Westcott The Earthbound

Don't Starve OC Ask & Roleplay blog Indefinite Cave Dweller NSFW Friendly  Current Stats: Sanity: 150 Health: 130 Hunger: 130 Current M!A: Throned

[a-dynamite-digger]

“A cigar or a drink. Let me escape this place for just a moment and feel some sense of peace.”

[a-dynamite-digger]

Wes flings himself at his boyfriend!!! This has all of zero effect because he weighs 90 pounds soaking wet. But! He is excitedly kissing Wesycott! Which is effect enough!

Darling! My little bug! Westcott basically envelopes the mime in his arms, doting kiss along his neck as he does. Too long since he got a good dose of island love!

[a-dynamite-digger]

Rebirth

Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat.

Curled into the rough ground, catching his breath and calming his heart seemed the most impossible tasks. Shaking from pain and confusion, he stayed crumpled in the dirt. His entire left side felt crushed.

This was a dream. Just another horrible and cruel dream, he assured himself. It wasn’t real and when he would wake, he would be in his home again. But for as long as he laid there, the dirt beneath his hands never softened to linen. Nor did the drips of water in the distance shift to the low hum of carriages outside his window.

Daring to open his drying eyes, the world remained the same. Darkness stretching on forever, the only light being the hole above that he so hastily plummeted from. None of his nightmares could compare to this. Willing to sit, his side still hurt terribly and a ringing in his ear made him almost dizzy.

This was real. What just happened was real too and the thought made his tears started anew, pooling in his eyes before making clear tracks down his dirty cheeks.

Just as the sobbing was taking him over, the light above was darkened.

“The truth hurts, doesn’t it?” Maxwell spoke from above the sinkhole, just a black silloette against the light but still unmistakable. If there was one monster to direct his sadness at, it was him.

“Maxwell!” He shouted, face still wet from tears. “Maxwell, you bloody wa-!”

“You chose this.” The demon quickly interrupted. The man below stilled, staring upwards at the dark figure.

“So get comfortable, because this…” He waved to the darkness below. “… is your only safe haven from your mistakes, Westcott.”

Not leaving room for retort, the light returned to the world below and the man was left alone once more.

(Wanted to return to westcott for so long but couldn’t. So many unfinished threads and lost friends that have left. Couldn’t bring myself to carry on as he was so I’ll be starting fresh. Still love all the progress he had made and will cherish those times but looking back, he did need some tweaking, especially with his drastic mood swings that he had because he was my first role play character ever and didn’t know what i was doing.

So, fresh out the door and in the caves. Westcott returns to survive. Send asks or messages to interact, will post some starters later.

[a-dynamite-digger]

Rebirth

Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat.

Curled into the rough ground, catching his breath and calming his heart seemed the most impossible tasks. Shaking from pain and confusion, he stayed crumpled in the dirt. His entire left side felt crushed.

This was a dream. Just another horrible and cruel dream, he assured himself. It wasn't real and when he would wake, he would be in his home again. But for as long as he laid there, the dirt beneath his hands never softened to linen. Nor did the drips of water in the distance shift to the low hum of carriages outside his window.

Daring to open his drying eyes, the world remained the same. Darkness stretching on forever, the only light being the hole above that he so hastily plummeted from. None of his nightmares could compare to this. Willing to sit, his side still hurt terribly and a ringing in his ear made him almost dizzy.

This was real. What just happened was real too and the thought made his tears started anew, pooling in his eyes before making clear tracks down his dirty cheeks.

Just as the sobbing was taking him over, the light above was darkened.

"The truth hurts, doesn't it?" Maxwell spoke from above the sinkhole, just a black silloette against the light but still unmistakable. If there was one monster to direct his sadness at, it was him.

"Maxwell!" He shouted, face still wet from tears. "Maxwell, you bloody wa-!"

"You chose this." The demon quickly interrupted. The man below stilled, staring upwards at the dark figure.

"So get comfortable, because this..." He waved to the darkness below. "... is your only safe haven from your mistakes, Westcott."

