unusual. Raccoon used his hand (the non-splintered one), to reach out and pet Pepper. The spirits screamed. “Need you to do something for me, real quick.” Hand pressed against its head, the shaman transferred a shock of memory into him. Pepper growled in response. “Go protect them.” The tiger stepped backward, regarding his master with a somewhat rebellious glare, until swiftly disappearing like the trails of smoke it had been created from. Raccoon had been left with an air of awkward unease. Gaia, I need a smoke. Raccoon glanced up. Now, arrows go straight through his magicks. That means homeboy wants to do it the old-fashioned way. And if homeboy wants to do it the old-fashioned way, Raccoon whipped out an ornate flintlock with a dangerous sheen. He'll do it the old-fashioned way. “Where they at?” He asked the spirit on his shoulder. It took a moment to process, then it spoke with it's six mouths. Right there, it pointed upwards with a thin finger. Raccoon looked. He scowled deeply. “Target practice. Target—I’ll give you some target practice, alright. One hell of a fuckin’ target—” He pointed, pulled at the trigger, and—BANG ✦ "What the—?!" He manifested in spiralling ashen clouds, carrying himself with pure animosity and animalistic hunger. A predator beyond the grave, he hunched low, stabbing the floor with steel claws. His eyes watched the woman. His nose picked up the scent of blood—the scent of an unnatural! Pepper bore his fangs and bellowed his ear-splitting roar. Fire reflected on his glossy slitted eyes. He split apart in two halves of himself—narrowly evading the hellfire—dissipating into two clouds of smoke; chasing after the woman like two serpents. Then meeting each other, the tiger melded together once more. He pounced forward, hellbent into sinking his claws and fangs into her flesh. (Should he fail, Pepper dissipates into smoke, appearing again to relentlessly attack. Should he succeed, he pins down the woman and nearly tears her arm from her body.)
  9. @Meraxaactually, i'm planning to post tonight! ? if everyone will have me again of course, with raccoon barging in and saving you guys from the evil bad vampire lady like the bro he is ? @Roen @Vilhardt @Zashiii
  10. | One day when I was chillin. . . NOW PLAYING: Word up — CAMEO Ah. Martial Town. The city where your nearest brothel house shines brighter lights than your typical 9 to 5 imbecile working here for a dim and inevitably short future. Outside the core, success ain’t very common here. A normal life either. So what more a childhood? Most kids here—they end up on the street sticking together with the other street kids working to impress the local drug lord. That shit is what’s sad and funny to me. Know why? They’re a bunch of mooks, the lot of them. But me? I’m a smart boy. I was like the brightest motherfucker in class. And thank whatever supreme being is out there manhandling me like a delicate flower, 'cause you're not gonna live a day here if you're mooks like them. I never stayed in school long enough to know you never needed to—not here in goddamn Martial Town. Here? You just get a brainchip at your local cybershop and you’ll never have to go to class in your whole damn life. Anyways, you probably get the drift. Insane pros. Insane cons. One of the many things that everyone knows out here is that you probably need a gun for every occasion. Need to buy the groceries? Gun. Going to a baby shower? Gun. Relaxing at home? Gun. Guns! It's always about the damn guns. People here are sketchy, I'll tell you that. So unless you like to revel in whiffing in the glorious scent of the daily shitshow deteriorating on the side of the street inside a cardboard box, (like me), or you’re a maniac and like to bet your life around the locals—just live in the core. Or—I know an even better idea. Don’t live in Martial town at all. Bam! Problem solved. So I’m sitting here, chilling in my rad hideout hidden in god-knows-where, dressed top to bottom in my luxury pa’jammies. Bestowing my fantastic bony ass atop a royal and outdated version of a Whirly Dirly chair in front of my rad