FAVOURITE OC: look, it’s winter lmao. she’s my most developed and i am very attached to her narrative arc(s), they work v well
NEWEST OC: nayeli (for infamous) <3 i need to develop her still but i love her already
OLDEST OC: pandora, my chaos queen
MEANEST OC: i have. way too many mean oc’s so this is prob a tie btw kivea (exile), sinclair (rss), and phoebe (ha/dea, rss)
SOFTEST OC: winter ofc. reese is a distant second bc they have a petty grudge-holding streak a mile long lmao
MOST ALOOF/STANDOFFISH OC: anah (fog) beloved, who is the personification of the :woman_standing: emoji
DUMBEST (AFFECTIONATE) OC: ALEX (bc) OHHHHH MY GOD love u himbo king
SMARTEST OC: mack (ha/dea), and she makes sure everyone knows it
OC I'D BE FRIENDS WITH: pandora lmao i want her to take me shopping but also peach (infamous)--i would find her intimidating at first if i saw her at my go-to queer bar but rly she’s chill as hell
tagging @veeples, @lilas, @lavampira, @consulaaris, @quaxorascal, @farahswife, and anyone else who wants to do this!
thank you for the tag, @lavampira, to take this uquiz for oc’s <3 tagging @veeples, @quaxorascal, @sataari, @amlovelies, @lvllns, @night-triumphantt, and anyone else who would like to answer mwah
magnus fyserith: cyparissus
young cyparissus, innocent cyparissus, it was all only an accident. your stag, finding relief from the relentless summer sun of apollo under the forest’s trees, did not deserve the cruel wound of your javelin stuck within him, and you did not deserve to inadvertently be the cause of his death. but grief does not care about intent and accidents, does it? even now, your cypress trees cry your mourning tears.
phoebe white: achilles
best of the greeks, eager for honor, and quick to rage: you could easily live content and easy until you’re gray-haired, but glory and fame call for you just beyond the horizon. you are not prone to self-reflection and trip into the same pits of wrath at bruised pride over and over. are you truly ready to sacrifice everything so that your name will be immortalized? is your fury what you want to be remembered for?
sinclair jiang: bellerophon
chimera-killer, pegasus-tamer, eater of your own soul: icarus flew too close to the sun, but you flew too close to gods who would prefer to remain untouched. could you not find enough joy in being a hero, a husband, a father and a king? olympus will never accept your presence upon its mountaintop, so best quit while you’re ahead, before your horse bucks.
ockiss week 2k22: day four, “safe”
characters: sinclair jiang x @fairmonkey‘s kile quinn
1k. 18+. warnings for language, discussions of violence, unhealthy relationship dynamics.
Sinclair likes to think of himself as a reasonable man. Rational. Collected.
This is important because there is no room for hotheads in his line of work. Becoming emotional on a mission risks not only the target slipping away, undoubtedly to plan a counterattack of their own, but also his and his partner’s safety. Contrary to popular belief, roughing up people or otherwise prematurely ending their time on earth requires a light hand—preferably one covered in an expensive leather glove.
In carrying out his hits, Sinclair is driven only by the dispassionate fulfillment of a contract. No burning emotional impulses like (blood)lust, vengeance, sadism, or spite.
He saves those for his personal life.
He prides himself on his ability to maintain immaculate boundaries between the two. He knows he has a fiery streak, one that’s given him more than a few black eyes and bloodied lips, but he never lets it cloud his judgment in the field.
Those boundaries have become increasingly difficult to keep clean since Kile fucking Quinn, his work partner and former partner outside of work, broke his fucking heart.
Sinclair peers at him now, Kile’s mop of dark curly hair obscuring his downcast eyes as he looks down at his wine glass. Not his preferred drink of choice, Sinclair knows, but they are at this fundraiser for reconnaissance purposes and blending in is key. Kile is failing spectacularly at this despite wearing the correct clothing and drinking the correct alcohol; he lacks the necessary aplomb, the casual hauteur required to navigate the viper’s nest that is Adafield’s wealthiest elite. Sinclair would know: He used to run in similar circles in a different city, years—and several poor investments—earlier. For this exact reason, their cover tonight is that of a wannabe hedge fund manager (Sinclair) and his boytoy (Kile).
Sinclair seethes if he thinks about it for too long.
