✨

Logan | he/him | dni: prepz

[randomheadcanons]

ONCE UPON A GIME

All OUR OC S GOR SHWAIZTED AND HAD A HELLUVA TIME

“WTF” KAI SAIE, STUMBLING OVER A GREAT HING

IDLK" ADDY SAID TRYIMG TO ACT LIKE SHE AAS SOBER BUT WAS NOT

ILY KAI SAID

ILY2 ADDY RESPONDED

[randomheadcanons]

Wow wtf

[2twinveggiesheadcanons]

lik dis if u cri errytime

[2twinveggiesheadcanons]

@randomheadcanons bringing it back

[randomheadcanons]

Why must you do this

[2twinveggiesheadcanons]

@randomheadcanons part three!

[randomheadcanons]

:/

[headcanonseverywhere]

i did a thing :)

[2twinveggiesheadcanons]

lik dis if u cri errytime

[2twinveggiesheadcanons]

hap birth notter

[randomheadcanons]

Hmmmmmmmmmmm

[headcanonseverywhere]

#NeverForget

[2twinveggiesheadcanons]

Bringing it BACK

[loganscanons]

fear not this night

Summary: A happy memory from KC's childhood :) playlist

A reedy stem, extending outward from beneath a bush and curving doggedly toward the sky, catches between KC’s toes, ensnaring him in the shadowed underbrush. He lets out a quiet hiss, his nose scrunching in displeasure as he shakes his foot to free himself from the wayward weed. A few paces ahead, his father, Traveler Firatril, pauses, turning toward the sound of leaves crunching inelegantly under KC’s feet. He waits, a patient smile on his lips as he watches the discontented boy claw through leaf litter and knobbly, twisting tree roots. KC’s small hand reaches in the darkness, finding his father’s slender fingers easily, a magnetic buoy that draws him in.

When Firatril had rent open a hole in space, allowing himself and KC to step from their houseboat to a forest on a midsummer night, KC had not expected the upward trek that would follow. 

“Why’d you put us so far away from where we’re going?” he whines, letting Firatril help him over a fallen tree, its bark eroded from weather and insects, sprouting lichen and flat-topped mushrooms arranged like a discordant staircase.

“Not everything is about the destination, love,” Firatril says. “Sometimes, the journey is just as important.” 

One hand still holding KC’s, he extends his other arm to emphasize his point, gesturing into the dark with dramatic flourish, causing the tiny crystals sewn into his robe to shiver in the weak moonlight. Though the moon is no more than a slivered shaving, its scant light manages to seep through the crowded crowns of the trees domed above them, drawn to the crystals’ many faces. 

KC blinks, staring into the darkness. The moon may be miserly with her light tonight, but KC’s darkvision allows him to see the bodies of the trees, bushes, and ferns in muted color. A soft wind blows, and the crowns above them rock in time with the breeze. KC looks at his father, unimpressed, his upper lip catching on his canine, giving the unintentional impression of disgust. He’s not yet lost his baby teeth, the small canine a pearly white.

Firatril laughs, resuming his walk on feet far more graceful than KC’s. A recent mini growth spurt has left the tabaxi kitten clumsy. Firatril releases KC’s hand as the already narrow deer trail grows even narrower.

“Just listen, li’l bean,” he says, cocking his head, as if to better hear the forest. “Don’t you hear how alive the forest is at night? Sounds we’d never hear during the day!”

KC scowls, his gaze falling back to the ground, watching for more tree roots and rebellious plants that might try to trip him. But he does listen. His ears, which take up most of the real estate of his head, swivel, radar dishes catching the forest’s sounds. In the fallen detritus, a small rodent scurries, her nails scraping against dead leaves before her feet hit dirt and the sound softens. Insects for which KC has no name chirp and scream, rising and falling in an aggravated chorus. Something winged flutters above as it launches from a tree branch, causing the branch to shake and rustle. He’s not so grumpy that he can’t find an interest in this music.

In truth, they haven’t been walking long, but the hiking has been unpleasant enough to make KC want to whine. The trip has been uphill, and KC is starting to feel the trek in his calves, as he again reaches for his father’s hand to help him over an awkward ledge of dirt and stones clinging to tiny roots that seem to glow white in the moonbeams refracting from Firatril’s robes. The path they’re following is not well-worn, rather a deer trail that has largely been so narrow that KC teeters trying to keep his paws untouched by the encroaching vegetation. 

The uphill trek leaves KC breathing heavily, his eyes trained on the ground as to not trip. He steps out from the thicket, fighting against the avaricious shrubbery grabbing at his clothes. The tangled branches and leaf litter give way to short, swaying grasses that are cool beneath KC’s paws, despite the warmth of summer. 

“Here we are!” Firatril says, gesturing toward the sky. KC’s gaze follows the arc of his father’s arms as he throws them open. 

He freezes, his muscles locking in place as a consuming expanse of sky, unlike anything he’s ever seen, swallows him. Deep inky blues bleed into plum and lavender. Splotches of peach and violent pink halo the vibrant specks of distant planets. A thick gash runs through the ink, a raised scar fringed by lemon curd and cream. And all of it, every oozing and mottled color, is splattered with millions of twinkling stars, their light extending, reaching for the little tabaxi. 