Not leaving room for retort, the light returned to the world below and the man was left alone once more.

(Wanted to return to westcott for so long but couldn't. So many unfinished threads and lost friends that have left. Couldn't bring myself to carry on as he was so I'll be starting fresh. Still love all the progress he had made and will cherish those times but looking back, he did need some tweaking, especially with his drastic mood swings that he had because he was my first role play character ever and didn't know what i was doing.

So, fresh out the door and in the caves. Westcott returns to survive. Send asks or messages to interact, will post some starters later.

[a-dynamite-digger]

“Memories are the past. Visions are the future. Which are more important? Something that has already happened or something that will yet occur?” 

(I really want to come back but IDK how after all this time.)

[a-dynamite-digger]

"I never cared for chess, I was always more of a blackjack kind of man."

[a-dynamite-digger]

silent-survivor:

Westcott’s smile, his laugh, was at last enough to quell Wes’ anxieties. He seems content to let his hands be held for another few seconds, before his enthusiasm overwhelms him, and he wiggles free of the puppet’s grasp. Westcott is left without him for all of three seconds before Wes readjusts to practically glue himself to his hip, taking his hand again so he can walk side by side with him. His fingers smooth over his knuckles rhythmically, as if still reassuring him, but now he seems set on guiding Westcott forward after taking a look around to regain his bearings.

As they walk, Wes lights up like a ray of sunshine, turning his face up to Westcott. “You are the reason it is night, are you?” It’s not something he seems to regard with disapproval, and he sparingly squeezes the hand in his, his painted lips struggling to barely conceal a smile. “You have made the moon so wonderful, Westcott.”

Walking hand in hand, the question catches him. Brows furrowed and eyes turned downwards as he thought it over.

"I probably am." Unsure of his own answer, Westcott continued as his gaze traveled upwards towards the now ever-present full moon. "Never really paid attention to it before."

And what a beautiful moon it was. Bright and perfect with never a cloud to block its view. Casting everything below in an ethereal blue glow.

"But I'm glad you enjoy it." Inching a little closer and pressing their linked arms together, Westcott leaned to rest his head on Wes' shoulder.

[a-dynamite-digger]

silent-survivor:

Oh! Wes is, as ever, receptive as can be to Westcott’s affection, and he leans up on his tip toes when he’s held. His hands reach up to card through the puppet’s hair, gentle and slow, and for a short while he stays like this, occasionally humming and making soft noises as if to comfort him. Part of him is still worried, but it’s difficult to stay so morbidly aware of the situation when every word Westcott said filled him with such warmth. All he’d wanted since their relationship had started was to be there for him, and being told as such almost made him want to tear up. Or… did make him tear up. Just a little!

"Nicolas,” He voice is quiet and lilting, and he keeps his slender fingers tangled in his hair when he speaks, just to keep him close. “You know I am always here for you.” He kind of coaxes Westcott back from the curve of his throat, so that he can press a tender kiss to his cheek, delicately stroking his face and wiping away the oily tears at the corners of his eyes. He smiles against his skin, only parting to nuzzle against him again.

And then it kind of hits him that Westcott is up here, and that he can be up here, and that he can come back to his camp!! He bounces a little, moving his hands to join theirs together, turning his face up to smile at him. “Westcott! You are able to be coming to my camp now, aren’t you?” He’d been there before, but… not in the right state of mind. And not in a long while! “Would you like to?”

A quiet moment to enjoy the warmth of soft touches and the smell what was wholeheartedly Wes. The king could run the length of the island a dozen times without a haggard breath, lift the largest boulders or stop a giant in its tracks but for the life of him, Westcott could never muster the strength to resist the way Wes could make him move from the crook of his neck. Tears ebbing away and vision clearing, nothing better in the world to see at that moment than a mime with wrecked make up.

A real laugh rumbled in his chest at the question. Squeezing the hands folded into his own.

“Yes, yes of course. I would love to go to your camp.” And meet all his little animals too.  “I can’t think of anything I’d want to do more. I’m still pretty new up here after all, a tour would be great.”

