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coldbloodedcreator · 3 years

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Touch

a little gift for @luminescentlyricist ! i just... have some intense clown brainrot. also, excuse how jumbled and weird it might be at the end, I was passing out (still am) while writing it and im too excited to share it to revise much. fandom: homestuck (oc oriented) characters: othamo oculus (oc), jezakk imetat (friends oc) length: 1426 words pov: 3rd person (jezakk)

touch.

that was one way othamo would communicate with jezakk.

a pat at the shoulders to access where the smaller was, a grab at his arm to signal he needed help walking. he could be a bit rough but usually never meant to harm jezakk, told by the small apologizes that muttered from his lips. he could be verbally affectionate — but they were rarer than jezakk liked. he understood, though. being verbal about feelings was hard. jezakk couldn't get a single sentence out without his voice stuttering and cracking, no matter how hard he tried. he admired how flat his matesprit could keep his tone. sometimes he wondered if he could ask othamo how to control his voice - as othamo was one of the few troupe members who spoke with no rises in his voice at all, and spoke at a moderately quiet level compared to everyone else. but he doubted othamo would, or that it would work for long.

jezakk's internal dialogue was interrupted by a tight grip as his arm. claws dug into his flesh and jezakk had to quickly brief a glance towards his matesprit, before giving his vice gripped claws a gentle pat. "Uh," jezakk sort of grumbled low, to his best ability. he still held his claws over othamos, resisting the urge to try and pry them off. even if he tried, othamo would likely just grab on at a different section of his arm. "hEy.. cOUld yOU Uh... rElAx A lIttlE, Oth?" he sort of stammered. his eyes flickered back and forth from the emotionless grin on his matesprit's face to the near wall, his shoulders tense. luckily for him the claws relaxed and jezakk could feel the blood start to return to his arm. "i gEt yOUr nErvOUs-" othamo blunted overspoke jezakk, claws digging in once more. "im n⊙t nerv⊙us." he grunted. jezakk could hear othamo's breath hissing through his irregular, pin prick teeth, his smile much more open than his resting one. jezakk was near convinced that othamo grinned when he was nervous, and that othamo was a nervous wreck at all times. which wasn't rather farfetched from what jezakk had gathered from previous drops of othamo's cool facade, or the comments he made, but jezakk could hardly tell when othamo was being sincere or not. he couldn't even tell when othamo's rage was genuine. jezakk's eyes landed at the floor, where he could just barely see his foot tapping against the cold cement. he near became fully absorbed with his nervous leg bouncing before an idea sparked in the back of his mind. "hEy, I hAd An IdEA..." he could feel othamo's claws loosen more, before they eventually relaxed and let go. jezakk gingerly touched at where the claws had sunk in and left indents, feeling the small bumps. there was a few greasy smears of the oils from othamo's marionette strings that made jezakk briefly grimace. "what is it?" jezakk could've sworn that was more of a demand than a question. the way othamo's raspy voice spoke was a bit unnerving at times. othamo had told jezakk that when he was younger, he didn't start talking till he was around 6 or 7 sweeps old, which at first sounded somewhat ridiculous. but ... it did make some sense. "I wAs thInkIng.. AbOUt hOw yOU strUgglE wIth shOwIng AffEctIOn?" jezakk tried to word this in the kindess way possible. he could see othamo's eyebrow quirk out of the corner of his eyes. "whAt If I shOwEd yOU A wAy tO dO It wIthOUt wOrds?" "y⊙u mean asl?" for once his voice changed at the end, but went deeper instead of higher. it still registered as a questioning tone, but a grumpy one. "yEAh! wEll, Uh, nO, nOt cOmplEtEly, bEcAUsE.. yOU knOw," he gave a few vague hand movements, even though they'd go unnoticed. "yes. because im blind. i kn⊙w." it almost sounded like a sigh coming from him. jezakk frowned.

"AnywAys. wEll.. I knOw yOU lIkE drUmmIng yOUr fIngErs On stUff, sO mAybE sOmEthIng wIth thAt?" jezakk could see othamo's smile growing more forced, signalling a zone out on othamo's end. jezakk jabbed an elbow at othamo and he straighted up again. he gave no apology for his brief lack of consciousness, simply giving jezakk a smile. "... hOw dOEs thAt sOUnd?" "h⊙w d⊙es what s⊙und." jezakk sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. sometimes his matesprit was so goddamn stubborn. instead of making a mistake like last time where the question spiraled out of control, he just gave a small shake of his head. he reached his claws forward, placing them on othamo's shoulder gently. underneath the three different layers othamo tensed up at the touch. after a brief few seconds to let othamo's shoulders relax did jezakk drum his claws against his matesprit, giving a reassuring smile. "I lOvE yOU." jezakk said gently. he could feel othamo's blind gaze near bore through his skull. the taller's claws drifted forward, resting against jezakk's arm. he drums his fingers against it much gentler than expected, almost lost between the sweater fabric. this caused a wide smile to form on jezakk's face and a gentle flush fill his heart, and he lowered his hand. a few moments passed before othamo moved his hand to jezakk's face and drummed there as well. othamo's smile had visible softened. it was almost like his icy exterior melted away, revealing the personality that jezakk knew as his matesprit. othamo slowly crouched - trying to avoid popping his knees, as he understood the sound wasnt very desirable - and quickly after engulfed jezakk into a hug. he pulled jezakk close as a loud purr begun to rumble from deep within his chest and he nuzzled his face against jezakk's shoulder. his claws drummed rhythmically against jezakk's back, over and over, as he gave the tinkerer a squeeze. jezakk was rather surprised, but also quite elated, at the sudden affection. his cheeks turned lilac as he wrapped his arms around his matesprit, placing his chin on othamo's shoulder. his own claws gently rolled against othamo’s back, able to feel the scutes that decorated the spine of the puppeteers spine. it was a nice feeling. a few minutes pass, and they depart from their embrace. othamo remained crouched for a little bit, simply facing jezakk. the smaller purpleblood didn't move, as othamo still his claws on his shoulders.

"hey jazzy." "hm?" he blinked, tilting his head as a force of habit. "want t⊙ kn⊙w s⊙mething?" othamo asked, grin still present. jezakk lets out a soft chuckle. "sUrE, whAt Is It?" "when i think ⊙f y⊙u, i d⊙nt try t⊙ imagine the bits and pieces put t⊙gether ⊙f what y⊙u might l◎‿◉k like. i think ⊙f the stars. ⊙r at least my mem⊙ries ⊙f them. i used t⊙ marvel at the night sky, enam⊙red by them. they were s⊙ beautiful. y⊙u remind me ⊙f th⊙se stars, jazzy. s⊙ bright, interw⊙ven int⊙ the cl⊙uds ⊙f stardust."

a long pause came from jezakk. he stared at othamo, unable to find words. eventually he found a smile and another giggle leaves his lips. "Oth... thAts sO swEEt. I dIdn't knOw yOU wErE A rOmAntIc." othamo gives a playful nudge, leaning back onto his heels. "d⊙n't get t◎‿◉ c⊙cky ab⊙ut it, ⊙r else i w⊙nt tell y⊙u my pent up l⊙ve p⊙ems at all." othamo holds a genuine smile though, shoulders lax. he leaned forward and gently pressed his cold nose against jezakk's before giving the tinkerer a drum on the shoulders, and then standing straight. his previous fears seemed to have long since left him, his matesprit bringing his mood up significantly. othamo's smile can only widen more as another troll pops into jezakk's practice tent - where the two trolls currently were. he could hear the troll mutter something about "i knew id find you here" before informing the puppeteer his show was to begin soon, and othamo gives a simple nod. he looked to jezakk's direction once more before leaning down to place an affectionate kiss on jezakk's forehead, murmuring a few soft words and then making his way out. he paused at the entrance of the tent, glancing back again. he reached to the nearby beam and gave it a drum, smile perked. and then he leaves, vanishing into the bright big top to preform. jezakk could only watch, grin soft and his heart still beating firmly in his chest.

othamo could communicate verbally with jezakk, too. and boy does he love when he did.