He’s seen stars before, of course. On the houseboat, he needs only to step onto the deck and peer into the silvery haze to see the flecked glitter of distant stars. But these stars are different. They wink and flash at him, calling out through the darkness. As he stares, he feels them getting closer, their lights growing brighter and hungrier. Desperately, he searches the skies for something familiar, his eyes roving wildly. The stars burn brighter. They’re all foreign, speaking to him in a language he doesn’t understand. He’s vaguely aware of movement nearby, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the sky for fear that these twinkling stars will get closer, surround him, sweep him away. He digs his claws into the earth, anchoring himself. He wants to step back into the coverage of the trees, but if he retracts his claws, the stars might pull him into the cosmos. 

A silhouette moves in front of him. He arches his head farther back, refusing to let the stars escape his view. Narrow fingers curl under his armpits, and instinctively, his claws retract, allowing his paws to be pulled away from the ground as he’s brought toward the warm body of his father. Firatril pushes one knee out, arcing his body so he can fix KC against the bony ledge of his hip. Still staring at the sky, KC wraps his arms around the back of his father’s neck, drawn in by the warmth and security Firatril offers. KC hasn’t realized this yet, but he’s getting too big for this. Being picked up. Firatril has never been particularly strong and lifting the growing tabaxi is getting more and more difficult. He finds himself needing to heave when he pulls him onto his hip. But, for now, KC can still find comfort in sitting on Firatril’s hip, held close in his arms.

His father’s arms carry love, warmth, and safety. Held in them now, nothing can hurt him, and he realizes that the stars aren’t trying to whisk him away. Not for anything nefarious, anyway. They hold stories and adventures. Their twinkling is their laughter, inviting him to come play. KC tilts his head, letting his mouth part open, his lip curling upward as he inhales deeply. He lets the scent sit against the roof of his mouth, roll over his tongue, as he tries to identify the scent of the cosmos. He smells the grasses and wildflowers of the meadow, the summer heat that’s cooled throughout the night, and the trees surrounding the clearing, but the taste of the stars eludes him. 

He reaches a hand out toward the sky, wanting to see the stars ripple like a pool of water. They remain stationary, continuing to wink at him. They don’t encroach now that his father is holding him, and he can see them with more clarity and no fear. The lemon curd and cream, he realizes, are stars clustered so tightly together that they’ve created their own pools alongside the dark gash. He searches, still looking for familiarity. 

Letting his arm drop and his mouth close, he frowns, turning to look at Firatril, who smiles warmly at him. Dozens of stars twinkle in his eyes. 

“Why are they different?” KC asks, looking back up at the sky.

“Different from when we look at the stars on the houseboat?” Firatril asks.

KC nods.

Firatril turns his gaze toward the sky now, considering the question. Bending his head toward KC, but keeping his eyes upward, he says, “There’s no atmosphere on the houseboat like there is here. The atmosphere refracts light, so the stars look like they’re twinkling.”

KC’s frown deepens. That isn’t what he meant. He already knew why the stars twinkle. It’s because they’re talking, inviting him to come play. He continues to stare hard at the stars, his eyes narrowing, daring them to give up their secrets, to reveal the stars he knows from the Astral Sea.

After a long silence, KC asks in a frustrated tone, “But where is Big Cat?”

Big Cat was the constellation they could see in the Astral Sea, a constellation familiar only to the two of them. When KC was just learning to toddle, Firatril had pointed to the faraway stars and asked the tabaxi kitten if he could see the big cat among them. Living in the Astral Sea, Firatril had learned to navigate by the stars and colored veils in the distance, and he’d wanted KC to learn to do the same. What better way to start than by creating a constellation with some of the brightest stars, giving KC something familiar to follow. Firatril hadn’t intended for KC to believe that Big Cat was a well-known, fixed constellation, but the little cat didn’t yet understand that the constellation was created just for him. 

Firatril smiles, understanding and affection softening his features. “Big Cat is only visible in the Astral Sea,” he explains. “These stars are different. We’re not seeing the same stars we see at home.”

As KC considers that, the weight of his body begins to wear on Firatril’s thin arms. The elf steps forward a few paces, the soft grasses of the meadow brushing against his robes. While KC had been paralyzed by the cosmos, Firatril had set out a large quilt, dark blue and patterned with intricate colorful stars. He settles onto the blanket now, folding his legs like a pretzel and shifting KC’s body into the divot between his legs. KC readjusts, pulling his knees toward him as he continues to stare upward, still transfixed by the sky.

“There are constellations here, too, Kitty Cat,” Firatril says, as his long fingers stroke behind KC’s ears. One of KC’s ears flicks. “Different cultures see different things in the stars. They connect the brightest stars to make constellations. Often, they see their own mythologies and histories written in the sky. Do you see that one?”

Firatril points and he slowly drags his finger across the sky. With each path he draws, he leaves a faint line of glowing lavender, connecting a group of stars until they form the silhouette of a woman. Beside her, Firatril traces out the form of a centaur.

“Those are the Woman Warrior and the Centaur,” Firatril says. “They’re two different constellations, but a couple hundred years ago, the two of them met in the skies, their swords crossing.” His voice is soft, with an edge of adventure and excitement as he details the legend. 

“That same night,” he continues, “a centaur and a warrior woman had an arm wrestling match in a tavern. The heat of summer combined with the cosmic alignment opened a rift, releasing two fellows intent on destruction from prison. The centaur and the warrior woman continued to arm wrestle to keep the rift open as the local Lord Mage threw the two fellows back in. When the centaur and the warrior woman stopped their arm wrestling, the portal closed.”