[honeysucklebuttons]

Visit Original Link

11 Acorn Lane - Perfect

[a-dynamite-digger]

silent-survivor:

Wes listens intently the whole time, often squeezing Westcott’s hand, a sympathetic grief slowly dominating his soft features the more he spoke. He knew the archaeologist wasn’t the most social, ever since he’d known him – he himself was maybe a special exception, something he regarded with a deep, strong affection and appreciation – but to hear it wasn’t an innate personality trait was startling and a little upsetting. He never liked Westcott being alone down there, but it was infinitely worse to learn it wasn’t something he would have sought out at any point before.

And, ohh, Westcott’s guilt. Wes hated to see him so shameful, liked a kicked dog, even when he understood it. Wes had long forgiven him for what had happened to him, but he wasn’t sure he could ever really scrub away the bad feelings entirely, and he certainly couldn’t pardon that which he felt over the death of his companions.

But… He could try!

His narrow chest rises and falls silently for a few more seconds, and he seems to search for his voice again, but the fingers curling into Westcott’s are enough of an indication that he isn’t upset. His other hand again reaches out to cup his face, and he leans up and presses their foreheads together, staying like that for a little while in a display of quiet fondness and forgiveness. And, finally, in a tiny little voice: “Thank you for telling me.” He puts all of his weight onto the arm he’s holding, but he’s barely one hundred pounds soaking wet anyway, holding onto it like a lifeline. “It is okay. I promise.”

It wasn’t a happy feeling settling in his chest. It's a comfort to lean into Wes' touches, little drops of black fuel pricking at the corners of his eyes again. Everything was infinitely better now but one can't simply erase 6 years of guilt in a few weeks. 

"Thank you. That was a sad time, but having you made it so much lighter. I cannot begin to tell you how often your bright smile brought me back to myself.” A small bashful smile of his own making his dirtied cheeks flush slightly. "I don't think I would have made it this far without you. To be on the throne, up here. I have my friends back after whot Maxwell had done to them and I can finally stand in the snow under the moon with you in my arms. You gave me something to fight for.” 

Soft fingers wouldn't cut it here, Westcott removes himself from Wes' touch just to wrap them around the waist in practically the biggest hug imaginable. His head tucked in the mime's bow around their neck. “Thank you.”

Back in the darkest, most recesses part of the island; whispered murmurs echoed off the damp cave walls. 

"He's pulling his leash a bit too hard, wandering about with that mime.  Kings like that are... difficult." 

"Calm yourself. When all is said and done, who do you think he's going to pick? Some little boy? Or his dearest and oldest friends."

[silent-survivor]

a-dynamite-digger

Wes’ volume startles Westcott too, enough to make his babbling and tears stop momentarily . His boyfriend isn’t scared of him? He’s worried instead. Leaning into the touches, he breathes out a shaky sigh of relief. Letting some of the tension in his puppet ebb away.

“I’m… happy? I mean, it’s rather boring most days so I’ve been sleeping a lot but when I’m awake I’m usually in good spirits.” Sniffing back a few straggling tears, Westcott had to think about his next choice of words carefully.

He was afraid.

“It’s been much more happy than sad, since I… they…” The look of uncertainty was back while Westcott fiddled with the bottom hem of Wes’ sweater.

“Wes, there are things I haven’t told you about my past. Things that I was too scared and… ashamed to tell you. I think I should tell you now.”

Boring?

For just a moment Wes looks miserably confused – it was his understanding that being seated on the throne was some sort of terrible punishment, and Westcott didn’t really seem that upset about it. He searches his face, as if to be certain that it was really him, and apparently upon deciding that it was smiles again, bright and sunny. It was a good thing that Westcott was not unhappy.

“Boring” was maybe a surprising word to him, but Westcott was still very much Westcott.

