i wish i had the juice to write this In Actual Prose but i think it's funny and it isn't (really) whump anyway so i'm just gonna Tell You About It:
tw for: referenced parental abuse, homophobia
FBI AU Art starts talking to his mom again a few months after he gets out of the hospital. He doesn't really decide to, but Henrietta Lange is extremely good at what she does, and what she does is pretend things are normal, so she just kind of... breezes in and starts talking to him like nothing happened, and its... easier just to let her.
(he hated her for it before, because what she was pretending was normal was His Dad, but it's a lot different now that he isn't Desperate For Help Or Validation Or Human Warmth Or Literally Anything At All From Her)
also, he Would Not admit to this, but she invites him to have lunch at her favorite bougie coffee shop and its........ nice. he likes it. he... wants to be able to have lunch with his mom. he remembers the language of extremely polite elegant Bitchy Gossip fine enough that they can carry on a lunch's worth of conversation every few months without it becoming obvious that they aren't talking about art's personal life at all.
then she invites him to one of her very fancy parties, and delicately suggests that maybe he should come on his own. or she can call one of his high school friends, they won't have seen each other in ages, they were always such nice girls--
and art feels. well. obviously he's disgusted with her, but he also feels stupid, because he knew, he knew something like this was coming, and he let her lure him in with fucking. overpriced cucumber sandwiches, or whatever, and he's ready to smash the mug he's holding and storm out of the bistro and then he has. An Idea.
actually, he says. i have a friend i was thinking of bringing. and his mom is like, 'oh, that's lovely, as long as they wouldn't be uncomfortable in--" and art says, "no, she'll love it, she's been to stuff like this before." and maybe hits the "she" a little harder than he needs to.
(so, really, it's henrietta's on fault for not sensing art's Grinch Energy a mile away, but she's so relieved at not having to explain the presence of her son's Working Class South Asian Boyfriend to any of her husbands old army buddies that she doesn't interrogate him any further.)
...so anyway rona is at leaving her local boxing ring or whatever when her phone rings and it's Art and he says, "hey what are you doing on the 30th"
"why?"
"how do you feel about causing problems on purpose?"
Rona's smile is wide enough to frighten passing business man halfway off the sidewalk.
I think Kent and Art probably both spent a lot of their respective adolescences being very deeply into escapist fantasy. They actually maybe read some of the same series, since I think they’re about the same age; maybe they could bond over that if they ever met (which is nice because i...... do not think they would get along very well in general).
Art has put in some quality hours daydreaming about having a pet/best friend dragon that could let him ride away into the sunset a la The Never Ending Story 3 or whatever. But like maybe a fire-breathing one so it could just casually torch his dad’s house on the way out.
Kent is probably very attached to like... Xanth, or something, some series that he definitely read Too Young that is way more violent and/or Explicit than the kind of thing he would actually Like, but that Chase was into and recommended to him, and he got slightly obsessive about reading so he could talk about it with his brother. Then he spends several years Not Thinking About It until after the events of Cafe at which point he starts like... having interests again and remembers being really really into dragons as like. The one part of the series that wasn’t particularly violent or sexual.
Also I feel like Sol might be really into dragons because Liking Dragons Too Much feels like transmasc culture to me but that....... might actually be a sampling bias lmao
30. Will sends meme in the group chat
Pryce Gallegos speaks in 60% meme references and Ari..... genuinely might not know what the internet is? there are times when they really might as well be speaking different languages.
32. Likes socks
Art doesn’t like being barefoot (it makes him think of being locked in his bedroom/at Micah’s compound/in the hospital) and wears socks at all times, usually including sleep. Funky socks become the go-to easy gift to get him when you don’t have other ideas, like a dad getting ties for Christmas. He does not have room for them in his drawers and is not very sentimental about most physical objects; and also he has very small feet so regular men’s socks don’t really fit him, so a lot of them end up getting donated. He keeps any pair that have swear words on them, though. This is his favorite pair, courtesy of Rona:
👠 for Kent & Pax, Art, and Pryce? (I think footwear is neat tbh)
👠 What kind of shoes does your character usually wear in daily life?
Kent is fairly boring when it comes to most fashion, including shoes, though it’s not so much that he doesn’t have good taste as it is that he’s been too closeted for too long to really figure out what his taste in clothes is. He spends pretty much the whole apocalypse in the expensive but increasingly-fucked-up dress shoes he wore to the cafe in the first place.