KC stares wide-eyed at the sky, the stars dancing in his vision. The lavender magic is beginning to fade, but he can still visualize the outline of the Centaur and Woman Warrior. 

“This one is harder to see from here,” Firatril says, as he begins outlining another constellation. We’re a bit far south for it, but if you look low on the horizon, you can see it.” 

KC lowers his gaze, and for the first time, he notices the meadow. Small wildflowers crane toward the sky, glowing as the light of the moon and stars saturates them. The grasses sway lightly in the breeze, but they too strain upward. The trees making up the forest that surrounds the meadow point to the stars. KC is not alone in his desire to prance among the cosmos. All of nature seeks the sky too, stretching and craning to play in the inky darkness.

“That’s Amaunator’s belt,” Firatril says, drawing KC’s attention back to constellations. The purple lines illuminate an abstract curving belt far in the distance, its stars fainter than those of the Woman Warrior and the Centaur. 

“Do you know who Amaunator is?”

KC shakes his head. 

“He’s a solar deity. A god of order, the sun, law, and time,” Firatril says. 

KC leans against his father’s chest, curling into a ball. As Firatril describes Amaunator and his significance to the Netherese people, his gentle voice rumbles through his body, the vibrations soothing the tabaxi. 

Lost among the stars, comforted by his father’s safe embrace, and lulled by the stories behind constellations, KC loses all track of time. He doesn’t notice that on the rim of the horizon, a faint pale blue begins to creep upward, staining the edge of the sky. He yawns, his eyelids feeling heavy. He blinks, trying to rouse himself. His father’s stories have drifted into song, a soft lullaby coaxing him to sleep. KC nuzzles deeper into Firatril’s robes, fighting the urge to drift into unconsciousness. He blinks, slower this time. And again. A soft mew slips from his lips. Another slow blink. He breathes out a contented sigh. His eyes don’t open. Firatril gazes down at him, affection bleeding into the lullaby, thickening the words as he tries not to choke on his affection for this little bean.

In KC’s dreams, he runs with the Centaur and the Woman Warrior, skipping through the starry sky. 

[loganscanons]

Insight Check - 1/?

You rolled a Nat 20 on your insight check and get a peak into KC's mind.

KC has been to his fair share of arenas with his father, sat in flat stone seats with little ergonomic consideration put into the design. Curving stands all facing a circular pit, where fighters, both trained and green, face each other in battles for the entertainment of the crowd, and perhaps for the chance to win a pouch of gold. The arenas that offer heftier pouches, their contents drooping and clinking with each movement of the purse, are places of spectacle, where the oil-slicked muscles of the fighters and the light shows of sparkling and popping magic are just as eagerly anticipated as the fights themselves. 

Though KC considers himself above barbarism, elevated above an interest in sweaty bodies colliding with the thrusts of sharpened weapons spilling blood, he would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy being swept up in the thrill of the fight. The most thrilling arenas nestle in the shadier parts of cities, where law enforcement turns a blind eye to the exploited fighters and unsanctioned fights. Boisterous crowds gather, eager to see the dusty stone splattered with blood. Despite his aim to appear dignified, KC can’t help but get swept up in the energy of the crowd, drawn into the exhilaration of mutual participation in an illicit sport, all reacting as one lifeform to the carnage below.

This small town arena seems to offer neither the spectacle of large city arenas, nor the titillation of forbidden activity. Perhaps it’s the air of grief and uneasy secrets hanging over the town, but this arena, small and snuggled among the cozy buildings, seems unimpressive. Unexciting.

To no one’s surprise, Korrin volunteers to participate in the arena battles the moment she’s allowed the opportunity. She doesn’t need the promise of five gold to convince her.

The young dwarf behind the ticket counter, his hair slicked back into a ponytail, seems unburdened by the town’s grief, pleased by Korrin’s eager enrollment. He looks over his square glasses, adjusting them between thick fingers, his eyes bright. His cadence is one of a salesman, promising Zarrus an opportunity to look around, in exchange for him signing up to fight. When his pitches don’t work on the rest of them, he changes tactics.  

Dipping his pen in an inkwell, he asks, “Any one of you wanna put bets? Which one of these two guys do you think will win?” 

He gestures to Korrin and Zarrus. Korrin, who is already training, thrusting her trident and dodging invisible attacks, and Zarrus, scribbling his signature on the forms with an exasperated grimace.

The choice for betting seems obvious to KC. 

His eyes rake over Korrin, watching her mock parries, the enthusiastic stabs, the overzealous energy that spurs her forward. She’s a good fighter, undoubtedly. Her skills have helped them countless times in combat. But, she’s driven by emotion. The way she fights is unhinged. She fights like she has something to prove.

KC’s gaze flicks to Zarrus, remembering that day he’d traveled among the planes with his father, stepping into the very arena where Zarrus was slated to fight. Zarrus was to face two pairs of fighters, battling for Ilmater, for the opportunity to return to the land of the living. His life on the line.

KC had been absent for Zarrus’s death. His second death. Slow to bond with others, KC figured that Zarrus’s death wouldn’t be detrimental or agonizing, though watching someone he knew fight for his life as a spectacle certainly wouldn’t be pleasant. Then, Traveler Firatril volunteered KC to fight with Zarrus, assuming a deeper bond than reality. Suddenly, KC had a real stake in the fight. As the battle progressed, KC witnessed the way Zarrus made allies and dealt with the horrible creatures that were Innocent and Innocent’s wretched, abhorrent, stinking monstrosity of a partner. And KC found himself rooting for Zarrus. More than that. He needed Zarrus to win, to travel back to the mortal plane, to be a companion in future adventures. And win he did. He won with a tenacity that impressed KC and spurred the crowd into excitement.

