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@lancelot-sharpkeen
◄ FANDOMLESS MODERN FANTASY HUNTER OC
featuring Bloodborne, Pokèmon, Spiderverse, SCP & EVEN MORE verses
◄ crossover, non-mutuals & OCs friendly ; 18+ only!
[ RULES • ABOUT • VERSES • TAGS ] [ CREDITS • TEMPLATE ] [ INTEREST CHECKER ]
⇄ if you’re interested!! personals please don’t interact!!
[ ill probably remake this blog soonish lmao ]
Lance my man, how was your christmas?
^ yearly survivor of a big family christmas event
he doesn't know how he managed to get through the holidays, with the Dia los Reyes being the final hit. He'll have to take a vacation after this vacation.
Is this blog still active?
[ unfortunately yes ]
I choose you! Pokemon starters
Send a sentence and my muse will respond.
“I see now that one’s birth is irrelevant. It’s what you do that determines who you are.” “I was created to bring about destruction, and yet I chose to protect.” “You said you had a dream… That dream… make it come true!” “Enough talk! Let’s see what you’re made of!” “There’s no sense in going out of your way to get somebody to like you.” “My name’s not ‘Hey you!’ It’s [insert your muse’s name here]!” “Do you know what it means to be truly alone?” “No matter how strong you are, if you’re alone, you’re nothing.” “You said you wanted to change the world. Is this what you meant?” “You can’t change your fate… but you can rise to meet it.” “The world isn’t perfect. But it’s there for us, doing the best it can… that’s what makes it so damn beautiful.” “Everything shall vanish. The world shall be remade.” “It’s not about control. It’s about connection.”
@curiosstarryasking
Hi! How was your new year's?
"I still have a headache from new year's. I'm not talking about that."
New Year parties go crazy at the Hunter's guild.
You took me down ....
BUT YOU DID'T FINISH ME OFF !
She snorts — or sneezes, the motion is all the same, a dramatic tossing of her head downwards like the strength of it is appalling to her, while she squints her eyes up and the pale skin around her nostrils dramatically expands as she exhales, a great big huff of a sound that pleases her for its own sake.
It's not that the scent is bad. Actually, that might be the problem. Sure, it's got a familiar sort of rancid taste to it, a stagnancy that turns it sour and hints to her that it's gone old, an important cue to someone like her who's made to just as easily scavenge her meals as hunt them herself. But that would just be a mote of flavor, a suggestion as to what happened, a directing of her senses. Old meat, perhaps! Something washed up on a beach or floating on the open seas, buoyed up by the waste-gases in its guts. Fragrant, many predators have surely been here already, but there is meat still to be found, or the predators themselves, if she is quick. Maybe even an injured animal, harmed by some prior encounter, still alive and healing but wasting precious resources to do so, a chance that could be in her favor!
It lingers in her sinuses, plastered up against the roof of her mouth, leaking into her scent organs and dripping down the back of her throat. She can feel it in her gills, a tingling sensation, an anticipation. It makes her mouth turn wet, her stomach cavernous, awakening the old enemy, and abruptly her body remembers to complain to her, stirred from the dormancy of lack.
It's irritating. It's also irritating because Miranda has spent enough time around Bellanda to get specific about the conditions of hired arms, and strict about the hygiene of their tools. Scent, a primary sense for her far moreso than sight, sensitive to such things, could easily identify mess and improper care where her eyes regularly failed her, and she just wasn't about to not chew someone else out.
"Yes it is!! You cannot just leave it there for an extended period of time — it will damage your gear!!! And you will give away your own position before you even have a chance! Has no one taught you how to properly care for what you have?" Miranda rears up as much as she can, a precious few inches up from the near horizontal slope of her back. It's just enough leverage for her to paw at his arms and gently tug at what loose bits she can move out of the way, trying to identify where the smell is strongest. "Where is the worst of it? I will fix this, but I have to see how bad it is first!"