Assuming they all survive the apocalypse, he’s going to have his first chance to have any kind of personal style at all, and Pax and Sol are going to give him different kinds of mostly-well-intentioned, mostly-very-bad advice.
Pax likes wild and crazy shoes, especially platforms with, like, spikes on them, though they usually just wear black combat boots when they’re working, so that’s what they’re stuck with at the moment. They’re happy enough about that, because it’s a bit hard for them to find interesting shoes that fit them, so they take extremely good care of their shoes, and they figure they’re better at fighting zombies when they don’t have to worry about getting blood on their shoes. They think the boots are boring so they don’t care what happens to them.
Art spends, like, a Wild amount of time barefoot. When he first meets Karim his feet are all cut up cause he’s just run like five city blocks with no shoes, which I guess is an artifact of not being allowed to leave the house for 3+ weeks. He’s also barefoot for the entirety of his time with Micah, obviously, considering he was literally In Bed when he and Karim were kidnapped, and he hasn’t put shoes on since then cause he’s been, you know, In A Hospital Bed.
All of which is to say that I... have no idea what kind of shoes Art wears?? I do know he has unusually small feet, and he probably prefers slip-ons.
Pryce owns one (1) pair of actual shoes and they are the red canvas sneakers he’s wearing when Ari Lifts Him Off His Feet. They’re pretty plain and at this point they leak really bad whenever it rains but they are also bright red and he’s actually weirdly attached to them.
this is... a possible scene from the story FBI AU is an au of. For context: 1.) Karim is a vampire, Art is human; 2.) This is toward the end of their first week together, which started with Karim promising to Murder Art.
this is inspired by this post about vampires not being able to see their reflection in mirrors because mirrors have traditionally been made of silver; i futzed with the science/history a little in the interest of angst, though.
TW for: referenced suicidal ideation; self-hate/internalized dehumanization; referenced child abuse; mild eye horror (not really, but vampires cry blood and karim is a weepy baby); panic attack; referenced death/murder.
@whumpitywhumpwhump
----
“I have a theory,” Art says.
He has been sleeping in Karim’s apartment for a week now. During that time Karim thinks he must have seen Art excited about something other than Learning New Facts About Monsters. Art must have been excited about—sleep or food or some other thing living people like. Perhaps this “theory” isn’t about Karim at all. The sparkle in Art’s eyes still makes his hands tighten nervously on the bedsheets.
Art must see that, but his only response is a wide unrepentant grin. That’s fair, Karim guesses. It must be hard to feel sympathetic when he knows Karim’s stomach is full of his blood.
“You’re going to like this one,” Art says.
He’s holding a small flat object wrapped in cloth. Karim eyes it warily.
“So,” Art says. “There are two types of mirrors primarily used for decorative purposes.”
…that’s not okay. Karim doesn’t want to hear this. He sits up, reaching for the bundle in Art’s hands; maybe he can break it and will not have to sit through this. Art dances back out of his grip, grinning.
“The most long-lasting and effective mirrors are made by layering silver and waterproof paint behind glass. However,” he says significantly, laughing and pulling the mirror against his chest, where he knows Karim won’t try to take it because he doesn’t want to hurt him, “there is also a process called silkscreen printing—”
“Arthur,” Karim says, over whatever he’s saying about silver, because he can see that Art’s about to pull the cloth away from the mirror he’s just bought with a flourish, and Karim is going to see the empty room reflected back at him when the glass refuses to show his reflection, and he has seen that more than enough.
Art lets the cloth flutter to the floor, exposing the cheap plastic surface of the clearly-secondhand mirror he’s been out buying, and the mirror obligingly shows Karim his own face.
It’s a thousand times worse than seeing an empty room.
He told Art he didn’t know the last time he’d really seen his reflection, and that was a lie: he remembers exactly, and it was seven years ago.
Karim is not the unchanging thing his Father is. Apparently that comes with time. The shadows around this creature’s eyes are notably darker than they were when he was new, and the eyes themselves… Karim had light-colored eyes to begin with, alive he had light eyes, but now they are bright, almost fluorescent, the color of no living person’s eyes, turquoise like the stone if it were glow-in-the-dark. And the mouth, wide and full-lipped, is a different shape than the mouth that Father kissed a thousand years ago when he—when he made Karim—
He doesn’t know how anyone can look at this creature and not know what it is. He doesn’t know how living people let it pass them on the street.