No, there is no question about whether to bet on Zarrus or Korrin. Yet, the thought of betting on Zarrus stirs something uncomfortable within KC. His tongue curls in his mouth, a refusal to express his confidence in Zarrus’s abilities. He shifts his weight to his other foot, unwilling to reflect on the discomfort growing within him as he considers announcing his favor for Zarrus.  

Looking to the dwarf, KC puts on a casual air, tail flicking as he says, “You know, I value my friendship with Zarrus, so I’m not gonna do any betting.”

The dwarf smiles, holding his pen above the parchment. He says, “That sounds to me like we got one there for the dragonborn.”

KC startles. He had no intention of putting his money where his mouth is, especially when his mouth is lying. 

“Wait, hold on, how much am I betting?” KC asks, resisting the urge to pat his purse filled with coin.

“I’ll take a piece of gold from you,” the dwarf says.

“I can’t afford that,” KC lies. An easy out. 

“Alriiiight,” the dwarf says, his tone sing-songy. “But at least we all know who you actually have your money on, in your heart.”

 KC’s heart beats faster. He takes a deep breath, willing the pace to settle. No one knows what his heart is saying, and he has no intention of acknowledging his heart’s feelings.

“Anyone else wanna place any bets?” the dwarf asks, smiling at the rest of the group. 

Dawnpiper tilts her head, considering, and says, “I don’t wanna bet but I can do, like, crowd hyping”

A glint touches the dwarf’s eyes. Ever the salesman, his gaze pours over the goliath, reading her like an open book. With his quick assessment, he asks, “Are you sure you don’t wanna bet? It is a form of gambling, and you look like someone who enjoys a good gamble.”

He’s caught Dawnpiper’s interest. Her gaze fixes on him more intently, and he continues, “Don’t you like winning? You can win without even having to fight!”

Hooked, prey to the salesman’s accurate reading, Dawnpiper pulls out their bag of gold. KC can tell by looking that there has to be upward of a dozen gold in the pouch. Without glancing at the bag’s contents, they hold out the entire bag to the dwarf. His stomach twists unhappily at the thought of so much gold going to a stupid bet. Noises of protest erupt from Valas’s lips, his dark eyes locked in on the bag passing from one hand to another. Ila and Zarrus’s mouths fall open in shock. KC rolls his eyes. What a waste of gold. But, it’s not his money, so it’s no skin off his back. His money is safe in his coin purse. And maybe Dawnpiper will be smart enough to bet on Zarrus.

“Who are you putting it on?” the dwarf asks.

Dawnpiper looks at KC, then back to the dwarf. “I’ll go with KC’s.” Clarifying, they say, “This is for KC.”

KC’s gaze snaps to Dawnpiper’s face as an unpleasant sensation pools in his guts. A largely unfamiliar feeling, one he’s never felt in the presence of anyone aside from his father, in scenarios like when a miscalculated decision ruined his father’s plans. Traveler Firatril had been forgiving, albeit disappointed, but that feeling inside KC had lingered for days. An uneasy discomfort, stirring with shame and regret. His fingers twitch. 

Guilt. 

KC doesn’t react outwardly, watching and silently counting along as the dwarf fingers through the pile of gold. 18 gold. Gods above and below.

When Zarrus wins, an unsurprising turn of events to KC, Dawnpiper seems largely unfazed, merely bummed that the bet was misplaced. The loss of gold has less impact than the mild disappointment of assuming wrong. Yet, KC’s uneasy discomfort lingers. He elects to ignore it. 

Only a couple hours later, the group has found Sylviel alive, waiting in room 9 for Norman. Though she pleads self-defense in the death of Horace, her actions, the carefully laid out plan, all point to premeditation. KC doesn’t care. For a moment, he considers the woman selfish for leaving her grieving mother thinking she’s dead, but maybe it’s better for Bernadette to think her child is dead, rather than know she’s a murderer. KC has no intention of dedicating brain space to Sylviel’s future. She executed an impressive plan. Why not let her take her win? 

Not to mention, witnessing Korrin’s descent to insanity as she anticipated being thrown into an unwanted marriage only cemented KC’s distaste for ritual unions. He couldn’t figure out a way to get Korrin out of her marriage in time. The rational part of his brain assured him that helping Korrin get out of marriage was never his job, but the imminent wedding seems like a failure regardless. Allowing Sylviel to free herself from the confines of being wedded to Horace offers KC some satisfaction. 

The decision to let Sylviel walk becomes all the more satisfying when she drops a hefty coin purse into his hands. Any attention to her exit fades away, replaced by KC’s intent focus on the purse. His slit pupils dilate, filling the yellow-green irises almost entirely as he filters through the mound of coins, counting. 56 pieces. That’s more than he has in his pouch currently. His fingers curl around the bag, his claws catching on the fabric. All this. All this shininess, just for him.

He glances up, eyes falling on Zarrus, then scanning to Dawnpiper. Dawnpiper doesn’t need this money. She’ll just spend it on something ridiculous again. She has no concept of money. 

But, Dawnpiper bet on Korrin because of him. The uncomfortable guilty feeling deepens as he thinks about pocketing the entire purse. There’s more than enough here to replace what she lost. 18 gold out of 56. He can handle that. He carefully counts out the 18 pieces, then hands them to Dawnpiper wordlessly. She smiles, the smile of a friend receiving a gift, not the smile of someone eager for money.