Yikes bestie. You're stinky as fuck. And it's quite embarrassing too, being yelled at for something that he doesn't particularly like as well! Unfortunately he had to deal with one monster too many lately, and the chance of finding a washing mashine in the hotel rooms he had to rent was little to none, as always. Cleaning everything up in the bath tub was a quick solution, but truly felt like putting a bandait on a gunshot wound, most of the times: pointless and, from an outside prospective, kind of dumb, too.
"They did, but--!" he starts, at least trying to defend himself and his actions, just to be silenced immediately by the princess' scolding. It's rare for anyone to shut Lance up so easily, and yet, here we are!
This is awkward.
"There's no need, I'm about to go back to the Headquarters and--"
She moves closer, and the Hunter takes a step back in response, both hands up to sign that he really doesn't need to deal with this. True, it could've been an opportunity to talk about how he survived and onslaught of battles and came out all in one piece, if not for the copious amount of blood and guts that ended up on his shirt and coat, but, for once, he knows better. There's a place and time for anything, after all, and this wasn't it!
"I swear, I don't like this either!"
It's a shitty situation by itself already. He doesn't need this.
Out of ammo and without a melee weapon, the only solution Carmine could find to the umpteenth wave was to hide and stay as quiet as possible. The hotel had many rooms, one more full than others, and closing himself in a particularly full wardrobe seemed the only real solution to the mess. Out there, hell went loose. He heard gunshots, infected, a Witch's scream, then steps. And then nothing. He got out very slowly, hoping that nothing was around anymore - and a moment later he found himself pressed in the corner, the wall to one side and the wardrobe to the other, and both a gun and a flashlight pointed against.
It's already a bad situation, but it's worse when you're blinded by the light and can't get a look at the other. And when that other doesn't say anything.
His words at least get a reaction out of the other: a normal voice asking normal things, making him just a little bit calmer. Relatively. Both the gun and the flashlight don't even hint about moving.
« Infected not ask questions, do they? » he replies, unable to contain a bit of irritation, one hand still risen to protect the eyes and still trying to get a look at the other between the fingers. « I'm okay! Lower the... the, uh- ». He gestures vaguely at the flashlight. « The thing. The light. Please and thank you. »
Looks like they were both quite tense, huh. Of course. Lance wouldn't blame the stranger one bit, and he sure hopes he doesn't blame him, either, if he takes one precaution too many, as paranoid as he could seem.
The grip on the gun's handle tighten ever so slightly in the half second of silence that follows his question, just to relax as the other talks back. Quite literally talks back.
Once again. Tension all over the place. Once again, one that Lance fully understands - enough to contain an otherwise annoyed scoff at the sass thrown at him.
There's no need to escalate things.
"I was mostly asking if you were bitten, or something like that." the hunter explains, attempting to keep his voice firm and calm as he, indeed, lowers the flashlight enough to not blind the poor guy in front of him. It rests on the side, enough for Lance to squint a bit and still get a good look of the man in front of him, quietly searching for any sign of possible future zombiefication.
"It's better to be safe than sorry. It's hell out there."
Finally, his tone gets lowered as well, green eyes darting to the door as soon as he hears a noise. Something falling. Likely a piece of the wall giving up on its own.
He's getting jumpy.
"And, honestly. It's not really that better in here."
If I Could Go Back In Time
I'd Put A Gun In My Bra
Point It Straight To Your Brain
ASK IF YOU LIKE WHAT YOU SAW
@crownhcart
"Why are you staring at me? What are you looking at?"
Admittedly, he was tense. More than usual. A near death experience too many with a Witch awakened by a moment of distraction does that to you.
Gun and flashlight remain pointed at the other as he held his breath, his eyes darting around the stranger's body, looking for possible wounds, scratches. Bitemarks. There weren't any as far as he knew, but... what tells him that he isn't hiding them?
He wouldn't blame him. But it would be rather troublesome.
"You're not infected, are you?" he asks after a few seconds of silence, not lowering his weapon "Just to be sure."
"I ain't the one splittin' up. You're the one bein' left behind."
Stopping to swipe cobwebs from the pathway with the large gauge, Francis could've groaned loud enough to wake the dead. Or. Wake more dead. Lips in a thin line, not even bothering to turn around to face Lance, he instead busied himself peering into the dark. Finally coming to rest a story and a half below ground. Flashlight out and clicked on, sweeping in broad strokes across the large space.