The creature slides out of view as Art slowly lowers the mirror.
“Karim,” he says, from very far away.
Art Lange is beautiful, is lovely in the most movie-tragic way, is a renaissance painting that wants you to kill it. And yet he looks dull and ordinary beside the painted movie-monster face slipping out of sight as Art lowers the mirror to his lap and presses his pale living hands against the back of it.
“Karim,” Art says again, but Karim can barely hear it. One of Art’s white breakable alive hands peels up from the back of the mirror and moves toward Karim, toward the tooth-filled painted mask of Karim’s face, and he moves back from it so fast that he would stumble off the bed onto the floor if he did alive-things like fall over anymore. As it is he shoots up to his feet, spinning away, reaching for the bleach-dulled straightened mess of his hair and tangling his fingers in the strands, which were curly and black and alive when he was a person and not a thing that lives on death and has precious-stone eyes to pull the living into its poisonous orbit.
“Fuck,” Art says from behind him, and then Art’s voice moves closer; Karim throws an arm out toward him, with his face still turned away, not looking at Art—not looking at anything, really; his pretty shiny eyes aren’t working well at the moment, which is a mercy; it might’ve been nice if they’d stopped working a few minutes ago, instead.
“Don’t,” Karim says; he feels his mouth making the word and he’s pretty sure the sound travels out into the world but he has no idea what it sounds like, what tone he’s using at what volume. “Don’t—come any closer.”
“Okay,” Art says, and Karim can hear his tone, alright, and he’s never heard Art use it before, like he’s talking to a little kid or a frightened animal, like he’s trying to be soothing. “I’m—I’m not, Karim, I’m staying over here.” He hesitates; Karim reclaims the arm he swung out towards him and puts it back in his hair, which he now realizes he’s pulling on, hard. “Karim, I’m—I’m sorry.”
Karim feels air leave his mouth; it might be a laugh but it’s hard to be sure. “You’re sorry,” he says, stupidly. Art’s sorry, with his broken heart and his breakable hands and his big dull alive green eyes. If Karim hugged him too hard he could snap all his ribs at once. And Art’s sorry.
“O-kay,” Art says, and his voice is shaking a little, like Karim is scaring him, like he’s scaring him now when he should have been scared all along. “You—maybe you should—Karim, you’re gonna fucking hyperventilate, idiot.” Pause, then, “I don’t mean that, you’re not an idiot. Karim, seriously—”
Karim can feel Art getting closer, like he isn’t something Karim wants to eat, and he spins back, stumbling away, knocking into the little table by the bathroom door so hard it rattles against the wall and the vase on it falls off with a crash of shattering ceramic, which is what he’s going to do to Art whether he wants to or not.
“Are you out of your fucking mind,” he says, and he can hear his tone on that one, at least a little; he is yelling. He points at the mirror Art is still holding, where he’s standing a few feet away. “That doesn’t scare you?”
“What,” Art says. “Your face?”
“How can you—” He has to look away, shake his hair into his eyes; it isn’t long enough to really hide behind but it’s something, one flimsy layer between Art and the thing he’s apparently been seeing this whole fucking time. “How can you stand to look at it? How can—how can you look at that and not know it isn’t real?”
Art’s face creases, like Karim is upsetting him, which is the first reasonable expression he’s had since Karim fucking met him. “’Isn’t real?’” he repeats, confused.
Karim puts his hands back in his hair, so his arms can cover his face and he can pull hard and feel the dull burn in his scalp which isn’t enough but is something, at least. “Why do you think it looks like that?” he shouts. “It’s for you, it’s for people like you, so you come close enough for me to kill you, doesn’t that fucking—”
“Karim, shut up,” Art says, and it makes him stumble a little. He can feel his breath tearing in and out of his throat, hard and fast, which it must have been doing this whole time. He doesn’t look at Art.
“You are the least threatening person I have ever met,” Art says. Karim closes his eyes, because Art doesn’t even know how terrible that is, how it immediately makes Karim want to cry.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, because he is, because what a horrible little life, where you go home with the first monster who agrees to ask before he hurts you. “That shouldn’t, it shouldn’t be that way, you shouldn’t have to live—”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it,” he says, firm but not sharp enough to cut, like it should. “Karim, look at me.”