#hhhim so tired but clowns are WAY more important ok #oc: othamo #friends oc: jezakk #The Troupe #fantroll #homestuck oc #homestuck #im basically incomprehensible now #gog this is so awful

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micyclemorton · 3 years

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this is a loooong one, boys

yes this is going to be a masterpost for my main 12 trolls so you can get to know them! they’re not all in the same world, but I don’t have any class/aspect clashes. biographies posted under the cut! suirev - burgundy / lumina - bronze / dietas - gold / phobis - mutant / lamiac - olive / immera - jade / ruilin - teal / tracor - cerulean / itoria - indigo / jezakk - purple / astril - violet / cirlun - fuchsia suirev - sylph of light / lumina - page of space / dietas - thief of doom phobis - mage of life / lamiac - seer of mind / immera - bard of heart ruilin - rogue of hope / tracor - prince of blood / itoria - knight of breath jezakk - heir of time / astril - witch of rage / cirlun - maid of void

suirev, lumina, immera, ruilin and jezakk are alternian, but only immera and ruilin are connected in terms of their lore. dietas, itoria and tracor are beforan, and all connected. suirev, lamiac, astril and cirlun hail from exonera (the first planet in the universe of my fansession) and are all connected to each other.

suirev - praying mantis lusus lumina - star-nosed mole lusus dietas - chameleon lusus phobis - serpent lusus lamiac - fennec fox lusus immera - venezualan poodle moth lusus ruilin - raccoon lusus tracor - scorpion lusus itoria - ant lusus jezakk - harp seal lusus astril - angler fish lusus cirlun - axolotl lusus

YOUR NAME IS SUIREV HELIOS.

Nobody believes you, not even your MANTIS LUSUS, but you know a lot more about the fate of the world than you let on. They dismiss your PROPHECIES as bogus, no matter how many tomes you write, and you’ve lost count of how many that is. You consider yourself PRETTY ENLIGHTENED, but not in the spiritual sense… yet. The spirits that pester your caste a lot of the time even seem to avoid you, which would have confused you a time ago, but now you know why.

You’ve developed a nasty habit of checking everything you want to say in your head, and they’re sick of being your mental proofreaders. They’ve made it very clear they dislike you, so you have some HEALING to do. People find you preachy, but that confuses you a lot. You’re mostly silent so that you can concentrate on the cacophony (spirits or no spirits) ringing through your pan, as you get some REALLY GOOD STORY IDEAS from them. Besides, you were named after an OLD GOD for a reason. You should have the right to preach.

One might even say that you’re COMPLETELY RAVING MAD, but at least you try to keep your appearance in check. It’s a shame your blood colour makes your EYE BAGS so obvious.

Your handle is LiteraryLunatic, and y★u end y★ur sentences with exclamati★n marks! S★ n★b★dy notices h★w tired y★u are! Besides, y★u’ve been staying up all night with pr★phecies racing thr★ugh your pan!

YOUR NAME IS LUMINA SERVIN.

You’re a maniacally busy troll, but you wouldn’t have it any other way, because your pan is always buzzing with NEW IDEAS. You have to keep yourself busy to fend off the ENCROACHING EXISTENTIAL DREAD that fills lowbloods like you. Your mole guardian helps you expand your desert-bound hive-workshop, because you’re often too busy - catering to all of the stupid VIOLET TOURISTS AND LANDDWELLERS in the nearby hive-clusters in order to make money and survive - to pay any attention to trivial household chores.

You’re not very good at what you do yet - though some would suggest otherwise - and you’re just striving to be better. You can recognise that you have the POTENTIAL to be GREATER, and it’s all just barely out of reach. You made yourself some KICK-ASS GOGGLES, inspired by the human subculture of STEAMPUNK, which you adore. They’re probably your best work to date, and you wear them so constantly that you’re afraid they’ll meld onto your face sometimes. The metal they’re made of, BRONZE, is the same colour as your blood, and one of the most pleasing aesthetically, in your opinion. No-one’s figured that out yet, luckily enough.

You’re an avid blacksmith, inventor, tinkerer and the rest of it. You’re making quite sure that you possess any title that involves HANDS-ON CREATION, really. Sometimes, you COMPLETELY SPACE OUT when you should be working, thinking of how best to go about things that really don’t require that much thought. It’s just how you roll.

Your handle is MechanicalMiner, and SOoMETIMES YOoU CAN COoME OoFF AS A LITTLE TOoOo LOoUD BECAUSE OoF WHAT’S PROoBABLY INDUSTRIAL DEAFNESS, EVEN AT THIS AGE.

YOUR NAME IS DIETAS LAMBDA.

Misfortune has pretty much DEFINED YOUR LIFE up until now, but that’s not important. What really matters is your job, and it’s a relief to have distraction. You know that you’ve been through a WHOLE LOT OF HELL, and would never wish that on anyone else. Ever since you crashed a training ship, blacked out for a bit and met your moirail, your dear ITORIA, things changed. Your HELMSTROLL DREAMS might have shattered, but she made sure you’re not too miserable.

YOU CAN SEE EVERYTHING. Well, almost. After losing your biological eye in the crash, Itoria built you a brand-new one, and now you can see in INFRARED LIGHT as well. You’ve recovered thanks to her, and you want to repay her by TAKING AWAY THE SUFFERING OF OTHERS, doing what she did for you. You travel around selling CHARGED-UP PROSTHETICS to trolls in need, while simultaneously keeping off the trail of the OVERSEERS, a pack of Ceruleans who you’re pretty sure want to kill you and your moirail for saving people.

YOU’RE NEVER GOING BACK TO THAT PLACE. The training centres are a source of shame and hurt for you, because you abandoned your guardian to get a purpose that ended up not working at all. How dumb that was.

Your handle is PsionicProsthesis. Yx0xu speak with a flare that reminds yx0xu of the symbx0xl that was given tx0x yx0xu at the training centres, as it’s a hx0xpe yx0xu’ll never fx0xrget despite the negative memx0xries, and tx0x represent yx0xur lx0xst eye.

YOUR NAME IS PHOBIS SACCHE.

If your lusus could talk, they’d probably say you were a NERVOUS WRECK. You’re not going to tell anyone otherwise, because your shaking hands prevent you from pulling up the blinds in your constantly darkened hive. Not that you’d want to, of course, since you live in a GHOST TOWN. Populated by literal ghosts. They don’t interact with you much, which you’re extremely grateful for. If the drones thought you were alive, you’d be dead in two seconds flat, with your BRIGHT RED BLOOD on public display.

It’s MAGICAL that you’ve survived this long, but you think it’s because of the menacing SERPENT that you’re fortunate enough to have as your guardian. You like to use their scales to fortify the SCYTHES AND OTHER WEAPONRY you build for yourself. They tend to do most of the hunting, as you can’t risk going out of your hive much, but you do enjoy training. Your LIFE itself is a gamble, and it makes you paranoid as hell, but at least you’re a decent fighter. Not that anyone would know or care. You also like TELESCOPES and looking at the STARS, but have no idea that your symbol means anything to do with that.

Your handle is SerpentineStargazer, and youre a phucking,,,, phucking brasssh little,,,,, ssshit whossse dumb… dumb phorked tongue makesss you…. hisss when youre nervoussss. ~~

YOUR NAME IS LAMIAC FENRIS.

You’re small in stature, but that doesn’t undermine how HARD-WORKING AND DRIVEN you can be. After all, when you work for THE EMPRESS, things need to be perfect. You’re also RESIDENT TELEMARAUDER of SKAIANET SYSTEMS, being tasked with worming your way into people’s minds to sell DIFFERENT NEFARIOUSLY-LABELLED PRODUCTS. You’ve never seen them made, but that’s not your job. It’s most likely for the best, anyway, seeing as how easily frightened you can be when FENFOXMOM isn’t around. Working for such an awful corporation and even more awful people - looking at you, Mr LaCroix - makes you sick to your stomach, but you need the security.

You’re a pleasant enough troll to be around, but can always change your expression and demeanour, your words cutting as sharp as the weapons you use to defend yourself. You do hate getting your claws dirty unless people really get on your nerve, in which case you’ll tear them to shreds verbally and physically. Somehow, the renovated ballroom you use as your office has been clean of client’s blood for a whole week! Something tells you you shouldn’t be excited about that, but what can you say? You’re territorial. Even though you can’t remember the last time you properly hunted, you can SEE WHAT’S GOING ON INSIDE PEOPLES’ HEADS and defend yourself.