Zarrus draws KC’s eyes again, though the tiefling hasn’t moved. A small frown curves his lips downward, fighting his own internal battle over Sylviel walking away. KC glances down at the coin purse, then back up to Zarrus. He knows what Zarrus would do with this. KC’s ears point outward, flattening in displeasure. His grip around the coin purse tightens. 

“Should–” KC starts. He has to fight to get the words out, “I guess…we should…spli-it this…evenly…?”

“Yeah,” Korrin agrees with a smile.

“Sounds good to me!” Ila says, as Korrin holds her hand out for the coin.

While KC counts out the coins, he glances uneasily in Valas’s direction. The stranger. KC doesn’t know him. He doesn’t owe this man anything.

But Valas participated in the detective work. He helped identify that Sylviel wasn’t dead. KC looks at Zarrus again, then resumes counting. The remaining 38 gold coins don’t split evenly among the six of them. KC counts out six coins for each of them, including Dawnpiper, though he can’t believe he’s trusting her with even more money. He pockets the extra two coins.

As he passes out the split payment, his eyes meet Zarrus. Zarrus smiles at him, warm, friendly, and, though KC briefly wonders if he’s overthinking the expression, proud. KC looks away, ignoring the fluttering in his stomach.

[loganscanons]

covered in your blood, it's ritualistic pt. 1

Title from Perverted by Elita from Diwa's playlist.

There are times where Junior’s propensity for inactivity irritates Diwa into a state of passive aggressive silence punctuated by slamming drawers and heavily placing objects. But, during moments like this, when really neither of them need to be busying themselves with mundane chores or tiresome responsibilities, Diwa finds herself appreciating that Junior’s most natural state is horizontal. On the comfort of their couch, she can sink her weight into him, slotting her limbs and jutting hips into the divots and curves of his body, merging into him as much as the confines of physics will allow. Every breath Junior takes, Diwa’s body moves in tandem, rising and falling; his thoughtless act of breathing, of living, influencing where she spatially exists. With her head resting where his chest meets his clavicle, she can both see and feel the essence of life running through him. If she closes her eyes, her body begins to thrum in tandem with his beating heart, vibrating and throbbing with a pleasant sensation indicative of not only the warm life of his body, but also their irrevocable, undeniable connection. Like this, she knows that if his heart were to stop, if his body went still, hers would too, so tied are they. 

Eyes open, she can see his vitality in the faint blue paths curving beneath membranes of pale skin. When she looks closely enough, tracing her fingertip along the blue lines with the precision of a surgeon, she swears she can see the blood pumping through his veins. If only she could feel the movement of his blood within him. Really feel it. Not just the rhythm of his heartbeat, but the sticky heat of that which keeps him alive. If only she could have it on her skin, coating her, protecting her. On her tongue. Tasting him. Oh, how she loves the taste of him. To have part of him linger on her taste buds, changing the taste of everything that comes next. But his saliva, his sweat, his semen, they aren’t enough. They’re bodily and they’re him, but they aren’t the reason he’s alive. They aren’t the reason Diwa’s body throbs like this. 

Diwa’s fingertip strays off the arterial path, looping into a messy cursive as they spell their own name on his skin, so ephemeral that no mark remains. Junior’s arm, curved around Diwa’s shoulders, gives a light squeeze in response. Diwa stares perturbed at Junior’s unmarked skin. Of course, their light touch isn’t going to leave anything noticeable, but shouldn’t it? Shouldn’t there be something there to signify that his body is as much part of theirs as their body is his? They push their fingertip hard against a hickey they left beneath his right collarbone, and he makes a displeased noise in response, twitching his shoulder slightly. Hickeys. Also ephemeral. There should be something permanent. He is hers. Forever and ever. So, why can’t she see that when she looks at his body? When she separates her body from his, which she inevitably will have to do, whether for dinner or some other stupidly human reason, there will be no indicator that they are one. How revolting. 

“Junior?” they say quietly with an unsure inflection, raising their head to look at his face. His eyes are peacefully closed, a small, absent smile hooking the edge of his lips. 

 “Mmm?” he hums in response. He doesn’t move. 

“Junior,” they say again. Their voice is hushed, a tight strain in their throat as the fear of him slipping away latches onto their thoughts. They could be separated. They could be separated. “You love me, right?”

Junior wraps his other arm around her and gives her another squeeze as he says, “Always.”

His tone is lazily loving. So casual. As if this is an unremarkable concern and not a carnal matter of life and death. 

Diwa shifts, wanting a better view of his face. They fold their arms over his chest, careful not to dig their elbows into tender muscle. They absently tap a finger against his skin, wanting to leave a permanent mark on him.

“Will you prove it?” she asks. Her gaze narrows in on his face, eyes unblinking and carnivorous. 

Junior opens one eye to look at her, a slight frown creasing his brows. “How?”

The frown. What if he says no? What if he doesn’t really love her?

“Would you get a tattoo of my name?”

There’s a beat of silence that feels like an eternity, though in reality, it’s less than a second. “Sure,” he says, letting his open eye fall closed again. 