A few boxes, some shelves. Nothing fantastical, no fancy treasure chests or gold encrusted crypt-- just another dusty ass basement. Glints of metal on some of the far boxes, old padlocks hiding goods within antique military crates. He'd seen so much in several of the places he'd broken into over the years, had broken into the chests as well. Piece of cake.
"Like I tol'ja. Ain't nothin gonna be down here but us, some boxes of shit, and a zombie."
Wait.
"Oh. shit. A zombie--!"
Currently launching itself at the closer of the two at the bottom of the stairs.
Francis turns, and Lance answers to those teases with a silent one of his own, mocking his words under his breath. Very mature. Still, despite everything, the redhead follows the other down, holding his breath whenever one of their step raised dust and made spiders and bugs crawl away from their light.
All for nothing, as far as he's concerned. Anything important likely turned into a moldy mess or was taken by other survivors. Lance hoped for the latter. Truly hoped their small team weren't the only ones who didn't turn into zombies or were eaten alive in the chaos of the past days. Francis did his things, Lance did his, looking around with one hand holding onto the flashlight way more tightly than he thought - wether the silence or the smell put him more on edge, he isn't sure - the other tapping on his gun, brushing the trigger, ready to remove the secure at the very hint of danger.
Danger that, turns out, has an awful timing. Or an incredible sense of humor.
There's no need to say anything at that point. A proper hero knows to keep monologues, cool one liners and jokes only for non-serious situations, or for after the monster is done with. The hand holding the gun moves quick and precise, the undead barely a meter away from the muzzle as the bullet escapes it, piercing the creature's skull, right between the eyes. There's a shriek, a hiss, and after a hard push against the zombie's chest it falls on the same stairs, his skull cracking further on the steps.
And then there's silence. For one second. Two. Three.
"...you're welcome."
--and here's the cool one liner.
anon:
There's a small, wrapped package lying near Lance, clearly marked "To Lance, from your Secret Santa." Once opened, the package contained a pair of winter gloves, with a note attached. "With a name like Spider-Hunter, I'd think you're outside a lot. So I got you something to keep you warm during the season! Good luck, and Merry Christmas! Keep it up, Your Secret Santa!"
Oh this is not only incredibly cute, but also useful! Of course hunts in the winter are always much worse to deal with... especially with someone as sensitive to the cold as he is! Lance immediately tries them, them, carefully putting them on and opening and closing his hand a few times to get used to them.
He'll have to find a way to thank whoever sent them properly soon!
"Oh I got this one."
What does kindness look like to your muse?
[ a bunch of hcs ; ACCEPTING ]
[ oh, that's easy: helping someone without expecting anything in return. helping might include giving money or shelter, bringing cookies when nobody expects you to, or simply offer a moment of quietness when the world is a little too loud.
just being there is enough ]
Name one line in the sand your muse has. Tell us one way someone can go ‘too far’.
Would your muse use the word ‘brave’, about themselves? Should they?
[ a bunch of hcs ; ACCEPTING ]
[ while I think that his patience changes heavily from person to person, and as clichè as he could be, hurting someone who can't protect themselves is too far. civilians, children, animals, yknow. there's a 100% chance he will at the very least lose any respect for anyone who does that crap, and even more chances he immediately goes for the offensive
and alas, yes. he's brave, he knows he's brave, and he'll make sure everyone knows that as well. some might say he's mostly reckless and understimates problems and enemies (and he does), but he's still always ready to face his fears and still stand against anything that scares him ]
@royalreef
"Why do you smell like that?"
"Ah... the smell didn't leave just yet, huh?"
Oh this is... annoying. Maybe not the right word to describe this situation, but that's how he's feeling now! Dealing with so many monsters in so little time always ended up messily. No matter how much cologne and hand sanitizer he wears, no matter how much he tries to clean his clothes, they'll still smell like death and blood.
Mostly blood.
One of the downsides of his job.
"There isn't much I can do until I get my hands on some detergent, I'm afraid." a sigh "...is it that bad?"