Your best friend at the palace is the HEIRESS, which can be a bit strange due to the remarkable caste-gap between you, but she barely seems to care about that sort of a thing, which is nice. She’s the reason you have the job at the palace, because you consider THE EMPRESS HERSELF to be a very disagreeable person, even though you can’t exactly state that out loud unless you’re gossiping with Cirlun.

Your handle is FluctuatingFoxfire, and yo)u speak in a manner that perfec)tly c)o)nveys yo)ur need to) pro)tec)t yo)urself fro)m harsh judgement, while also) ho)no)uring the sign emblazo)ned ac)ro)ss yo)ur w)ork c)lo)thes at all times. ~~ YOUR NAME IS IMMERA METREN.

You’ve always been down in the BROODING CAVERNS, doing what all Jades should do and tending to the Mother Grub as she churns out her little grubs for everyone to see. You’d rather not be around to see them, if you’re being honest. You think it’s all just tiresome, thankless work, and aren’t really sure why exactly YOU HAVEN’T RUN AWAY YET. The chattering of your colleagues makes your head hurt, and their happy-go-lucky demeanours just make you REALLY WANT TO SCREAM. At this point, you’d take being a lowblood fighting for their life over whatever job you have here. One occupationless troll among thousands won’t hurt the economy too much, right? You sure hope not.

The fuzzy, pathetic, colourless MOTH you have as your lusus is just waiting to be crushed in the busy environment, and she refuses to leave you alone. Most Jades’ lusii abandon them if they work in a cramped space and fulfil the DESTINY SET OUT FOR THEM, but yours won’t. It’s not like you have the HEART to tell them to leave, and they barely listen to you as it is. No one seems to, troll or otherwise, even though your ninth wriggling day has come and gone and you feel your WINGS growing in. Generally speaking, that’s more of a rare Bronzeblood thing, but you’re sure that’s why your back is itching. You suppose it’s one of the - only - perks of being grub-like.

You just want to do one of two things: Have your colleagues SING YOUR PRAISES for your hard work, as they should acknowledge you, or ESCAPE INTO THE ALTERNIAN WILDERNESS so deeply that not even your lusus will be bothered to traverse your dangerous path. But you have to put up with the noise and the heat and the MURDEROUS INTENT blooming inside you where it shouldn’t really be in the first place.

Your handle is VindictiveVenusian, and YOUR’3 NOT <3RY TOL3RANT OF ANY HOOF33ASTSHIT YOUR COLL3AGU3S TRY TO SPOUT AROUND YOU, SO YOU TRY TO <<ARN THEM OF A POTENTIAL KISM3SITUD3 AT ANY GI<3N MOM3NT. ~~ YOUR NAME IS RUILIN CAPITA.

Some would call you a thief, but you have more dignity than that. Even though people continue to call you dirty and look down upon you for the nefarious way you act, it’s JUST WHAT YOU’VE BEEN TAUGHT by your RACCOON LUSUS. You love them more than you love getting your MONEY-GRUBBING CLAWS all over your newest riches, and that’s certainly a testament to just how highly you think of them. They’ve always been around for you, and you WISH SINCERELY that they’ll never leave, because they’re the only support you have.

You weren’t exactly raised well, being stuck in the BROODING CAVERNS for far longer than you should’ve been while the lusii took charge of all the grubs around you. YOU’RE THE ODD-ONE-OUT. It’s filled you with WHITE-HOT RESENTMENT, and you’re on a mission to gain back what you lost. You’d once wanted to become a legislacerator or something like that, as with all the other trolls in your caste. But that doesn’t quite suit the reputation you have on the streets, nor the way you’ve been treated. Why get justice for a system you don’t believe in? Besides, you know that someone would rat you out so that you’d be culled, not be the one doing the culling.

You want to take back what was stolen from you, and you’ll get your TRUSTY GAUNTLETS dirty any number of times to do so. Mostly, though, you steal money just because you have the skills to. Being a mid-lowblood isn’t the best, so you’ve picked up tips and tricks from THE VERY THUGS YOU’D NOT WANT TO STEAL FROM YOU.

Your handle is RaucousRebellion, and ¥ou t¥p€ using th€ many $trang€ $ymbol$ ¥ou find on ¥our ¢oin$ and not€$ - that w€r€n’t €xa¢tl¥ *¥our$.* until a mom€nt ago.

YOUR NAME IS TRACOR BOLDEL.

Everyone agrees with what you have to say, and that’s exactly how you like it. That’s how it’s always been, from the moment you were chosen in the brooding caverns by your MAGNIFICENT SCORPION LUSUS. They left you long ago, because you didn’t think you needed them, and you don’t really care where they might be right now. They’ve taught you to be commanding, and now your words STING SHARPER than the knives you’re so fond of using at any opportunity you may get. It’s not necessary, really, but it makes you seem fittingly intimidating and means that NO-ONE WILL STEP OUT OF LINE.

So you thought. Contending with idiots in the PRISMATIC TRAINING CENTRE FOR YOUNG PSIONS ((LOCATION B2)) is a much harder task than you first realised, due to the fact that there aren’t enough OVERSEERS and too many indigoblooded instructors that know that they can break your control with a little bit more effort than you can prevent. Why they couldn’t spare two ceruleans per centre is beyond you, but it hardly matters enough. You’ll kill with your knives if your empath abilities don’t work, or they don’t COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY DOMINATE THE COMPETITION YOU’RE CONVINCED IS REAL.

Even though you’re so busy sending goldbloods to their deaths, and you don’t really have time for quadrants, ITORIA APREIN IS OUT FOR YOUR BLOOD. She’s the main reason why you think there’s an uprising stirring within the centre, and the trolls who you let loose from your control at the end of the day DON’T WORSHIP YOU LIKE THEY SHOULD. You’ll fix that over time, of course, but you are just waiting for the right moment to strike. Your handle is BloodthistyBenevolence, and yovr tone of voice is aluuays nnvch gentler than anyone uuovld expect it to be.

YOUR NAME IS ITORIA APREIN.

Since you rebelled against the TRAINING CENTRES, there has ben a resolute sense of MORAL IMPORTANCE instilled inside you. You don’t think there’s anything else you can do to fulfil your need to help people than providing refuge for the goldbloods entranced by the idealistic, worrisome occupation of helmstroll. It doesn’t bore you if there are a few trolls that come and knock on your door every so often, because ANTMOM has always been around to support you, and she’s even harder a worker tham you. You’ve always wanted to redeem yourself, and realised that preventing the CERULEAN OVERSEERS from culling any more innocent lowbloods is the way to go. There’s nothing more that feels properly fulfilling than DEFENDING OTHERS WITH EVERYTHING YOU’VE GOT.

BREAKING YOUR APATHETIC SHELL has been a hard task and still is, but you’re working as hard as you can to prevent shutting away from the world. Emotional expression has always seemed like something forbidden, especially to INDIGOBLOODS like you. YOU DON’T LIKE FEELING VULNERABLE, but there’s nothing much you can do about it unless everyone just leaves you alone and without any chance to heal. DIETAS makes you feel better about expressing yourself, and you’ve developed pale affections for the little goldblood ever since you found them SCARED AND HALF-DEAD IN THE FOLIAGE. It frightened you, but now not much can. You’re a strong team, and you know they’ll be a backup when things go awry with your DEARLY DETESTED KISMESIS, TRACOR.

You use your knack and love of WIRING AND CIRCUITRY to keep everything safe, creating cameras to track the trolls in your care. You also enjoy SHOOTING DOWN SURVEILLANCE DRONES, because you’ll never truly be FREE of the Overseers and your haunting past if you don’t do something to prevent their poor, uncoordinated attempts at monitoring you. You’re glad for that bit of your unfortunate occupation, at least.

Your handle is EsotericEngineer, and yOu c△n’t seem tO seper△te yOurself frOm △ symbOl Of the life yOu left behind.

YOUR NAME IS JEZAKK IMETAT.

YOUR TIME IS RUNNING OUT. There’s not much you can do about it, though, because your circus troupe’s on the rise, and the RINGMASTER is starting to get some very bad ideas of what they might do to get you to actually comply for once. There’s nothing you can say that’ll make the people around you actually stop and listen. You feel small, so you try to wear BRIGHT, FLASHY COLOURS and STRIPY TIGHTS to mimic the figures so prominent in the jack-in-the-boxes you’ve always been fond of making and tinkering around with. You have no idea when that particular fascination set in, but it keeps you distracted from worse things that might happen to you. Despite the fact that you’re a highblood, you’re younger than the other performers in the troupe and feel more vulnerable than you should be.