desk; listening to my latest clients and reading the latest tabloids. Because you know what they always say about jobs. Work what you like and not what you love. And me? I like being a smartass. On the other hand, I love the convenience of having the materials needed to collapse the government. But right now, I’m a housewife with a substance abuse problem trying to get this lady to squeak—and I’m not explaining anything because it’s none of your business, gurl. I pinch one of my phones between my ear and shoulder, trying to patch myself up with my bare-bone hands. “Martha, you’re having a baby shower? Oh my go- gurl, you had a bump in your belly? Bitch, when?” Recently, I got this super cool cybernetic installed in my throat. Makes me sound like an authentic man, woman, and—well—anyone, really. It’s great. Right now, I sound like a Karen. I'm pulling it off super well too, since Martha's not very bright. “I. Know!” While Martha runs her mouth, I’m trying to bandage my leg propped up on my desk. Shit’s hard when your fingers are literal bones and your body is screaming: AAAAA— “But who knew? Geez, with all the humping me and Bill were doing, I thought our bed was going to crash down into the kitchen.” Ew. “Well, all that humping isn’t in vain now that there’s a precious little life growing in your belly." I reach for some antiseptic. "Bill’s a lucky man.” "Well..." Martha sighs like a teen girl in a teen girl daydream. Finally, I think to myself. After three hours of shit-talking detrimental to my health, Martha was about to spill the tea. "Oh, I don't know, Karen." "What? What is it, hun?" I accidentally spill too much antiseptic on a flesh wound. I find the strength in my diaphragm to not scream right now. "There's this... uhm..." Martha's coyly curling her hair in her finger. I don't have the visual confirmation, but it definitely sounds like she's doing it. "guy at the office and... Oh. I can't. I have Bill, and it's so wrong..!" "Uh, bitch, please? If you're wetting your panties over some guy at the office, you can just tell me? Like, am I seriously going to tell anyone about it? Rhetorical question—no. No I'm not." I slide open a drawer with my free skeletal hand and acquire a picture of the cretin responsible for my birth. "But before you say anything else, sis—is there any chance he's six feet, two inches, white like he swam in bleach for five days and came out looking," I grit my teeth for this, "pretty much a hottie?" Martha gasps. "Um. Yeah! How did you—?" "People talk." I say, smoothly. "And with a look like that, he's just begging to be ogled." "I know right? It's just—he's so—handsome?" "Same!" Not the same. Never. Nada. Not in a million fucking years, thank you. "And—? Sometimes—" Martha whispers, "sometimes I wish I could marry him over Bill, and that makes me feel like a big cunt." "Oh..." I turn up the sincerity. "Martha, sweetie," "But it's a good thing he moved." "That's a normal thing, you know, that's just... wait, he did?" I start wrapping my knee with bandage. "Wha- why? Where'd he move to?" "I dunno! Um... uh... Genesaris. One day, he said something came up, then he packed his things and just went off! It must have been something pretty bad. He was all distressed-looking. Maybe there was a death in the family?" Or a run-in with the law. "That does sound pretty bad. Did he say where?" One of my drawers start buzzing. Scared the crap out of me, but it sounds like someone's trying to contact me. "No... he just said Genesaris. Weird how he just left like that. Kinda makes you worry." "Hold on, I'm getting another call." I slide my phone drawer open using my tail. Oh, yeah. Did I ever mention I had a tail? It's practically an arm's length of my spine jutting out the place of my tailbone. It's bony, sharp, freaky, and pretty useful. But anyways, as the name suggests, I have a drawer clock-full of phones. I stick my free hand in there and start feeling for the vibrating one. "I'll call you back, Mmkay?" "Oh—oh okay. Talk to you later, gurl!" "Bye, bitch!" After I drop my bandages and my Karen persona somewhere on the floor, I try to end the call, but as always, have a little trouble trying to register physical contact with the red End Call button because my thumb is just—so damn—bony— Call ended with Random. 