He relaxes again, to a degree, pressing his cheek into Westcott’s palm. Being so worked up stunned him back into utter silence, but the poor archaeologist had managed to stem the flow of tears ruining his makeup, and he has all of his attention. He lifts his hand to gently touch the back of Westott’s, to indicate he’s paying him mind, a sheepish guilt creeping across his features – he’d have liked to comfort the man, especially considering he was deciding to share something sensitive about himself, but his voice was gone from him. Delicately, he presses his fingers to his throat, as if to assure Westcott he wasn’t shunning him in silence or ignoring him (which was an absurd concept to him anyway).

And then he nods, and squeezes his boyfriend’s hand. He’s listening.

[a-dynamite-digger]

Westcott understood and was slightly relieved by Wes' silence. He had to talk, now or never. Big breath.

"I... It's​. I've never told you how I came here, to the island. We've never discussed it, we both have had our reasons I suppose. Why we felt the need to turn to Maxwell for help. I was in a dark place when he found me." Had it been so long ago? It didn't feel all that far away when that voice crackled through his radio.

"I never used to be such a... a loner. I had friends, five amazing friends that I worked with. We were inseparable.

Charles.

Johnathan.

Margaret and Edmund.

Peter.

We traveled the world, discovering lost places and histories. Until six years ago." He sighed sadly. "We were at a dig, something happened and there was a cave in... I went back to London alone. I didn't know whot happened, I couldn't even tell their families whot had gone wrong. I tore myself apart. I drank, got divorced, locked myself in my house. Maxwell came, offered me answers. I would have given anything to know." His own regretful bitterness seeping into the words. Anything.

"When I arrived here, I learned the truth. My faulty explosive charges went off prematurely, I caused the cave in. I killed my best friends. To know whot happened then, Maxwell had brought them here. They were not happy to see me, I ran. The only place I could go where they refused to follow was underground. If I left, they would always find me. The one time they caught me, was Christmas four years ago." The bloodiest Christmas the island had seen.

"I kept it to myself, even when it hurt you too. I can't take back my silence. I'm sorry." It was out, couldn't take it back. Westcott didn't know how long it would be before Wes was able to speak again, if he was going to. He felt exausted, but lighter? Like a weight had been taken off his chest but still so tired from having it there so long. He couldn't breathe, instead focusing on Wes' soft breaths.

[peachylandfill-deactivated20250]

‘Essence of England Gel’

[a-dynamite-digger]

🐺 for the drawing meme!! ❤️

Wes, darling? Do you.. uh? Have some kinks you need to tell me about?

[silent-survivor]

a-dynamite-digger

“No, no don’t cry.” He’d seen the mime cry too many times to not notice the way his eyes are starting to gloss over. Westcott moved to hold Wes’ face in a similar way but hesitates a moment before touching the skin. Instead placing his palms on his shoulders to knead little circles with his thumbs.

“I’m not hurt, or in any pain. I’m okay.”  Letting Wes feel. Not a scratch or bruise, just the same dark eyes lingering on the face before them. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I just… “ He choked. Oh boy, Westcott was going to start crying himself at this rate.

“I couldn’t stand being in the dark anymore, running from my problems. My friends. I had to at least try to do something.” Black liquid pooled in his eyes before spilling over his cheeks, leaving dark trails on his skin. “Be mad that I left, be upset that I didn’t tell you everything before. But please don’t cry.”

Westcott crying is somehow exponentially worse than everything else, and Wes moves to fretfully brush away the inky tears, not really considering that he was probably just going to smudge them worse. It didn’t help his case that he was unconvinced that Westcott was well – the puppet was fine and unmarked, and not cold at all, but he knew enough to understand that maybe he wasn’t really touching him at all, and his preening provided no comfort, and somewhere else Westcott was bruised and stuck to some cruel facsimile of a throne.

“I am not mad!” He raises his voice, which is unlike him! But it’s not in anger, and doing so seems to startle him back into silence for a few moments. This isn’t the first time they’ve wept at each other, certainly not on Wes’ part, and he doesn’t feel embarrassed for it, he’s just fraught with anxiety. His narrow chest rises and falls rapidly, and he’s minutely aware that his makeup is running, but for Westcott’s sake he tries to steady himself. He speaks up again, softly. “I am sorry. I was not meaning to make you cry.”