You’re not really meant to be in the troupe, anyway. There was a time where you assume some SEADWELLERS were hunting for food or the fun of it - none of which they need to do, you’re guessing, because of how rich they are - and that was when you’d realised there was a harpoon broken off in SEALDAD’S side. So you saw the distant big top and ran to it, hoping that someone could help your lusus. He *was* healed, which you’re grateful beyond gratefulness for, but then… you don’t really remember. Blaring carnival lights, yellow-tinged and blinding, and then… EVERYTHING CHANGED. You never quite made it back to the sea, because the other purples started to teach you their ways, and you have an eerie feeling that they were trying to lure you into working for the ringmaster, who most of them (except for your ‘friend’ Othamo, who’s pretty fearless in a callous way) worship like a god.

Then you did, but you’re working for yourself most of the time. Wilfully disobedient. You just want to get out of the troupe, and you’ll do anything you can, but it’s been a few sweeps already. Performing with Sealdad makes you happy, and your contraptions do. So maybe it’s not so bad to stay for a little while longer. The time will come when you can make a break for it, you’re sure, just as long as you can secure an escape plan that means your lusus won’t be out of the water for too long at once.

Your handle is ClockworkCarnevale. _/[[ yOU’rE EAsIly scArEd, yOUr vOIcE gEttIng ErrAtIcAlly lOUdEr At wEIrd tImEs. bUt yOU bEt thE jAcks In yOUr bOxEs ArE fInE, sO yOU EnclOsE yOUr tExt In OnE tOO, tryIng nOt tO pAnIc. ]] ~~ YOUR NAME IS ASTRIL HURICA.

Though you suppose you go by ASTRIL ZEPHYR now. Nothing’s really worked out for you in your life, but the dastardly clairvoyant you’ve seen loitering around your ADOPTIVE DAUGHTER swears that EVERYTHING’S YOUR FAULT. She’s all wrong, of course, and you have the authority to - and half a mind to - completely banish her from the palace if she says one more thing to damage your opinion of her, which was always bad in the first place. You’re now the ‘mother’ of Cirlun, a disobedient and woefully immature fuchsiablood who was entrusted to you by virtue of your position as head of the VENERATED COUNCIL OF VIOLETS. It was disbanded many a sweep ago, with the heiress’ arrival on your sad little planet. THE COUNCIL was a committee of seadwellers with the purest blood, closest to that of a natural Aquarian, who banded together to keep the citizens of DUIIARIA (Now colloquially ‘Earth X’) from descending into anarchy.

You don’t have the best relationship sense, being that you CULLED YOUR MOTHER at the tender age of six sweeps. You could argue that you were only small, and naive, but you were seething with unbridled resentment and RAGE, even knowing that anglerfish don’t talk and thus don’t communicate well. You’ve kept that QUIETLY MURDEROUS DISPOSITION ever since the deed was carried out, and never intend to drop it. Tyranny is the only way you know how to keep your citizens in check, and you don’t intend to learn any other way. It’s ruthlessly effective, and that’s the only standard you’ll accept. It’s probably one of the reason’s why everyone thinks you’re WICKED AND UNCOMPROMISING, even your own daughter. You’d like nothing more than to leave Cirlun to her own devices and show her just how foolish she is to want pacifism.

But now, you wait eagerly in the shadows until she reaches the appropriate age to ascend to the throne. Then you’ll truly teach her what it’s like to fight for her life, even though you never really had to in your own right. You’ve spent a long, long time trying to prepare Duiiaria for survival when up against MILITARY AND INTERGALACTIC OPPOSITION, as you want to conquer as much as you can. You’re not about to relinquish your autocratic mindset for a brat like her, even though she has the right by blood. It won’t matter so much any more if you spill it first.

Your handle is GalacticGalvaniser, and you speak As Cr1sply And D1rec7ly As You Expect Your Orders 7o Carry 7hrough 7o Your L177le C171zens. 7OUR 7EMPERAMENT CHANGES S11GH717 WHEN YOU’RE ANGR7, 7HOUGH.

~~ YOUR NAME IS CIRLUN ZEPHYR.

You’re the heiress to an empire that you want none of. You were adopted by a troll (despite having a rather pathetic and sickly lusus) after emerging from the CHOKING DARKNESS, and she won’t give you the time of day (unless it’s to mock you for your poor fighting times) so you’ve realised there’s no point in asking how. That’s the only thing you’re glad for, you suppose. The fact that she stays out of your hair is certainly good, because you’re not good in social situations or with diplomacy at all, and you have plenty of time to escape up to the palace’s extensive library. The library is the only time you get any relief from any pressure being an heiress brings.

Reading, of course, is your main form of escapism since it’s so easy to access. Nobody much minds that you while away your time in the library, save for when ASTRIL sends guards to pull you away from your latest fascination to train. Training, that is, for your imminent death at the Empress’ own hand - or trident, as it were. You don’t really know why she does train you directly, since you think that’s something you need to do for yourself, but you guess she *is* PRETTY DAMN BLOODTHIRSTY. The fact that you put up a fight makes everything that much more enjoyable, and you’d say you’re a MORE THAN SERVICEABLE fighter. So much so that you swear you’d be at the forefront of your mother’s GALACTIC ARMY had she not decided she wanted to cull you from the moment she first laid eyes on you.

You’re pretty sheltered, being the only fuchsiablood in your timeline, but you do have a moirail (who you’re pretty sure your mother wouldn’t like at all by virtue of his being a MUTANT) that you sneak out and see under the guise of MYSTER WAEVEL, just another violetblood. Technology has made it easier for you to hide your own blood, and you’re hoping that Etoile could one day mask his as well. Inside the palace walls, LAMIAC FENRIS is your best and only friend, and you often sit with each other and talk when she’s not working. The stories she tells are mainly client complaints, but you’re lucky that the gory recounts she tells with such zeal don’t turn your stomach much. The bloodstains on her office walls don’t help.

A lot about you is a total mystery, but that’s just the way you like it.

Your handle is AlchemicAxolotl, named for your love of the lusus you’re NOT SUPPOSED TO HAVE. ))((oping you )(onour your biggest rolemodel - w)(o's long gone, only around in t)(e b∞ks you pour over - you've since added a little flair to your typing, and t)(ink it l∞ks a lot more personal. ~

#fantroll #suirev helios #lumina servin #dietas lambda #phobis sacche #lamiac fenris #immera metren #ruilin capita #tracor boldel #itoria aprein #jezakk imetat #astril hurica #cirlun zephyr #homestuck #homestuck fantroll

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micyclemorton · 3 years

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EVERYONE LOOK AT WHAT @dirkstriderz MADE FOR ME OR ELSE (art credit to @sunbites!)

#fantroll #homestuck #jezakk imetat

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micyclemorton · 3 years

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an attempt

at my boy using farragofiction’s trollmaker excuse the bad horns they were whatever yes he has natural purple sclerae he’s not old I think he deserves glittery hair

#jezakk imetat #homestuck fantroll #fantroll

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luminescentlyricist · 3 years

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VD: y⊙ur turn, buddy :o)8 (if y⊙u want t⊙, that is)

VD: n⊙ full ⊙n pr⊙mpt, but h⊙w ab⊙ut just s⊙me b⊙nding? maybe putting my makeup ⊙n ⊙r fixing up my hair, y⊙u kn⊙w, getting int⊙ the r⊙utine. can g⊙ any directi⊙n y⊙u want, ⊙r y⊙u can use an entire different pr⊙mpt. i just want t⊙ hear y⊙ur take ⊙n me :o)8

;; Gotcha!! Hope you like this :o)

🃏A Road To Recovery ⊙

Being the newest troll in the circus troupe, as unintentional as it was, Jezakk often stood out like a sore thumb when it came to showcasing his skillsets. He was unbearably graceless, even though he had never adorned the classical shoes that the clowns seemed so fond of. He left trails in his wake, whether or not it was a physical presence. Scent trails, more often than not, that were unbearably easy for a certain other troll to pick up on. While the tinkerer had never established himself as a sociable troll, he kept himself silent despite his yearnings for interaction of any kind. It was a strange fear that helped him maintain his otherwise unassuming nature, though it did nothing to deter one Othamo Oculus. If anything, the smaller of the two had the feeling he was being watched around a corner more often than not, regardless of Othamo’s lack of sight.