14:00 - 17:00 PM. Finally. After considering to put something like resin on the tips of my fingers, I crush the phone in my freaky skeletal hand because I'm meticulous and don't want her calling this phone ever again. An audible snap, electric crackle, and a bit of smoke comes out of it. I dunk it in the trashcan off to my side and look over the other phone in my other equally freaky skeletal hand. This contact's titled: Unknown. Sketchy. But maybe it's a new client. Who knows? Maybe it's an undercover cop. Maybe someone passed around one of my numbers. Man—not really complaining here, but work gets busier and busier everyday with the gang wars and crap. It's like I work with the law and then I don't. I plug a gadget into the port so the call is pretty much impossible to trace. Before I answer it, though, I clear my throat so the little thingie in there does it's magic. Sometimes I do this little routine with calls. A whole 'act like a different kind of business for reasons out of my control' kind of deal, but since it's so ingrained into my big beautiful head, I end up mindlessly spouting that shit like a weirdly rehearsed puppet show. I answer the call. "Heeeeello!" And this time, I sound like a hot, hot lady. "Good evening, ma'am/sir—Doctor Jim's dental clinic, here to schedule an appointment or you here to dilly-dally?" There's a slight pause. I'm starting to pick up on some rain on their end. "... okay ma'am," This one sounds like a kid, maybe my age, maybe younger. Probably a girl. Can't really tell, but I start to record what they're saying. "I need to get the license plates of garbage collection trucks in the Core." "Appointment it is, then." I turn on my computer by clicking a button somewhere on my desk. It's one of those latest PEAR models, the fancy kind; one of those hologram types that could bombastically take up an entire room if you so much desire to burn your retinas. I got my hands on it after something complicated. I don't know just what it was, but it involved a dickpic, so I'd rather not remember. The PEAR logo hovers in front of my face before it swaps to my desktop. I use my hand to physically but not physically swipe through an infinity of files that appear like floating icons floating above my desk. "Looks to me that... it's not a big deal. I'll send you the directions to this place. How's about you come over here at about..." I check the time on the computer. "20:00 PM sharp?" The client takes a moment to answer. They're breathing kinda hard. "...Sureness." And they hang up right after that. I take a gander at my phone, then save their contact in my list. I'm gonna go start a facial reconstruction based on those clips of their voice, and then maybe check out all the other things I need to do tonight, but first, I'll head over to my little pals. I wobble a bit getting out of my luxurious Whirly Dirly 'cause I'm covered in big and small patches of pain. Passing the two arcade machines I stole and boldly placed near my workspace, I keep walking until I reach a fun little mouse cage 'round the end of my bed. Aw, yeah. That's right, I have two little rodent friends. They're having the time of their lives running around those tubes I put in there last night. "Sup, dudes." Whoops. The voice changer is still on. I clear my throat so it deactivates. "Sup, dudes." That's better. Right after unlocking their cute cage, I stick my weird ass hand in there and let Jerry sit his adorable furry ass on my horror-fuel palm. He's a black tan; that means he's got a black coat and a brown undercoat. There's a single white stripe that goes over his back which I think is naturally fashionable. Jerry sniffles around and stands up on his two hind legs to look at me with those big, beady eyes. "We got a client coming over, so here's the plan..." THIS MESSAGE WILL TERMINATE ITSELF IN: 1 MINUTE HEAD AROUND THE BACK OF PAL'S GUARD. FOLLOW THE TALKING MOUSE.