He leans forward and miserably bumps his forehead against the puppet master’s chest like a meek animal seeking forgiveness, and then looks up, dropping his hands to hold him by the wrists. He’s going to try to rationalize this! Westcott being on the throne meant he couldn’t die, whereas there was no other escape as a survivor, and anyway he could be up here now! Sort of! And that all made fine and good sense to Wes, and still he could not convince himself of anything, because the idea of Westcott alone in a dark room was far too upsetting to make sense of everything else. “Are you… happier this way?” He wasn’t sure that was the right question, either. “Happy” and “throned” didn’t go together in his head. “Or… not being any unhappier?”

[a-dynamite-digger]

Wes' volume startles Westcott too, enough to make his babbling and tears stop momentarily​. His boyfriend isn't scared of him? He's worried instead. Leaning into the touches, he breathes out a shaky sigh of relief. Letting some of the tention in his puppet ebb away.

"I'm... happy? I mean, it's rather boring most days so I've been sleeping a lot but when I'm awake I'm usually in good spirits." Sniffing back a few straggling tears, Westcott had to think about his next choice of words carefully.

He was afraid.

"It's been much more happy than sad, since I... they..." The look of uncertainty was back while Westcott fiddled with the bottom hem of Wes' sweater.

"Wes, there are things I haven't told you about my past. Things that I was too scared and... ashamed to tell you. I think I should tell you now."

[a-dynamite-digger]

silent-survivor:

Wes looks a little amusedly confused at first, simply because he can’t imagine why Westcott is being so sincerely shameful and hesitant about not wearing proper winter attire – Wes certainly would’ve chided him further had he said “yes,” but it’s only because he worries and he wants the archaeologist to be safe and obviously he could just give him some of his warm clothes and the problem would be solved! The desire to reach out and lift his chin and tell him he was being silly fleetingly skipped across Wes’ mind, but he held his hands where they were, somberly, because it was becoming apparent Westcott did have something serious to talk about.

He visibly winces at Maxwell’s name, shying away like a kicked puppy, but refusing to let go of Westcott’s hand all the same. He’d always been excessively expressive, and maybe it was for best that the puppet master kept his eyes averted, because Wes was only managing to appear increasingly distraught the more he spoke. Fragile hands grappled with his, down to the wrist, and the arm, searchingly feeling in disbelief for a fault in the puppet, as if Wes didn’t believe it. It was not unkind, or accusatory, but afraid – a keen fear welled up in his bright eyes, flickering over Westcott’s face. The trust is still there. The love is, too. It could be worse! He just seems… terrified. Upset.

Eventually he releases the hand, instead reaching up and smoothing his silken gloves over Westcott’s jawline, coming to rest at the back of his neck. “Do you hurt? Are you…” He makes a soft, frustrated noise, like he might just cry. He kind of starts to talk faster, frantically. “Pain? Can I help?”

“No, no don’t cry.” He’d seen the mime cry too many times to not notice the way his eyes are starting to gloss over. Westcott moved to hold Wes’ face in a similar way but hesitates a moment before touching the skin. Instead placing his palms on his shoulders to knee little circles with his thumbs.

“I’m not hurt, or in any pain. I’m okay.”  Letting Wes feel. Not a scratch or bruise, just the same dark eyes lingering on the face before them. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I just… “ He choked. Oh boy, Westcott was going to start crying himself at this rate.

“I couldn’t stand being in the dark anymore, running from my problems. My friends. I had to at least try to do something.” Black liquid pooled in his eyes before spilling over his cheeks, leaving dark trails on his skin. “Be mad that I left, be upset that I didn’t tell you everything before. But please don’t cry.”

[askbelgie]

Buckle Up I Made My Own Drawing Meme

Send me an emoji + a character of mine!