Then, there was always the heaviness. Although noticeably thinner and smaller in stature when compared to the other purplebloods around him, there was an uneasy leadening feeling that occasionally swept him, and it was nothing that he could yet explain. Of course, there were quite a lot of things that he had failed to glean from his short time in the facility, when he was conscious. The only conclusion he could draw was that it was a power-based backlash from his time as Othamo’s chucklevoodoo puppet. Jezakk felt there were also things that he had been told then, critically, that his amnesia - as a result of the unfortunate puppetry - had made him forget.

This was one of those times that he didn’t want to forget. Jezakk sat out in the hallways leading to one room of the Mordant King, the ringmaster of the whole group and undisputed Lord of the Circus. Panton Magnic was his name, but that title had been long since forgotten in favour of raw greed and want to establish his power with a title. Sometimes, his tinkerer mused that Othamo was no longer the main puppeteer of the troupe. He fidgeted restlessly with the small golden pendant he had been given on his first day, twisting it around in his claws and glancing downwards to catch the Capries as it flashed in the light of the windows. These windows, Jezakk thought, were unnecessarily large, and depicted circus acts in manners more suited to scenes of the Sufferer’s preaching than entertainments.

He looked around himself, heart beginning to pound in his chest. Panton’s name was the only memory he had retained from the many-sweep-long amnesia, and he wasn’t sure why. It barely mattered. If he shared it with anyone, he feared being exiled from the troupe and never seeing Sealdad again. And the healing of his father’s injury was exactly what landed him in the troupe in the first place. It was strange how desperate he had once been to get into the area, because all he wanted now was to escape. But there was a moral dilemma to deal with, and that was the fact that he would have to choose between his friend and his father if he wanted to get out. As much as Othamo gave Jezakk the creeps, he remained one of the lucky few that held his attention for long enough.

There were vaguely familiar voices behind the door, those of Ferrum and Mierle, two of the other purplebloods that he often crossed paths with. They were friendly enough, but he was wary nonetheless. Tilting his head and standing, he realised that there was no way he was going to hear the conversation. After a few moments, they exited together, looking quite shaken. Laughing dryly to himself, Jezakk shivered in anticipation and dread. He’d not been looking forward to any sort of meeting with the ringmaster, and the unnaturally hesitant appearances of the other trolls did nothing to reassure him. Smiling at them as they passed, he forced his hands to his sides and entered the room without waiting for Panton to call him through.

First mistake.

There was something unnerving about the way that Panton swivelled on his heel to greet the other, and the calm smile that he wore did nothing to soften the sharpness in his gaze. Something told Jezakk silently to turn tail - literally, as it squeezed around his waist tight enough to hurt - and get out of there before he was sliced into. Instead, the tinkerer bowed his head to show his respect, stepping forward. Despite his acquaintances’ nervousness, the naive tinkerer saw next-to-nothing that he should have been concerned about until the ringmaster raised an eyebrow, clasping his hands in front of his body neatly and beginning to speak. His tone was soft and disarming, made to rekindle a false sense of security. Although the smaller knew this, he couldn’t help but begin to let his guard down.

“Y/o\)u( KN/o\W, JEZAKK, I’VE BEEN THINKING AB/o\)u(t Y/o\)u( RECENTLY.”

This caused Jezakk’s eyebrows to raise in alarm, but he was otherwise still. He’d had to work on suppressing his fidgeting in fear of irritating the other troupe members, which had also caused him to unintentionally become skilled in preventing general movements and emotional displays. Raising his head to look at Panton, he remained silent.

“THERE’S A SMALL J/o\B I WANT Y/o\)u( T/o\ D/o\ F/o\R ME, AND THERE IS N/o\ /o\NE ELSE Q)u(ITE S)u(ITED F)o(R IT. Y/o\)u( ARE FAMILIAR WITH THE BEES, I TR)u(ST? I HAVE SPENT AN ADMITTEDLY L/o\NG TIME SEARCHING F/o\R S/o\ME/o\NE WILLING T/o\ C)u(LTIVATE THEIR H/o\NEY, AND I HAVE N/o\W C/o\ME T/o\ A RECENT F/o\REG/o\NE C/o\NCLUSI/o\N THAT Y/o\)u( MAY J)u(ST BE THE PERFECT CANDIDATE.”

Jezakk often spoke without foreseeing consequence, and lacked much of a social filter. It proved itself a dire slip to make more often than not.

“I’Ll do IT, sir.”

Panton’s smile widened, showing off rows of teeth more suited to a shark than any troll. It was less comforting than it was menacing, and the ringmaster’s next words sent a chill through his subordinate’s whole body for no clear reason.

“AH, GOOD! I AM S/o\ GLAD I F/o\UND Y/o\)u(, JEZAKK. Y/o\)u( START IMMEDIATELY, N/o\ Q)u(ESTI/o\NS ASKED. ASK /o\C)u(L)u(S F/o\R ASSISTANCE IF Y/o\)u( M)u(ST AND BEAR IN MIND THE AM/o\)u(NT /o\f FAITH I AM PLACING HERE. D/o\ N/o\T BREAK IT, F/o\R THE C/o\NSEQ)u(ENCES WILL BE DIRE.”

And with that, Panton Magnic returned to his work. Jezakk shifted in his stance. There was a creak as the door was leaned against by another from the outside, and the man only looked up once more from his work before smiling - almost threateningly, despite the lack of teeth - and waving to dismiss the troll in front of him.

Leaving the room, the little tinkerer never expected to see Othamo already there and waiting for him to follow. Placing a hand on the blind troll’s shoulder to indicate where he stood, he looked towards his companion.“WElL shIt. DIDn’T expEcT TO hEar thaT. UH… wEll. I KNoW yoU caN gENERaLlY SMEll yoUr waY AROuNd pRettY weLL, oThAMO, Sir, BUt I thINK I’ll LEAve THe hEAvY LIfTin tO VIZeRA aNd LUmIra WHen I CAn GeT THeM to LIsTen ENOugH.”

Othamo raised an eyebrow, waving to Jezakk as if trying to snap him out of some kind of daze. There, on the palm of his hand, was a carefully drawn eye. Jezakk looked dumbly at it, placing his hand over the one seemingly offered to him. This caused the other to flinch back, curling his nose in disgust. The scent of lemons was heavy in the air, which made him smile despite the distaste he’d show moments prior. He treated those inferior to him as they should have been treated, and never once considered that the tinkerer - a newbie, fresh meat, the perfect little puppet for his games - would be any different, regardless of the time he had in an uncomfortably close proximity and seeing through his eyes. Although it was normally an unpleasant, sharp scent, the undertones of fruitiness unique to the other made fear smell inviting.

“i can see a little bit, y⊙u kn⊙w. en⊙ugh t⊙ want t⊙ c⊙mment ⊙n h⊙w idi⊙tic that was t⊙ assume.”

He murmured, pointing towards the eye on his palm and inadvertently causing Jezakk to look down towards it, even though he had nervously averted his gaze prior. The lemon still hung in the air between them, and the smaller’s appreension was unrelenting. Tension ran through his every movement, and the stiffness was what caused him to fumble and almost trip over. He likely would have, had Othamo not reached out to steady him, unintentionally knocking their bodies a little closer than was comfortable. The taller chuckled, letting his arms fall from around Jezakk and noting how powerful his lemon scent was after that, enough to make his head spin.

“i can generally see thr⊙ugh eye shapes as well, n⊙t just y⊙ur eyes. thatd be selfish, d⊙nt y⊙u think? als⊙, the legends are true. y⊙u smell ⊙f blackberries and fear.”

Jezakk nodded silently, seeing that Othamo would notice the gesture without shifting his arm. He couldn’t help but laugh in fear, even though his words were stuck in his throat, making it near impossible to muster any vocal reply. There was something disarming about the puppeteer, but he was entirely aware of what he was doing. It was making Jezakk on edge, constantly, and he hated it. As such, he sped up his walking, attempting to get as far away from his companion as possible. Due to his dismal height difference, it only took a few rapid strides for Othamo to catch up.