Diwa’s heart jolts. So readily he agrees to have her name on his skin. But, a tattoo isn’t what she wants. Not really. Anyone can get a tattoo. She has plenty of tattoos of her own, decorating and adorning her skin, making her body more comfortable to live in. If Junior only agreed to a tattoo, she would do it herself, just as she had done her own, but even with that personal touch, a tattoo seems too detached. Too removable. Sure, without the assistance of magic, the process of removing a tattoo is painful and grueling, but most can be removed. Or they could be covered. No, she wants something more permanent. Something he can never get rid of.

“What about a scar?” she asks.

Junior silently processes the question. At the other end of the couch, he sways his foot lazily, unfazed by Diwa’s proposition. “Like you carve your name into my skin?”

“Not as crude as that,” they say. They don’t know much about scarification, but they’re fairly certain it’s more delicate and thoughtful than carving. They’re not trying to butcher him, cut him apart like a piece of meat. They want to adorn him. They want him to wear their name.

After another beat of silence, he asks, “Will it hurt?”

The question tastes bitter. If he loves her, shouldn’t he be willing to endure pain for her? Shouldn’t the pain be part of the experience? At the same time, she doesn’t want him to suffer.

“It doesn’t have to,” she says quietly.

Junior shrugs, “The answer is yes either way.” 

The answer is yes either way. Thrill and affection douse Diwa’s brain, flooding through her nervous system so her hands start to jitter. He does love her. He loves her so much that he’ll bleed for her. Endure pain for her. Wear her name forever. For her.

[spookberry]

You ever wanna talk about your ocs but you dont have anything to say really you just kinda

[loganscanons]

Sheyda Esfahani, daughter of Eros

she/her

Persian

3 years younger than Gloria

Appearance while at camp: gangly and thin, long and thick dark hair with a lot of split ends, braces, glasses, big brown eyes with dark lashes, smudgy eyeliner, wears a lot of ill-fitting clothes, generally awkward in her own body

Appearance post-camp: tall and still thin but a bit more filled out, hair cut to chin length with an undercut in the back to thin her hair out and make it more manageable, alternates between glasses and contacts, usually in well-fitting business attire, still feels a bit awkward in her own body but stands with more confidence, big brown eyes with dark lashes

serious and quiet, stoic until you get to know her, painfully shy as a teenager, hyper-fixates like nobody’s business 

studious and hard-working with moments of distraction; a combination of ambitious and a day-dreamer; always romanticizing her future but also actively working to achieve her goals

wants desperately to be taken seriously but sometimes has a hard time respecting herself, which is partly why she doesn’t think other people will take her seriously

grows up in a two bedroom apartment with her mother, step-father, half-brother, aunt and uncle, and three cousins 

as a child/teenager, she envies her mother and step-father’s relationship and hopes that she too can someday have such a loving relationship

fantasizes about having a relationship with someone through all of her teenage years and desperately wants a boyfriend but anytime the possibility arises, she gets spooked and pulls away

fascinated by sex and physical intimacy from a young age and deals with a lot of internalized guilt for having “deviant” thoughts 

realizes she’s queer when when she’s 15, which also gives her some guilty feelings

best friends with Leah, whom she has a crush on and does not realize this until she’s in college and she’s like OH 

fights with a bow and arrow 

loves to draw, mostly draws horny art as an adult

Leah, child of Tyche

she/her/they/them/whatever

Jewish

1 year older than Sheyda

Appearance at camp: fat and pear-shaped, curly dark hair, brown eyes, likes wearing tight-shirts and high-rise jeans, has her nails done at the beginning of the summer and then paints them herself for the rest of the summer, cystic acne that makes her self-conscious, so she wears a lot of make-up 

Appearance post-camp: fat and pear-shaped, curly dark hair in a jellyfish cut, brown eyes, opts for more revealing and very expensive clothing, scars from their acne growing up but cakes on her make-up less, still enjoys doing make-up a lot though 

can be whiny as a teenager but grows out of that, so chatty, can be a bit of a ditz, very easily distracted

super friendly, loves to gossip, extrovert to the max, comfortable and confident with herself, brushes off insults 

grows up rich rich and has no concept of money or her own wealth

her dad is an orthodontist, her step-mom is a c-list celebrity 

very grossed out by the shared spaces at camp when she first arrives

has a hard time adjusting to the idea of being a demigod and being at camp

starts a lot of projects and plans that she ends up abandoning, rarely sticks to one thing

best friends with Sheyda, absolutely reciprocates her feelings when Sheyda confesses to her in their early 20s

[ad-wills]

[randomheadcanons]

ONCE UPON A GIME

All OUR OC S GOR SHWAIZTED AND HAD A HELLUVA TIME

“WTF” KAI SAIE, STUMBLING OVER A GREAT HING

IDLK" ADDY SAID TRYIMG TO ACT LIKE SHE AAS SOBER BUT WAS NOT

ILY KAI SAID

ILY2 ADDY RESPONDED

[randomheadcanons]

Wow wtf

[2twinveggiesheadcanons]

lik dis if u cri errytime

[2twinveggiesheadcanons]

@randomheadcanons bringing it back

[randomheadcanons]

Why must you do this

[2twinveggiesheadcanons]

@randomheadcanons part three!