Karim—can’t. He presses his back against the wall and his arms against his face and he’s breathing too hard so he holds his breath, even though that just makes his chest spasm and shudder while his dead lungs try to pull in air they don’t need and aren’t getting.
His heart is too loud in his ears—pumping blood that isn’t his, that he only gets by stealing—for him to hear Art closing the gap between them, and when Art puts his bony alive-person hands around Karim’s wrists Karim is too startled by his sudden closeness to keep Art from pushing his arms aside. Karim’s eyes are squeezed shut; when Art cups his face in both hands Karim tears in a single horrified breath before he clamps his mouth closed and stands there, as still as he can, because he’s too scared to move.
“Karim,” Art says, and he’s no longer trying to sound soothing—he sounds serious and a little angry; he sounds like Art. Karim hears him take a breath, in and out, and finds himself matching it, shakily, without really meaning to.
“You were never going to kill me,” Art says.
Karim opens his eyes, startled. Art is looking up into his face. His hands are still cupping Karim’s jaw and there can’t be more than four inches between Karim’s heart and his, now.
“Yes I was,” Karim says, and it comes out in a shaky airless whisper. “I was, I have, I’ve—”
“No, you weren’t,” Art says softly. He is looking at Karim’s terrible gemstone eyes, and his face is softening. “You thought you were for, like, twenty minutes at the beginning, and I don’t think you even had it in you then, actually. You can’t kill people once you know their names, Karim, it’s your worst feature.”
Karim stares at him, frowning. He almost doesn’t realize he’s breathing again.
Art drops his gaze, looking straight ahead at Karim’s chin instead of up at his eyes, and bites his lip; he lowers his hands to Karim’s shoulders. “No one’s ever stood between me and my father except you,” he says very quietly. Karim feels it like a punch to the stomach, and curls up around Art a little, until their foreheads touch.
“You have to know that’s terrible,” he whispers, and Art closes his eyes. “They should have, a dozen people should have, that doesn’t—”
“Yeah, well.” Art leans closer to him, sliding his arms around Karim’s shoulders and hiding his face in the crook of Karim’s neck. “People let you go nine years thinking you’re a scary evil monster, too. People are terrible.” Art’s hand slides up into Karim’s hair, cups the back of his head. “Congrats on being better than most.”
Karim closes his eyes. His breaths still feel shaky and uneven. He wraps his arms around Art’s narrow chest and pulls him in closer, because he knows Art won’t let go without a fight now, and because he can’t run away without hurting anyone, and because he wants to. “You’re a terrible judge of character,” he says in an embarrassing wobbly voice.
“You know I’m not,” Art says softly. Karim can feel Art’s breath against his throat; when he pulls Art in he can not only hear his heart but feel it beating against his chest. Art gives Karim’s hair a little pull, so gentle it probably wouldn’t even hurt a living person. “You’re just being mean to my boyfriend, and I will not stand for it.”
Karim laughs once. It sounds watery. He hopes he isn’t crying; he hates to waste blood like that.
“I’m sorry,” he says shakily. “You were trying to be helpful. I didn’t mean to—I shouldn’t have—”
“I was being an asshole,” Art says, pulling back—he seems about to step away, and then softens at the sight of Karim’s face—he must be crying after all. Terrible.
Art wipes the blood leaking from Karim’s right eye with his thumb, because he has no sense of reasonable human disgust at all, and smiles at him, his face soft and warm in a way Karim has never really seen before.
“We can talk about it later,” Art says gently. “For now I’m desperate to see which of the identical white girls Matt-or-Mike-or-whatever will choose this week, aren’t you?”
Karim laughs, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. Art takes possession of his other hand, giving it a tight squeeze and then a gentle tug. It would take absolutely no effort to pull Art’s skinny pale arm right out of its socket, so Karim holds his hand very carefully, and lets himself be led.
TW for: homelessness, mild gore, sexual harassment.
Rona is thirteen, and this is her first time inside a building in a month.
@whumpitywhumpwhump
She’s more used to outdoors, by now, but it never gets this cold down here usually so she isn’t used to it; her trousers are too thin to keep the chill out and she shuffles into the shelter because otherwise she thinks she’ll shiver herself apart. There’s a fee— there’s always a fee— and she hands over the coins she’s spent months scrounging together in exchange for a night in a room full of strangers with hate in her heart; shows the man taking the money her teeth because she’s too tired to spit in his hand.