He still intended for the others to help, however, so he continued on his merry way while periodically checking whether or not his ‘friend’ remained at a safe distance from him. There was really no use bothering him further. The first section of the journey to his practice room - as it was in an entirely separate tent to the Ringmaster’s quarters - was filled with a tense silence, which at least one of the pair seemed to heavily regret. The tinkerer was spinning his Capries necklace about in his fingers as an anxious fidget once again, something he performed under stress frequently enough that he took no notice of the action more often than not. Attempting to break the silence, Othamo spoke. It was more of a private mumble than anything directed towards Jezakk, despite that he was wrongly addressed.

“i have n⊙ idea why that jerk th⊙ught it was a g◎︶◉d idea t⊙ put me in charge ⊙f the bees, jazakk.“

“JazAkK? I’M jEzAkk.”

To this, the puppeteer simply shrugged, giving his companion a toothy smile. There was no true joy in the action, and it was unnervingly similar to the Ringmaster’s in that it was more threatening than anything else. Othamo never appeared to drop his grin, which was one of the other reasons Jezakk found it hard to detect whether or not he was being genuine about his expressions. Reaching to place a hand on Jezakk’s shoulder in a mimicry, his claws dug deeper than necessary. He spoke in a hiss, though there was some lightness to it that was reassuring. As if he never meant to threaten, but it was habitual.

“well, y⊙ure n⊙t t⊙ me. y⊙ur ⊙fficial nickname is jazzy n⊙w.”

“I- fiNE. BuT You cAn’T LEt anyONe eLsE knoW… Ah, hERE we aRe. WaNnA CoMe in fOr a BIT? I dOn’t miNd thE cOMpAnY. NObOdy elSe mUch PUTs UP wIth me THeSe daYs. SoRRy… Uh, sOrRY AbOUt thE mEss. I’VE bEen tiNKerINg QUItE a BIT. sEcreT PRoJect.”

The tinkerer, still fidgeting restlessly, rubbed at the back of his neck.

“I SHoUld proBabLY gO anD sOrt ouT the BEE buSINess foR a Bit. NOw thAt I knoW yoU don’T wannA dEal WITh thEm. FeEL frEe to LOOk arOunD, i guEss.”

With that, he left his friend to his own devices for a moment, which likely wasn’t a good idea. There were things scattered all over the place in a frantic manner, as if there had been a fight or something had occurred very quickly. Otherwise, the room seemed relatively empty on the ground, instead hosting shelves that lined the walls filled with boxes of all shapes and sizes. These were Jezakk’s pride and joy; the jack-in-the-boxes were what he was known for among his friends, and rightfully so. He’d definitely honed his craft, making them with an unprecedented love and precision.

Luckily enough, certain trolls - such as Othamo himself, and Jezakk - had been born with tails, according to whether or not their lusus had one, although it was rare. This enabled Othamo to better navigate the room, sweeping objects aside and out of his path to sit and wait for his friend’s return. Closing his eyes, the troll noticed soon enough that there was a strangely printed pair of leggings discarded across a chair, and his grin widened. Perfect. Their ocular design - unnerving to some, and even more so to Othamo himself because of his phobia - would enable him to see properly, though significantly blurred. He had chosen to sit on Jezakk’s recuperacoon, which had been fitted with a cover. It seemed nearly unused.

Activating the chucklevoodoos he was so adept at using, feeling about for the eyes and latching onto them, he made sure to keep his own closed. He wouldn’t need them. Observing the room through his ’new’ sight made his head spin, more than it ever had before. But the fruity scents were like a comforting punch in the nose, so to speak, and it helped him relax slightly and disregard the strangeness of it. There was nothing he could see that would possibly reveal the secret Jezakk had mentioned beforehand, or so he thought. The truth was that he wished to sell his jack-in-the-boxes to help him gather enough Caegars and ensure a safer escape from the troupe.

Meanwhile, Jezakk had located one of the two trolls he wished for help, and he was glad to find that ze was pleasant enough for him to avoid losing his composure. Vizera was slightly too loud for his tastes, and he kept his distance from the acrobat beside him, recalling the enthusiasm with which she had accepted his comparatively gentle plea for assistance. It was not exactly his ideal bottle of Faygo.

“LuMira? YEs, hElLo. It’S… JEzAkk, AND i Don’t THiNk we’VE reaLLy spOken, bUT i wAS WOndeRIN if I couLd HavE soMe heLp mOVIn thEse BeEhOUsEs inTo mY roOm.”

“YEAH, LLLLLUMIIIIIRA! HELLLP THE KIIIID OUT, WON’TCHA? HE’S A NEWBIIIE, AND YOU KNOW HOW THE RIIINGMASTER GETS IIIIF NEWBIIIES GET THIINGS WRONG!”

The troll at the door wore a pleasant smile, directing zir gaze towards Vizera and nodding before looking back towards the little tinkerer, who was significantly shorter than both of them.

“oh!! of course i’ll helP you, jezakk!! i suPPose i have enough time, and i wouldn’t wish for you to get in trouble with the ringmaster!!”

With a small sigh of relief, Jezakk smiled towards Lumira - still, unfortunately, finding it rather difficult to speak because of the new people around him - and led the two through the task, eventually saying his shaky goodbyes to the two and returning behind the safely closed doors of his room. His heart was pounding in his chest, and there was nothing that could have possibly prepared him for the sight that greeted him in that moment. It was an absolute mess. Everything that was scattered on the floor beforehand had been shoved to the side messily. The fact that a few of the jack-in-the-boxes had fallen from their shelves had just established itself as the second most distressing sight there.

The first, of course, was Othamo.

Immediately, the smaller’s hands retrieved his card deck, and he began to rapidly shuffle them as a reaction to his nerves. There was nothing else he could think of except the boy on the floor, but his body completely refused to move in a way he wanted it to. It was hard to decipher what had happened, exactly, but Othamo was laid out on the floor, staring blankly towards the tapering ceiling with eyes weakly flickering purple. He looked as if he’d been almost paralysed. Tears dripped their way down his cheeks, an even paler lavender than his eyes themselves. The only sound in the room - that Jezakk could hear - was the beating of his own heart, so loud and panicked that it drowned everything else.

Jezakk wasn’t used to this at all. His claws were trembling as he shuffled his cards around, silken gloves at risk of unravelling from where they were pulled high to his shoulders. He wasn’t truly expecting anyone to be with him within his practice room, let alone when he returned to it after Othamo had scheduled a busy day at the shows. Because he was new to the troupe, everyone else tended to have more performances than he did, which left him lonely. But here Othamo was, finally giving him the company he so craved, and he had no idea what to do. Everything was just a little bit too wrong, and no amount of physical messing around could fix it. So he distracted himself first, because his thinkpan wasn’t letting him make any lateral solution to the problem yet.

Tiptoeing around so that he didn’t disturb anyone else, Jezakk let his mind drift away from his friend for a moment. He placed his cards away, attempting and failing to regulate his breathing. How could he, when his pan was being wild? Instead, he walked around and picked up all of his boxes that had fallen, softly humming a show tune under his breath that he was fairly sure Panton himself had composed. He wasn’t sure why his pan had strayed to it, but he didn’t like it much. There was a funny taste in his mouth about it, because it meant that something about that suave, manipulative asshole was genuinely likeable. Shaking his head physically in an attempt to clear it, Jezakk placed the last box upon the shelves and redirected his attention to his friend.

Clearing a space to sit next to Othamo, he crossed his legs and began to sing a little louder. Even though his voice was croaky and awful because of the tears that had begun to greet his eyes and blur his vision, he continued, hoping that his voice would at least rouse the one on the floor. There wasn’t much else he was able to do, because he couldn’t properly attend to someone who was unconscious. Othamo was practically a dead weight as it stood, so manipulation would prove difficult for Jezakk. Nonetheless, he continued to sing to his friend, the frown lifting from his lips into a smile.

However negative, he enjoyed the time he spent with the puppeteer, and hoped Othamo felt the same. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, the clown gently wiped the tears away from his friend’s cheeks and eyes, which caused them to flutter and Othamo to stir. He flinched back, seeing the purple sparks that licked at his fingers, and shuffled his position so that he could give him some space to properly orientate himself.