[randomheadcanons]

:/

[headcanonseverywhere]

i did a thing :)

[2twinveggiesheadcanons]

lik dis if u cri errytime

[2twinveggiesheadcanons]

hap birth notter

[randomheadcanons]

Hmmmmmmmmmmm

[headcanonseverywhere]

#NeverForget

[2twinveggiesheadcanons]

Bringing it BACK

[loganscanons]

kori + basic timeline

1908: Sikortrya “Kori” arrives to earth with Elsider “Ellis” after escaping the faewyld. Kori “stole” Ellis from another fae of higher status in the court and had to flee to avoid the shame and possible consequences. They wanted to leave without Ellis, but Ellis, thinking they were in love, goes with Kori

Kori adopts the alias Korina Macbeth, a young woman living with her husband in Chicago in the first half of the twentieth century

1914: Ellis joins the SBI 

1915: Ellis convinces Kori to join the SBI as Korina Macbeth; Kori agrees because they’re bored and it’s something to do

Does espionage work; loves being a spy and that’s what keeps them going during a marriage that is unhappy (for them)

1926: Korina gives birth to twin boys Gage and Glenn Macbeth; Ellis is the one who wanted children and Korina is playing the part for the sake of public appearance. She’s a very detached and uncaring mother

1951: Ellis dies doing work for the SBI (supposedly); Kori resigns from the SBI, killing the alias of Korina Macbeth in the process

When Kori kills Korina, they cut ties with Gage and Glenn as well; the twins don’t know what became of their mother

During their time not part of the SBI, Kori does assassination work to make more money. They have a sizable amount of wealth from their alias Keith Martin, but want to continue to have an income. Also they like doing murders

1967: Kori rejoins the SBI as Kori Monroe because they miss doing espionage work

[filthyprotozoan]

people will act like a character being a little bit of a cunt sometimes is a flaw and not a positive trait but they are wrong

[greelin]

the urge to bite while feeling overwhelming affection is completely normal. sorry if you don’t experience that but it’s not my business. get help

[greelin]

love DOESN’T make you want to sink your teeth in? Okaaaaayyyy. weirdo

[nekotaku]

[thatsbelievable]

[shepardlives]

“I’d kill for you. Please ask me to kill for you.” “No.” Is a top tier ship dynamic no I do not take criticism

[shepardlives]

The idea of a person being capable of incredibly immoral acts but held in check but their love of their partner sends me every time

[littledeerling]

I made this list up to help me out with my OC developing so feel free to use it as well! If you wanna join me just tag your stuff #GTKYOC so I can take a peek : ^ ) (might make a blog later and reblog all the stuff in the tag!!)  Feel free to add onto this or do your own version too! 

[loganscanons]

Summary: Child Prue uses her powers to see a future that makes her happy

CW: child abuse, mentions of religious trauma

Prue knelt on the kitchen floor, her body turned toward the wall, rigid and stiff with building pain. A layer of hard, uncooked grain coated the linoleum beneath her like shards of opaque glass. The grits dug into the pink of her knees, carving divots into her skin. She’d been kneeling there long enough to feel each granule grind against her bones. Hundreds of tiny knives. Her knees reddened as they swelled and blood pooled under the membrane of her skin. Adjusting her weight offered no relief, just drove the pain to another swath of dermis. Later, when her punishment was done, she would be allowed to brush away the grains and gather them into a jagged pile to be swept up and reused. Then, she would curl up on the cleared off tile with her knees bent, and she would gingerly pick out the grits nestled in the artificial dimples covering her skin. 

She refused to cry. The glass-like shards sent stinging pain swimming through the channels of her nervous system, and in response, an ache welled up in her throat, tightening and constricting. Her shoulders, looking like the stones that jutted out of the kitchen fireplace, angular and clad in a sooty black, rose in a sharp slant as she pulled in a deep breath. The lingering smell of cornmeal, fried oil, and milk touched her lungs. She pushed the breath out through her nose. With each slow breath, she forced the horrible tight ache of tears down. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t give her father that. Staring at the wall, she imagined him sitting at his desk in the tepid green light of his office, surrounded by civil war memorabilia indicative of his antiquated, chauvinistic character, a twisted snarl of smile on his face as he ruminated over the torture he was inflicting on his youngest daughter. The evil in his heart would be reflected in his dark features, his low, thick brow shadowing his eyes, the visible discoloration of his teeth as his lips pulled back in that cruel smile. 

In truth, little Prue didn’t know what went on inside her father. The tyranny that to her seemed like bloodthirst and a deep set craving for inflicting agony instead stemmed from a tumultuous fear and love for the Lord. In the name of God, he passed judgment with righteous paternity, believing his high-handed guidance would force her into the way of the light and save her from holy wrath. The grits digging into her skin would be her salvation. 

A few short years ago, when Prudence was a few inches shorter but no less skinny and sharp-boned, she stood in the threshold of the kitchen and watched her sister, Mercy, a teenager at the time, endure in muffled agony the same punishment of kneeling on grits. Mercy had sniffled and kept her sobs quiet, trying not to incur more wrath as silent tears rolled past her puffy eyelids and down her reddened cheeks. Her crime had been sharing the same spacious, open air as a teenage boy in her class, without a chaperone. They’d been close enough that they could feel the comforting warmth of each other’s awkward bodies, but not close enough to feel the soft stroke of the other’s skin. 

The girls’ mother had watched passively, her pale features making her seem a detached ghostly apparition, as their father announced Mercy’s sentence. While Mercy was made to pour grits onto the floor, their mother had left the room, floating on silent feet, too faint of heart to abide the suffering of another, but too cowardly to emerge from her specter form to speak against her husband’s cruel idea of justice.