  11. yaugirl @ripTia • 15 seconds ago nose REPLY GRUMBLE LIKE SHARE yaugirl @ripTia • 10 seconds ago i typed that with my nose REPLY GRUMBLE LIKE SHARE get_boned @ilikemilk • 1 second ago Replying to @ripTia penis REPLY GRUMBLE LIKE SHARE
  12. "Milord, you'll find that your decision to bring me along this mission will not disappoint you." "Oh! Yes, of course! Surely, I would not have taken you along just to disappoint us, Ser Hawthorne." A few minutes ago, the two men had embarked on horseback, forward to their journey en route to the lands of the Hinode clan. Pluto, of course, had chosen the fortunate knight to bring along. Surrounded by scenery offered by the wide plains of Andelusia, it is a particularly sunny and beautiful day, for exposing Iyalon to Faun Hawthorne: a woman with a tongue so sharp that the Lord Protector himself often find cutting his patience on her clever insults. Pluto and Hawthorne trailed, or somewhat, lagged behind Iyalon to engage in a cheeky banter. "Although," Hawthorne says, a spark of curiosity prolonging her words, "if I—may be so bold, for what reason do I hav' the pleasure of bein' your first choice?" The knight guides her steed; Bohemian, a handsome palomino decorated with the Orchid armor, along the dirt path carved by streams from the Syrramon River. "Hmm," Pluto hums, mounted on his white stallion. The sunlight seems to glow radiantly against him. "How about..." Pluto brings his thoughts to the running streams under them, "you guess, and I say which is right and wrong?" Hawthorne exclaimed in an excited 'ooh!'. "My, my. Let's see here. . . could it be, perhaps, you been charmed by me charming green eyes and luscious ginger hair?" "Mmm. . . you are, as you say, charming," Pluto laughs, "but no!" "Hmm. Ah! Or!" Hawthorne leans closer to Pluto, bringing her accented voice to a whisper. "Could it be—you desire the joy I bring when I frolic 'bout the Lord Protector's patience?" Pluto chuckles, and rolls his eyes. "Perhaps." Sharing a mutual idea, and a cheeky grin, the two disengage from the whisper, and continue striding on their steeds. "However," Pluto says, "you are the daughter of a surgeon, are you not?" Hawthorne sucks the air through her teeth. "'deed I am. Me father educated me'self in the... medical arts, I say." "Then you are, indeed, the perfect choice for this mission. With your quick wit and knowledge of the medical field, I am sure you will not disappoint. If the Lord Protector ever requires your assistance in... well, wounds, you will be there to tend to his needs." Hawthorne blinked, curiosity sparking once more. "But what 'bout you, Milord?" Pluto stutters, having forgotten that Hawthorne was particularly new. "It's quite. . . hard to explain, er, but I don't exactly possess the needs of any. . . human, I. . . believe. . ."
  13. Despite the startling hints of sadism seething in his otherwise inhuman eyes only about a few moments ago—perhaps even teeming with malice—Pluto suddenly finds himself at an otherwise strange and abrupt— state of peace. As Iyalon laughs away, Pluto does not notice the smile intimately creeping across his face. It brings a moment of clarity, Iyalon's smile, and it had brought a bit of sense back to him. Quite a moment of clarity did it bring; as he now looks into the eyes of his friend, with eyes hopefully devoid of that wickedness eating at him from the inside. Pluto frowns. Wickedness, is it? Jasper Hildebrand. The Greywood. The Broken Plains. The. . . The knight brings down his gloved hand into a firm handshake. Calloused. Strong. The seneschal slowly curls his fingers in a stiff movement. Pristine. Fragile. ". . .Who amongst the knights would you like to bring along for this eventful journey?” The question sprouts several questions that blooms so rapidly that his previous thoughts are imminently erased. Pluto gives himself a moment, and cups their handshake with his two hands. "Well! I am quite glad you asked, Lord Protector." He smiles. Rather cheekily, too. "I know just the strapping young lass."
  14. SUPER COOL VAL DRAWINGS its me cy and i like to draw and i really love everyone's art here ?? commissions: soon?! maybe, yes! more drawings?: hell yeah DOWN BELOW ! ! ! CANDIE & SUNNY SCARBOROUGH: two of the most frequently drawn characters in my files. there's something relaxing abt drawing these two ARES SHEZMU & TOMMY HUDSON: they barely interact, but they're highschool bffsies 4effsies (underage chucklefucks coming through) URSA MADEUM CHARACTERS: a pure golden boi and a filthy pirate man
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