“Ah, SHit, sORRy otH. DidN’T, UH, didN’t meAN tO hUrT YOu or ANytHIn…”

Othamo’s unseeing gaze followed Jezakk’s voice when he struggled into a sitting position, and he shrugged, not having gathered enough composure to vocalise his thoughts. Everything was spinning, and he felt dizzy even though there was no visual indication of it.

Although there was no longer a smile upon the tinkerer’s face, he was relieved beyond expression that Othamo had actually stirred. His fears often caught up with him, and he’d panicked about leaving the other troll to get into a bigger accident. Observing the smudging face paint smeared across his puppeteer’s cheeks in blackened tear trails, he pursed his lips. Softly telling Othamo to wait - as if he could do anything else - Jezakk left the room, locating Othamo’s own and entering it. It was cluttered, sure enough, but he was soon able to locate some liquorice-scented face paint among the jars of scenting strings and return to his friend.

“HOLd on. I thInk YOu smUdGed, mAn. LEmMe heLp yoU.”

He murmured, lifting the puppeteer into his arms with a groan and placing him on top of his recuperacoon once more, back against the wall. He hopped onto the cover himself, settling beside Othamo with his supplies. Taking a makeup brush and some remover, he began to gently brush away the crust of old makeup and remove the rest. After he was mostly clean, Jezakk preceded to wash his friend’s face of the smears with warm water on a cloth, all the while mumbling rapid-fire apologies whether or not he’d actually hurt the troll. He didn’t know how long it’d been since the blind troll had been able to reapply it himself or bothered to, but it couldn’t have been good.

He wrinkled his nose upon twisting the paint’s cap off, the scent making him almost vomit. Why Othamo liked liquorice was something he’d never understand, but he dipped the brush into the pot and began to carefully outline the boy’s ‘mask’ nonetheless. Subconsciously, he found his singing beginning again as he worked but reducing itself to a vague hum. It was a habit he’d suppressed, like many others, but Othamo made him feel safer about expressing himself. Filling it in gently, with slow and rhythmic strokes, he was pleased to find that the paint was drying rather quickly.

“YOu shOuLd gET soMe reST, BRoTHer. I CAn’T be sURE hoW loNg yOu weRe ouT FOr, buT yoU SEEm tiRed AS alL hEll. I hoPe I DId yoUr FACe PaInt WELl enOugH. I guEss I’M prEttY LucKy THaT YOu cAm’T SEE it… I’LL chEck On yoU LAtER, but I SHouLd go DEaL witH acTaLLy geTTin ThE bees FOr thE hOuseS. YOu caN usE mY reCUPerAcoON toDaY, lOokin IN no RIgHT sTaTe tO BE MOvIN.”

Once again using his unprecedented, caste-granted strength, the boy moved Othamo enough to slip the cover away from under him and help him ease into the slime underneath. Jezakk remembered how warm and relieving the sopor was, especially for physical pain. He’d installed a special heating apparatus underneath it so he - or another recipient - wouldn’t get cold in the harsher Alternian months. Turning this on and walking towards the door, Jezakk flashed Othamo an equally warm smile that would go unseen, but was nice regardless. Feeling a deeper sense of satisfaction than he had in sweeps, the tinkerer flicked the lights off and partially drew the door closed.

“HAve A gOOd rEsT, BRoTHer. yoU dEsERvE it. I’m pROuD oF yoU.”

#🏠 stuck at home 🏠#fantroll #jezakk imetat #othamo oculus #❤️ a world of our own ❤️

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micyclemorton · 3 years

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purpleblood development time

fun fact! the imetats all have chucklevoodoos linked to sound. - it's unknown what jezakk's are, because his malfunction consistently when he tries to use them (due to prolonged exposure to othamo's own) on the occasion. but when they do backfire, they cause increasingly intense and notably violent auditory hallucinations. - fortem's can probably induce these. - the composer, fortem's post-scratch self and jezakk's ancestor, was the ringmaster of a circus troupe, and he controlled his audience and performers alike through sound. the most common way he did this was, predictably, through direct music, which he made himself. his power ranged from inducing hallucinations or dreamlike trances to inflicting pain depending on the piece and the intensity/volume of the music itself. he can also presumably directly cause auditory hallucinations like his pre-scratch counterpart. :o) jezakk’s primary influence is the jack-in-the-box, fortem’s music boxes, and the composer is a pied-piper-like figure, and a combination of both. fortem’s name is a portmanteau of forte (the musical term for something to be played loudly) and tempus, latin for “time”.

#jezakk imetat #fortem imetat #the composer fantroll

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luminescentlyricist · 3 years

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🃏 _/[[ JESTER ]] 🃏

This was originally written in time for Halloween! ~

WARNINGS : Blood, gore, minor vomiting and minor drinking

YOUR NAME IS JEZAKK IMETAT.

YOU FEEL LOST.

One moment, everything was peaceful. Then, before you could properly react, there was purple all over you, and your ears were ringing with screams. What little comfort you had found in the troupe isn't real any more, and it never was. Everything has descended into silence. There was always a threat looming over you, and you knew that the RINGMASTER was up to no good, but NOBODY EVER FUCKING LISTENED TO YOU. Now, you seem to have payed the price. You walk blindly down the corridors that you were once familiar with, unwilling to open your eyes for fear of what may greet you if you do. Your feet track more purple across the floors, but it hardly matters enough. All that's on your mind is who matters, and you don't want to contend to anything else yet. There's just not enough TIME.

SOMETHING IS CHANGING. There's a sensation burning across your eyelids that you haven't felt in a long, long time. Even though the rooms are frigid cold, darkness seeping through your home that was once so brightly lit, you feel hot flushes of shame enveloping your cheeks and invading your steadily crumbling thoughts as you stagger forwards still. There are two people you want to see, and if they're safe, it might give you some kind of peace of mind. But the further you go, your feet shuffling numbly, you begin to doubt your hopes more and more. This is the same soulless place you knew when you were semi-conscious, a puppet for your MATESPRIT, and his eyes. He was only trying to protect himself from these horrors, and you swallow the lump in your throat. You realised that far too late.

But you know that nothing will work out the way you want it to. Your limbs feel like they're filled with lead, your thinkpan as fuzzy as if you were drunk on the pies you always had the strength to decline. But now you're NOT SO SURE YOU WOULD, surveying the scene with drooping eyelids that you force yourself to open once and for all. There are more bodies than you ever knew existed in the troupe in the first place, piled haphazardly with smears of gore up the walls. A low chuckle rumbles out from you, tears staining your cheeks as the sight throws you into hysterics. It's a coping mechanism, or so YOUR DEAREST OTHAMO would say. He never failed to make you laugh. You thought you needed that relief, but all it does is make your throat burn. You have no idea how long it's been since you had anything to drink.

Opening your eyes just enough to detect whether there are bottles around, you detect something filled with purple and walk towards it, grasping it in shaking claws and somehow unscrewing the lid. You knock it back in a few swallows without processing what the liquid even is, not particularly caring because it does its job of warding away THE ACIDIC TASTE COATING YOUR TONGUE. You think the label reads 'FAYGO', but your attention is already elsewhere and so is your gaze. You close your eyes, finding welcome relief in the darkness that seemed to scared you so easily before. Something in you tells you to STOP BEFORE IT GETS WORSE, but you're not one to follow directions like that. Besides, you feel the Faygo starting to kick in already.

Still you walk, tracing a path you've always known. Reaching your practice room, you push open the door, trembling fingers sliding away from the frame as your chest heaves with laboured breath. You continue your manic mixture of laughter and stuttering breathing almost soundlessly, but with the tears and the sharklike grin still plastered to your face. Upon seeing your mirror, you strike out at it, the resulting shattering noise a jarring and unwelcome contrast to your own. Your face paint was smeared, and you realised that YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW WHO YOU ARE ANY MORE. What are you? The tears mingle with those once painted carefully across your cheeks, muddying the white and darker grey with a pale and pathetic purple hue.

Disregarding the glass shards embedded in your knuckles as if they're nothing more than your imagination, you retreat, returning to the room you're perhaps more familiar with than your own. You can see the strings that you had once helped soak, imbuing them with different oils so that they'd smell nice and Othamo wouldn't get confused as to what he was doing during his shows. Some of them are still in their jars, but you doubt anything will mask the stench of the rot that surrounds you. Who's fault is it, you wonder. Who would do such a thing, to leave your ONLY FRIEND to darkness? Your laughter shifts slowly into a trembling, monotonous hum, and you fumble about for the LIGHT SWITCH that seems to have been torn from its socket. How convenient.