The soup they hand her is hot so she’ll eat it but it sits in her belly like lead, heavy with cream that’s thicker than anything she’s had in too many months; it warms her stiff fingers and chest, and places like this never keep enough bathrooms, so she knows it’ll be their problem as much as hers before too long, so she gulps it down out of half desperation and half spite. Possibly those are the only feelings she has left. They’re certainly the only ones that have ever done her any good.
Rona has not seen her own reflection in— well, she doesn’t know, that would be a stupid thing to keep track of— but she knows the cracked wreckage of her teeth and the matted tangle of her hair, thin and transparent-pale, she can feel those even if she can’t see them; and all she has to do is look at most of the tired and quiet men and women shuffling around the room and they leave her the whole table to eat her too-thick soup in peace, which is all she wants, really.
But it’s the coldest night of the year and the shelter is full, and the soup is taking her too long to eat because it’s almost hard to swallow; so before too long a girl joins her at her table, not much older than Rona and stray-cat nervous, looking at nothing but her own bowl and her own jittery hands, twisting together or around the spoon, never holding still.
Rona doesn’t look at her; she only looks at people she wants to scare away, so she doesn’t really know how to do anything else.
The next person who takes a seat at Rona’s table is a man, and he passes over five empty seats to sit right next to the girl, who goes tense as a wire.
He asks her her name and she stammers out something Rona almost can’t understand; Rona only kind of speaks the language and hasn’t had cause to speak or listen to anyone much in years. The man laughs, close enough to the girl for her to feel his breath on her face, and tells her he’s just being friendly. The girl quakes like a leafless tree in a high wind, and when the man’s arm slips behind her back, she mutters, “Please don’t,” so quietly Rona can barely hear it and it’s easy for the man to ignore, laughing his animal laugh again.
“Hey,” Rona says, not loudly. The girl’s eyes flicker over to her, big and scared. The man doesn’t look at her. “Fuck off. Nobody wants you here.”
The man gestures at Rona without looking at her, flicking his hand like he’s shooing a dog away. “Back off, freak,” he says, and then he sets his hand down on the table.
The girl looks at Rona. Her eyes are wide and dark.
They give out plastic utensils at all these sorts of places, because they think people like Rona are a danger to themselves and others. It’s very stupid; you can do all kinds of things with a plastic knife. It just depends on where and how hard.
Rona jams it between the bones of the man’s hand. The plastic splinters, but not until after its broken the skin. If his laugh was like an animal, his squeal sounds like a man, loud and pathetic. The people serving the soup move forward, yelling, and he is on his feet immediately, cradling his hand against his skinny chest and howling at Rona, who watches him dance from her seat, letting the immediate crowd form around her. The dark-eyed girl slips into it, out of sight.
They don’t throw Rona out in the cold, because apparently the man has “caused problems” before, but it’s clear from the staff’s sideways looks that she’s right on the edge of it. That’s alright. She’s always on the edge of it; they always look at her teeth and know she bites.
She’s curling up in stained borrowed blankets in the corner of the room when she realizes the dark-eyed girl is standing in front of her, holding her own blanket and fidgeting, not meeting Rona’s eyes.
“Can I— Do you think I could sleep by you?” she says softly. Rona stares.
She’s used to frightening people. Most of the time it’s at least a little on purpose. It has not until this moment occurred to her that the same things that frighten some people might make others feel safe.
Rona nods without speaking. In the middle of the freezing night when the dark-eyed girl shudders awake, Rona reaches out and takes her hand.
Should You Fight My OCs, thewhumperinwhite edition
Thorne. Armed with several years of training and a borderline-pathological desire to prove himself by beating you. That said, he grew up with a bunch of assholes who don’t fight fair so if you do win he won’t hold a grudge because he’s Used To It. You decide if that makes it more worth it or less.
Andry Fourshield: Not as easy to beat as you might expect. Will lose if it’s politically expedient, but can absolutely maim you given the proper incentive. Also, he’s been through enough, god.
Asher Fourshield: while you will probably win, he's fourteen, and also Andry will murder you. Not worth it.
Raven: I mean, the good news is her primary interest is torture so she's not at her best in, like, a fist fight, but it WILL NOT remain a fist fight if she can help it, and she fights very dirty. Watch your back. For knives.
