Generic Brooding Antihero
Justice Ain't Gonna Dispense Itself
GENERIC BROODING ANTIHERO'S
Neverending Search For The One
Neverending Search For The One
Just kidding. I'm already well-aware that Batman exists. RP me with me anyway?
UPDATE: I'm currently not looking for partners right now as I got way more attention than I deserved, and I've already let too many of you down. You can still try to PM me, but I can't promise you anything.
ME, ME, ME: Two Truths and a Lie
- You can call me Generic Brooding Anti-hero, or Anti, for short.
- I'm in my early 20's, but my mental age is somewhere around 138, which is to say my mind is very slow and senile.
- Despite being over 6ft tall, a MENSA member, a Pulitzer Prize nominee and an excellent cook, my best asset remains my impeccable ability to stay grounded all the time. Just ask my mother!
Welp. You got me. My name is actually Clarence.
The Stuff You Actually Want to Know
- Posting Frequency: At least once a week.
- Poke-Friendly: I'll no pressure at all as long as you tell me I'm pretty.
- Post Length: Approximately 200-500 words. Okay, fine. It's more like 50-2000 words, which is to say ... it depends what's going on. You will receive no one-liners from me.
- Medium: PM or Thread is fine. Prefer threads.
- Character Sheets: Will give FC/s & accompanying ramblings upon request.
- Triggers/Limitations: None, except mpreg, because what the fuck.
- Romance: Love them, but don't need them. Also please don't try to bang my character three posts into the RP.
- Character Preference: I'll play anyone and everyone. Man, woman, child, and everything in between. I also like playing multiple characters at a time.
- OOC: I'm actually terrified of human interaction. Talk to me anyway.
- Worldbuilding: Oh god yes.
- Plotting: Minimal, but yes.
Et vous?
- Play close attention to continuity.
- Be able to play at least one side character.
- Actively contribute ideas to the plot.
- Don't feel pressured to match my post length, but don't give me one-liners.
- To prove you read this, tell me your favourite ... just kidding. I fucking hate that shit.
- If abandoning RP, I would appreciate break up note containing feel-good classics like 'It's not you, it's me' or 'I swear I wasn't just pretending to laugh at your jokes.'
Plots
- [Modern/Realistic] Our characters always take the same bus at the same time; that is, the last bus just after midnight, and both of them stopping right at the shittiest part of the city. They never really make any effort to interact with each other beyond the occasional smile or nod, which is fine, considering they're usually the two last people on the bus. But alas, one night, the dodgiest, drunkest dudes get on. They're trying to get one of our characters' attention.
- [Modern/Realistic] No other way to put it: Character A is a gold digger. They find themselves at a fancy event, setting their sights on young, but very much rich-looking Character B. In truth, Character B is just a worker at the resort in which the event is taking place.
- [Modern/Fantasy] The City has enough local ghost stories to fuel every child's nightmares, but don't be misled. It's actually been quite a while since swarms of restless spirits wandered around The City. It's all thanks to Character A, also a spirit themselves (possibly a shrink in their past life), who has made it their (un)life's mission to help these souls get over their trauma, and cross over to the afterlife. The rulers of Purgatory are not very pleased. They send Character B to deal with the situation ... somehow.
Pairings
* -- Craving ; ** -- Slightly-Creepy Levels of Craving ; *** -- Take My Firstborn and RP with me NOW ; **** -- ... don't even ask. Just kidding. Please ask.
- Vampire / Human *
- Fallen Demon / Fallen Angel
- Guardian Angel / Comatose Patient *
- Grifter / Grifter **
- Grifter / Mark ***
- Thief / Thief
- Assassin / Mark
- Assassin / Mark's Bodyguard
- Bodyguard / Celebrity **
- Knight / Monarch *
- Knight / Enemy Kingdom Noble/Royal
- Writer / