Cursor- 2023
Ringor Mortis + ???? Mortis
Halley + Hazard, unknown TCP project
Fuzzy memories of pixel folders, all containing creatures.
CW: None here, but further continuations off of these character exchanges will include CSA/violence

 
It’s late when Halley walks into their apartment’s living room, later than they were ever expecting their roommate to be up.

Hazard turns his head away from his laptop just enough for the eyeball type to see his eyespots, saggy and tired looking.

The eyeball type hops over the back of the couch, making the touch type jump in surprise.

He sighs, leaning back.

He visibly bristles at Halley’s comment, the eyeball type lifting their hands up apologetically.

The touch type untenses, Hazard nodding and looking down at his laptop screen.

The solemn look Hazard gives them makes Halley burst out laughing.

Hazard nods.

He trails off, Halley tilting their eyeball-head.

Hazard goes quiet again, nodding.

The silence starts to gnaw at Halley, the eyeball type raising their hands again and waving them.

That gets a laugh out of Hazard, Halley breathing a subtle sigh of relief.

Deadbolt- 2023
Ringor Mortis (with some check-ins from B. Comorant)
Matthias, Punch Clock Animal
There's too many signals.
CW: Implied ambiguous violence, sadism + torture, misgendering, vomiting, gore

---

Still in range.

Matthias bites his lip, sucking in air before letting it out as an aggravated exhale.

They have to be doing this on fucking purpose.
Giant meat wall of a dog- if you can even call that kind of bloodsucker that- thinking they can waltz right into my territory.
My turf. They know better. They fucking know better.

Thirty years had been a long time for Matthias to get used to the sensation of Bucket in proximity. It had also been plenty of time for the Judgment to get ahold of more cultists, breaking them down and fusing them to their body, their arm a patchwork mess of Spit worshipers, all in order to create a radar that goes both ways.

For Matthias, this means an endless world of noise.

Signals he can’t block out, letting him know when any of the people whose flesh are fused into this nightmare of a limb are nearby- no thoughts. No voices. But he can feel when they hurt, and when they hurt others.

And he always knows when they’re close.

It’s enough to drive him up a wall. He couldn’t care less about any of the other cultists finding out about whatever sick, violent pleasures he indulged in or vice versa, but the fact that Bucket could-

He knows what would happen if they came for him. If they found out he wasn’t playing nice when they were close enough to take action on it…

He wonders if there’d be a word uttered, or a gesture made- or if all they needed was to think about it.

Sometimes Bucket would take from him, or the others in the chain. They’d siphon off from him until he threw up blood, leeching every bit they needed to recover from injuries the person last added to the arm’s quilt left. Sometimes they take so frequently that he swears it’s for fun, that they not-so-secretly delight in torturing their trophies.

He’d considered telling Chelsea. Just to fuck with her. To let her know just how much of a fucking sadist her sweet, gentle partner is.

But for all he knows, they’re still in contact. He knows that she and the rest of the freaks in her head are explicitly off limits. All of the other members of the cult they’d gotten ahold of know the same, and every single one of them stares at the karacel with utter hatred in their hearts.

From Consumption’s best punching bag to untouchable.
What a shitshow.

He stays in his room most days, door deadbolted and chained multiple times over. Bucket had yet to find his actual base of operations, not since he’d moved last. It’d been a few years of security, but he knows he has to leave sometimes. To eat, to work, to seek out any semblance of satisfaction. It’s enough for him to grind his teeth until they ache, his dreams tormented with their hand around his neck. Reliving it, over and over, no matter how much nightmares are supposed to be his territory.

No matter what he does, he can’t fight it. He’s completely at their mercy, the other dog enjoying his squirming and discomfort just as much as he had enjoyed theirs decades ago.

…he knows a sore spot, though.

One that makes the corners of his mouth turn up, just enough.

You’ve got one weakpoint in your armor.
Finger on the pulse, always tracking us down…
But we’ve got eyes and ears, too, you miserable little shit.
You may have been able to protect your sweetheart, but…
You can’t save everyone.
Especially not him.