Morden Crane: Morden can fight, but is of the firm belief that he shouldn't have to. This is to your advantage. Go for the hair.
Solemn Michaelis: not much fighting experience, but pretty big muscles and even bigger feelings. Unlikely to engage unless you really deserve it, and then it could go either way. Arm wrestle him instead. He'll win, but it'll be a bonding experience.
Kent Graves: I mean, yes you will win, and no he will not be mad at you, but what have you gained, really? Two permanent enemies, and nothing else. Leave the sad twink alone.
Pax Field: On the one hand, you will lose. On the other hand, Pax thinks low stakes fist fights are fun, so they'll probably help you up and buy you a drink afterward. Its honestly not a bad way to introduce yourself to them. Go nuts.
Sam Rochester: Okay, if you lose, she will shoot you in the head, and if you win, you'll have punched a twelve year old. There are no good outcomes here. Do not engage.
Russ O'Brien: Russ is a big dude, but he's also a forty-something gay doctor. I can't imagine why you'd want to, but you could probably take him in a fight if you really try. Don't know who'll patch you up afterwards, though.
Vic Michaelis: Vic is, at his core, a big nerd. Please fight him. Please do it, for me. He wears glasses, it'll be so easy, PLEASE fight Vic Michaelis
Karim Mun: I mean, depends on when you catch him, honestly, but most of the time Karim will probably thank you for punching him in the face, which I guess you can count as a win, but not a very satisfying one. Also, Art will come for your blood.
Art Lange: Don't. He bites.
Micah Trent: Oh, fuck yeah. He's just a dirty old man, plug your ears so he can't gaslight you and go the fuck to town, my dude. GET IM!
Simon Blake: A solid choice. Simon is a himbo with all the strengths and weaknesses that entails, and also emotionally equipped to handle being beaten in a fight, unlike almost everyone else. Do your best. Avoid the busted shoulder, its unsportsmanlike.
Rona Cowl: I mean, she's photosensitive, so you can try shining a flashlight in her eyes are something if you're determined to fight Rona. You'll still lose, but she might take a moment to respect the hustle before she brains you.
i’m feeling touch-starved in this chilis tonight so: ocs and How Good They Are At Hugging.
Kent Graves is... honestly not that great a hugger. He’s tall, but it’s so easy to get both arms around his pointy-skinny shoulders as to be kind of distracting. You’re not enjoying the hug so much as asking yourself when was the last time he ate. Also his arms are sort of hovering around your shoulder blades like he wants to hug back but is too nervous. But... if you’re willing, hold on for a while. He’ll melt after about seventy seconds, curl around you, maybe rest his cheek on the top of your head, depending on your height. He’ll maybe blink suspiciously fast, like his eyes sting. It is courteous to ignore this. 4/10 this one’s more for him than for you but like have a heart huh?
Sol Michaelis is, tbfuckingh, the premier hug experience. If you can get a Sol hug do not waste this opportunity. Sol has all the hug-followthrough Kent doesn’t, plus he’s got enough actual bodymass to be pleasant to hold onto. Bonus points if you’re visibly upset and he has an excuse to press your face into his shoulder and pat your hair, which he will. 11/10, it simply does not get better than this folks.
Pax Field is... listen I really really want to give them high marks here but the truth is they own two much studded leather clothing and they’re not great at emotional vulnerability. Are you both drunk? Because nobody is better for putting your arm around their shoulder and swaying in time while they sing rude songs and gesture wildly around the street you’re stumbling down with their half-empty bottle. You smother a laugh and tell them they’ll wake up their neighbors, they’ll say they’re doing your neighbors a favor on such a beautiful fuckin’ night, at the end of this they’ll stop suddenly without letting you go so you swing around to face them and their voice will get husky and they will definitely kiss you. Lean into that part, they’re a great kisser but honestly I can’t give them above a 6/10 on the hug part they’re gonna shoulder-punch you afterward and not make eye contact.
Art Lange is small, okay, and if you’re chill enough that he’s trusting you to hug him he would appreciate it if you could like... Listen what if you just go all the way and pick him up off the floor and let him hook his legs around your waist too. His hair’s pleasantly fuzzy and he promises to tuck his head under your chin so you can enjoy it if you will in turn agree to squeeze him as hard as you physically can for about a minute. ...though honestly if you wanna just like... keep carrying him around while you go about your day he’s certainly not opposed to that. 8/10 listen he’s a clingy baby but you will feel like a powerful top so, swings and roundabouts.