You sense movement, a hulking figure behind you, and for a moment you freeze in fear. But it's your guardian, which makes you bare your teeth in a smile's attempt and lurch towards him unsteadily. Finally. Someone who cared. You nearly collapse when you see him, falling as your legs give out. Crawling towards him as if there's no pain stopping you, you stain his fur with blood and tears, beginning to violently sob into his matted and uneven fur. You feel so very pathetic, like you are and always were, but more so now than ever. You feel yourself BREAKING DOWN, becoming the scared little boy you were when you entered the Big Top for the first time all over again. There's another figure with him, but you can't quite gather enough light in your eyes in order to discern who it is. MAYBE THAT'S FOR THE BETTER. They seem to be leaning on the wall, as if they're not strong enough to support themselves alone.

THERE'S SOMETHING WRONG ABOUT YOUR DAD, even though you can't quite decipher what that is. Rolling him over gently, just enough to expose the side of his fur where the wound was created sweeps ago, you grit your teeth and prepare yourself. This is what you normally do; check if he's moved too much in his sleep, see if the wound's all fully scarred, despite the fact it never is. But nothing can quite prepare you for the smell, and the purple so deep it almost stains black upon the harp seal's snow white fur. You don't need to know what happened. All you know is that YOUR FATHER IS DEAD, and the figure leaning on the wall has crumpled to the floor as if they were never quite alive in the first place. Your heart is hammering in your chest, but you advance towards the body after stumbling upright.

You don't get all that far, by virtue of the fact that your head is spinning like a carousel and you vomit on the floor, wiping your mouth harshly as the world heaves around you and sparks pop in front of your eyes, nearly causing you to fall over anew. You continue on after a minute or two, wishing you had access to more Faygo so EVERYTHING WOULD BE NUMB AGAIN. The body is right in front of you, and yet you don't look down at it yet. There's something tangled around your leg, so you pick it up. it's the top of a MARIONETTE'S BOARD, with a cross of wood and not-yet-scented string dangling down, snapped at uneven lengths. Your stomach flips. You don't even have to see the face to know who it is, and grimace at the way his wrists, ankles and neck are broken and twisted as if they were articulated puppet joints. You begin to shake, uncontrollable and vicious tremors that truly do force you to the ground.

You wail in anguish, a sound more animalistic and sorrowful than any troll language could articulate. Pounding your fists against the carpets, your vision fades in and out of blackness, and you scream and cry until your throat feels like it's been scraped by a million layers of sandpaper. Only then do you go silent, when you've ripped up the carpet to reveal the wooden boards. Only then do you begin pressing your hands onto to make deep, liquified prints in glaring hues of purple, unclearly yours or someone else's. Only then do you realise the depths of your loneliness. Only then do you truly realise what a monster you are.

Only then do you realise that it was you all along.

#help I'm devoted to this clown #homestuck #fantroll #luminescent lyricist writes #🏠 stuck at home 🏠#❤️ a world of our own ❤️

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coldbloodedcreator · 3 years

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New Gear

luminescentlyricist asked: othamo and jezakk first meeting, please :o)zzz alright, i cant argue with that. i love writing about our clowns :o)8 fandom: homestuck (oc oriented) characters: othamo oculus (oc), jezakk imetat (friends oc) length: 900 words (short) pov: 3rd person (othamo)

YOUR NAME IS OTHAMO OCULUS. and it is another grueling day at the circus.

well, maybe he was being too harsh about it.

the past few days in the troupe had been rather uneventful, the acts played quite typical per usual. othamo had canceled his act for the week because it simply didn’t live up to his expectations when he was practicing for it — as much as the ringmaster would disapprove. othamo was stubborn with his acts — if they weren’t perfect when practice, they weren’t fit to be seen. and the puppeteer's blindness made the room for errors in his acts even thinner.

there was a buzz going about the troupe today that there was someone new ‘visiting.‘ othamo knew what this meant.

the ringmaster - or the mordant king, albeit othamo refused to call him that — had roped another troll into the circus via his unethical tactics. most, if not all the members of the circus here joined the same way this recruit would, although othamo and a troll he caught himself were spared of this tactic.

oh well, their loss. if they managed to get pulled in, it was their own fault.

othamo was rather intently focused on the dull clicks of his claws against a glass jar. coarse marionette strings laid clumped inside the bottle and he gently yanked at them as he pulled a few free. crossing the thread over his claws he began to tie the strings to each finger slowly, a low hum leaving his lips as the familiar feeling brought a toothy grin to his face. oh, how he loved to puppeteer. how a simple twitch of the claws could bring life to a marionette, allow it to tell its own story. the sound of their wooden joints clicking together instinctively filled his ears and brought a flushed feeling of ease to othamo.

lost in thought, the purple blood blundered into another body. a loud crash as his jar of strings fell to the floor, shattering into a hundred little shards that othamo would likely find later dug into his shoe heels. he hadn’t even realized he had been moving in the first place and only furthered his confusion as he jerked back, and a low growl bubbled up from his throat as he harshly breathed in the scent of the other.

the smell that filled the blind troll's nose was nowhere near familiar. this only brought his lips back further, gleaming sharp teeth becoming visible like some feral cat. if he had any fur, it would be pricked with anger.

“wh⊙ are y⊙u?“ othamo spat. mingled within the sharp scent of the stranger othamo could pick up the faint, bittersweet smell of their purple blood, but this did not quell his anger. but the follow-up tang that followed caused othamo’s smile to crack at the edges, going further than it naturally should. this was a smell he liked. the smell of fear.

“uHm-“ they stuttered, fumbling with their words. their shoes scuffled against the cold floor as othamo advanced towards them, his impatient thin. he backed them into a corner - or at least, he thought so, as they stopped moving - and leaned closer to their face.

the citrus-y smell of fear wafted off their face in volumes. nervous mumbling came from them as they fought to form a sentence, othamo’s looming figure catching them off guard.

“I - am THe neW RecRUiT... jeZAkK. jeZAKK IMEtat.“ they finally managed through their breaths. this brought a low snicker from othamo.

"⊙h~" othamo leaned back. his spine popped as he straightened, the hostility seeming to vanish from his face. he quirked a brow. "is that s⊙? my deepest ap◎l◉gizes then." a few beats of silence passed before he let out a small snort. "n⊙t. I d⊙nt care if we're the same bl◎‿◉d — kn⊙w y⊙ur place, newbie. y⊙u are inferi⊙r t⊙ the likes ⊙f me." othamo snarled, jerking forward and causing the other troll to flinch backward in fear. his smile grew sinister as he then slowly rose once more, body creaking, and popped the collar of his cape out again. "im n⊙t exactly f⊙nd ⊙f grubs interrupting me. d⊙ y⊙u have any excuse f⊙r h⊙w rudely y⊙u destr⊙yed my mari⊙nette string jar?" othamo asked, clasping his claws together. he swiftly realized that he didn’t have all of his strings tied on due to the run-in, and his claws clenched together tightly. silence rose from jezakk.

“i.. uhM.. No? i diDn't meAN tO, i swEar-“ othamo claws dig into jezakk’s cheek. he firmly clutched the side of the smaller troll's face, grin growing. his jaw lets out a crack as if he was preparing to unhinge his mouth and bite jezakk’s face off.

“then y⊙u ⊙we me~“ his claws dragged underneath jezakk’s chin, the sharp nails just barely avoiding nicking the soft flesh. a low rumble came from othamo’s chest as he purred, although this purr was not pleased. he slowly draws his hand away as purple rippled into his lifeless eyes. vision poured into othamo’s eyes as his chucklevoodoos latched onto jezakk, othamo’s face visible once more to him through jezakk’s eyes. he clasps his claws together excitedly as he lets out a low chuckle, straightening up once more. he then released them to reach out for jezakk to grab hold of his shoulder.

“let’s get g⊙ing then, shall we?“

#hrng... clowns.#homestuck #homestuck oc #fantroll #oc: othamo #friends oc: jezakk #The Troupe #<- tag for anything troupe related like othamo and jezakk

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