Style:

… 👔 in formal attire! … 📌 in their work clothes! … 💍 in a wedding dress! … 💋 in sexy attire! … ⛄ in winter clothes! … ☀ in summer clothes! … 😴 in their pajamas! … 👗 dressed for the club! … 👤 in goth attire! … 😎 in punk attire! … 🥇 dressed for their favorite sport! … 🐶 in a kigurumi! … 🎤 as a pop star! … 📝 as a student! … 💪 as a Greaser/Soc! … 🐴 in a horse mask! … 🕍 in Victorian attire! … 🛀 in nothing but a towel! … ✌ as a 1960s hippie! … ☝ in 1990s grunge attire! … 😬 in something they would never wear!

Magical:

… 🐟 as a mermaid! … 🦇 as a vampire! … 🐺 as a werewolf! … 🐲 as a dragon! … 😇 as an angel! … 😈 as a demon! … 🌼 as a fairy! … 🖤 as a witch! … 🦉 with their familiar! … ⚔ with their weapon of choice! … 👻 as a ghost! … 🌠 as a cosmic being!

Fiction:

… 🍥 in a cosplay! … 👑 as royalty! … 🏹 as a JRPG class! … 🎲 as a D&D class! … 👓 as a superhero/supervillain! … 😺 as an animal! … 👽 as a species from another show/movie/etc! … 🤖 as a robot! … 🐯 as a furry!

Headcanons:

… 👶 as a child! … 👪 with their family! … 👯 with their best friend! … 👎 with their enemy! … 🐹 with their pet(s)! … 🗺 in an outfit of their cultural heritage! … 💐 surrounded by their favorite flowers! … 👴 as an elderly person! … 🎶 to a song that I associate with them!

Special:

… 🙃 with the mun! … ✍ in the style of another artist! … 🖍 in the drawing style of my muse! … 🌀 as a fusion with another OC! … ☢ as a different fandom interpretation! … 💩 as a meme! … 🕐 as an old interpretation of the mun’s!

[a-dynamite-digger]

silent-survivor:

Aw!!! Wes pouts right back, poking his bottom lip out and giving Westcott the biggest doe eyes he can possibly manage. He’s teasing, really, and it doesn’t last any more than a few seconds, because it devolves into helpless giggling as he clings to the poor archaeologist. He had never minded Westcott’s dour countenance, or his tetchy disposition, but it seemed to bring him a particular joy to cheer him up, and he practically lights up like the sun when he speaks again.

Wes would have said something, too, but for a mime, Westcott does a fine job of hushing him (at least briefly). Those delicate, gloved hands very gently squeeze Westcott’s, asserting his affection even when he’s silenced. Only when they are broken apart for breath does he sigh, and rest his cheek against the other’s shoulder, closing his eyes for just a moment and resting there. He murmurs a veeeery soft “I love you!,” running his fingertips over Westcott’s palms.

And then he pops right back up, apparently worried again! “Ohh… you are not freezing?” His poor, obviously very cold boyfriend. He shifts both hands to only one of Westcott’s, capturing it between his palms and holding it there as if to share the warmth. “You have not been wearing only this, the whole time you have… ah, being up here, have you!!” He’s being scolded. Lightly! Wes seems so concerned, his English grows a touch more hesitant and confused.

The warm fluttering feeling in his chest soon turns to dread as his lack of attire is raised again. Floundering for a moment, like a rabbit caught in a trap. Wes was and will always be too observant and caring for his own good. No lies, never again with the mime. “That’s… ah, something I need to talk to you about.” His gaze turned down to their feet in the snow. Mulling over how to put this delicately.

“It’s a long story but I swear to you I’m not cold. And that I love you too. So very, very much.” His tone careful. Reassuring Wes as best as he could, rubbing his free hand over the ones clasped over his other.  “I didn’t go away this time looking for supplies. I went to talk to… Maxwell.” The name coming out as a guilty sigh.

“Ask him to take this curse away. Let me be on the surface with other survivors. And you.” Eyes still glued to the ground as he fiddled with the hands between his fingers.

“He said no. We fought.”

“Now he’s down here… and I’m on the throne. It wasn’t intentional but it’s the truth.” Daring to glance up, he didn’t know how Wes was going to react to this. Whatever this puppet was didn’t spare him the sick feeling in his stomach from his confession.