Karim Mun has been called America’s premier service top and not for nothing baybee, he is very concerned with making your hug experience everything YOU want it to be. ...there is also a nonzero chance he will find something to have a guilt-induced breakdown about halfway through though so you are kind of rolling the dice with this one. 7/10 could be great could be distressing
Rona Cowl is.... listen Rona is great at many many things but casual affection is not one of them, she is not in the practice of touching people she’s not sleeping with. That said if you really need a hug she will flail for a bit and then reluctantly gather you in, and scratch your head lightly with her nails, because that’s what she would want someone to do if she had ever panicked in her adult life, and speak reluctant but sincere softness into your hair in her tooth-lined voice, and it will be all the sweeter for its rarity. 6/10 difficult to achieve but worth it and honestly you’re doing her a favor tbfh
Simon Blake’s closeted ass needs you to do this for him okay, he’s gonna try to go in with the one-armed dude hug but do not let him get away with that shit, it’s character growth time you coward. Also Simon is a certified beefcake so wrap your arms around his broad himbo chest and just hold on until he accepts it and holds you gently. 6/10 he’s gonna be a master one day but he’s got a long way to go.
Thorne has honestly not been hugged since he was like twelve so there is a very real chance that he is going to cry on you. Do not be afraid of this. Let him lower his head onto your shoulder and sob into your sweater for a while. If you’re up to it please feel free to squeeze him tightly and run your hand through his hair, it is very soft and he really needs this. 5/10 yes you are doing most of the work but he will hug back and also please do this for me okay.
Andry and I both explicitly require that you ask before hugging him and make it clear that there will be no consequences for refusing. That said Andry does actually give quite good hugs because Asher needs a daily diet of hugs to survive (and he is withering like an underwatered tree right now but that’s another story). Andry hugs like your cool older brother and also like someone who knows hugs are important, because he does. 10/10 just a good wholesome hug experience all around tbh.
Morden hugs exclusively as a way to inflict psychic damage. He does smell amazing, though, so 3/10.
This probably goes without saying but under no circumstances should you allow Raven to hug you. Yes she is very sexy and you will want to but please love yourself and do not hug the evil knife lady.
@whumpitywhumpwhump this seems like maybe it would interest you lmao
🌻 Karim has a twin sister who was in the cult with him. He introduced her to Micah and that was his biggest regret before Micah targeted Art because of him. Anyway they look similar and Micah’s initial reason for ‘‘‘‘recruiting’‘‘‘ Karim instead of just killing him was that He Wanted To Fuck Twins, and Karim’s been insecure about being part of a “matched set” for basically his whole life? So when Art meets Selina and is Visibly Not Attracted to her Karim is hugely relieved even though he didn’t even know he was worrying about that.
🌻 Oh also fun fact so like, Karim had his own apartment because Micah was giving him space so he wouldn’t freak out--Micah’s philosophy is that the illusion of freedom is integral to getting people to accept captivity--and Micah always knew where it was, but the way he found out about Art was that Selina ran into Karim and Art together and panicked because Micah’s number one rule is “don’t get close to anyone you don’t intend to kill For The Safety Of The Coven” and it is immediately obvious that Karim does not intend to kill Art, so after a couple days of miserable worrying she finally tells Micah that she thinks Karim is doing something dangerous. Micah of course immediately tells Karim that Selina told on him, while he still thinks Art is dead, so.... we’ll have to see if he uh Ever forgives her for that one.
🌻 Also Karim and Selina’s last name is Mun so Selina is...…. Moon Moon
🌻 Also, Micah has a style/aesthetic he thinks works best on all the coven members, and he “““encourages”““ them to Only wear that style, so once he gets out of hospital gowns Karim will get to pick out his own clothes for the first time in like nine years.
🌻 Sol is a cat person; Pax likes both but slightly prefers dogs; and Kent gets nervous around animals because the idea of keeping a pet in the house with his dad has always made him nauseous and scared.
🌻 Pax has a glass eye
🌻 Andry has a hunting dog and a horse he’s had since they were babies. They’re fine, because this is a story written by me, but he doesn’t know what happened to them when the castle fell and he worries that asking about them would get them immediately killed.
🌻 Thorne is about three inches taller than Morden, but it looks like one and a half because Morden wears lifts in his shoes.