Prue’s expression twisted at the memory, her nose bunching and turning up, her small lips pinching together hard. She hated them. She hated her mother’s passivity. Her indifference. Her cowardice. She hated her father’s iron fist. His tyranny. His righteousness. She hated that Mercy had been too weak to hold back her tears, that she’d shown weakness in the face of their father. She hated all of them. 

Prudence let her resentment boil hotly, building within her like a wretched, bitter stew, festering in her heart. She focused her gaze on the wall, her dark eyes sliding over the thin paths in the wallpaper, spindly veins beneath thin, aged flesh. The pattern was a whisper of what it once was, the flowers now sickly shades of paled pink and green, the birds yellow-brown blemishes of death. At the baseboard, the wallpaper curled and pulled away on its seams, disgusted by itself. Her gaze fell on a moisture stain, a tawny blossom around bubbling, stiff paper. 

The stain bloomed, waxing and ebbing in time with Prue’s deep breaths like an alien living thing, the lacy edges devouring the flowers and birds with a cold, inhuman hunger. The small leaves printed on the wallpaper faded further, blinking into pale, ice-white stars. The blossom spread until it had consumed the entire kitchen. The pain of gritty grains gouging into her knees spread up Prue’s thighs, pockmarking her skin with holes of a dried lotus pod. The sharp stabbing dug into the soft meat of her thighs and the potbelly pouch of baby fat she still carried, over her bony chest, carving into her ribs and sternum, up her neck and cheeks, down the sensitive skin of her upper arms, pricking the veins of her forearms. It spread and burned until she could feel nothing else at all. 

And then, any semblance of the kitchen was gone, and the pain sloughed off, and her skin was smooth and unmarked. She knelt in the vastness of space, surrounded by uncaring stars and impersonal dark matter. Everything between her ears felt electric, fritzing and popping as she let go and sank into the madness. 

The cold disconnection of being settled into her madness was uncomfortable but not unfamiliar. Even at her young age, she had grown accustomed to slipping into this void, guided by a detached, unknowable being. She blinked and looked around. There was nothing and there was everything. Any possibility, any future, any connection to her lay within her reach. Too many possibilities. A nervous queasiness seized her, bile spinning within her. Her heartbeat quickened, a frightened rabbit thumping away.

The unknowable being, formless and bodiless, placed handless hands on her shoulders and guided her. There was no direction in this cosmos. No up or down, no left or right. One turn and she’d lost all sense of orientation. But the unknowable being guided her, still teaching her young mind how to navigate this directionless infinity. 

Above her, one of the stars, a small green one, glowed brighter. A tense buzzing filled the void. Prue’s small frame vibrated. A second cosmos superimposed over the stars, flickering uneasily, as uncertain as the future it would show her. The star grew, burning and crackling. It grew hotter and hotter until suddenly, it ripped open with an angry, burning violence that stung Prue’s skin with millions of tiny pinpricks. Her very cells vibrated and burned. The light of the furious tear blazed white-hot, snapping and sizzling and blinding her. She shrank away instinctively. 

It happened in a fraction of a second. And then she was standing in the plantation house. There was the feeling that Prue always had in this house: the house was alive with something horrible, deep-seated and evil, raised on generations of spilled blood. A heavy, pungent sweat hung in the air. Deep, earthy breathing from somewhere deep inside the foundation. But, at the same time, there was something else. An encroaching lifelessness. A feeling that soon this home, if it could be called such a thing, would have no creature in it but the plantation itself. That dreaded beast would always hang heavy on this land. But soon nothing human would remain. 

In the upstairs office, Prue and her father were the only human inhabitants of the house. And soon, he would be gone too. The stark red of the confederate flags that adorned the walls and desk contrasted darkly with the swampy green light that hung over the room. Prue stood in a body that was hers but not the her of today. Though the bones of her shoulders still jutted out at aggressive angles, the sharp edges of her ribs and pelvis had blurred and softened into something gentler, the round baby fat of her belly had shifted, plushly fattening her thighs and hips. The skin of her arms was covered by modest sleeves, but she could see faint, agitated seams of red haloed by white on her pale hands.

In this woman’s body that didn’t yet belong to her, Prue stood above her father. The man that was once a mountainous tyrant cowered pathetically against the balcony windows, reduced to a wretched, sniveling piglet of a man. Prue watched with the cold passivity she’d inherited from her mother as she inflicted a tortuous end upon him. Her expression stayed disconnected, but a fountain of childlike glee bubbled in her chest, airy and light.

The unknowable being guided her through untold futures of daydreams come true, each one ripping open with a blinding, searing light that seemed to tear open the fabric of reality. As she watched her father, her mother, and sometimes her siblings, come to grievous ends at her own hand, the message was made clear. There was hope. There were futures where she gave herself everything she wanted. Everything she’d ever deserved. Everything they deserved.

With another blinding light, these happy visions sealed themselves away behind the inky fabric of space, and Prue again knelt in the vastness, surrounded by fading stars. As she breathed, the stars morphed, curling into old, printed leaves, and the blackness slowly slipped away, waning and sliding away over a dingy, decaying old wallpaper. Birds and flowers sprouted on the milky green paper, leaving marks like ugly, week-old bruises, mottled sickly yellows and greens. The kitchen reformed and she escaped the recesses of her own mind.

There she knelt on the hard grits, staring at the wall until she was relieved of her position, comforted by the brutal visions of the future.

[losingmymindtonight]

logical brain: it’s just fanfiction… you’re writing this for fun… it’s okay if it’s not perfect as long as you enjoyed creating it

monkey brain: everything I write must be groundbreaking