He turns his attention back to the people around him. A survey of the room reveals their target, the host for this evening, merrily laughing surrounded by fawning peers. She’s hard to miss: A gaudy older woman standing at 6 feet tall and dressed in the trappings of the nouveau riche.
“Let’s move,” he murmurs. They have a narrow timeframe to slip away and plant the listening device.
Kile nods. When he reaches for Sinclair’s hand, playing the part of two lovers stealing away for some privacy, Sinclair stiffens under his touch. Kile flinches in turn.
“Sorry,” Kile mumbles, eyes to the floor.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sinclair snaps under his breath. He tightens his grip on Kile’s hand, ignoring the way it brands his skin, and leads them into the belly of the house.
Fewer guests are about in this area and the handful of staff appear too frazzled to pay attention to anyone sneaking into rooms they shouldn’t be. They make their way to the location of the target’s office—the second door on the left in the east wing’s ground floor—and after a surreptitious glance over his shoulder assures Sinclair they’re not being watched, the two slip inside.
The sounds of the party are muffled behind thick mahogany paneling. Sinclair watches Kile, eyes boring into the back of his head, as Kile scouts the floor-to-ceiling bookcase for an appropriate place to hide the bug. When he waves Sinclair over for confirmation, Kile’s hand shakes. A terse nod from Sinclair signals his approval of the area; desperate for space between them, he strides to the farthest corner of the office while Kile secures the recorder behind a copy of Madame Bovary.
Without the distractions of others and with the job now done, the atmosphere between them is stifling.
Kile swallows audibly in the silence and runs a hand over his curls. “Sinclair—”
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
“We are here for a job, Quinn, I am not going to entertain your pathetic attempts at atonement now.” Sinclair gives him a withering look.
Kile’s shoulders slump. “You won’t answer your phone when I call outside of work.”
“Maybe you should have thought about that,” Sinclair says through gritted teeth, striding towards Kile, “before you fucked some nobody while we were together.”
“I’m—”
The tapping of dress shoes against marble flooring interrupts them.
They wait. Listen. A few more strides confirms that someone is coming progressively closer.
Sinclair closes the gap between him and Kile, grabs Kile’s arms, and whispers roughly, “Don’t think this means I forgive you,” before crushing their lips together. Kile’s hands float around him, as if unsure whether he can touch, until Sinclair walks him back against the desk; he gasps and grabs Sinclair’s waist for purchase.
Sinclair bites at Kile’s lips. He draws blood, tastes it on his tongue, and feels a bone-deep satisfaction when Kile writhes beneath him: He wants it, wants him, to hurt a fraction of how much he himself hurts. Kile sharply inhales before he slicks his tongue over Sinclair’s and tightens his grip around his waist. Sinclair retaliates with another harsh bite to Kile’s lower lip, coating their mouths in copper.
By the time the office door is opened and a staff member—the target’s personal secretary—interrupts them, they look like a very convincing couple who sought out somewhere secluded for an impromptu tryst.
The secretary clears his throat. “Gentlemen, you can’t be in here.”
They pull apart. Sinclair dabs at his mouth with his knuckles before turning to face him and offering an appropriately chastised smile. “My apologies, we…wanted some privacy and this door happened to be open.”
After a few more tense seconds of appraisal, the secretary appears to buy their story and ushers them out of the room. They catch their breath in a quiet hallway on their way back to the main foyer, where the fundraiser is now well underway.
Sinclair looks at Kile and finds him a mess. Sinclair licks his thumb and swipes it across Kile’s lip, down his chin. His hand comes away bloody. He considers it for a moment before wiping it on Kile’s jacket lapel, lips curled in faint disgust.
Kile opens his mouth to speak once more, but Sinclair beats him to it. He fixes Kile with a lethally cold stare.
pros + cons of dating phoebe / sinclar ? asking for a friend
send me an oc and i’ll give you the pros & cons of dating them
answered for them both (phoebe here & sinclair here) but additional pros & cons for ur friend
phoebe
pro: her partner will feel like the most special person alive because she likes literally nobody sdflkdslkfjd
con: would get into fights for the sole reason of protecting/defending her partner. the con is that she is the one Starting the fight
sinclair
pro: will take his partner for rides on his motorcycle. intricate rituals of clinging to ur partner's back while he drives around at break-neck speed etc.
con: he is incredibly materialistic and will not respond well to this fact being brought up
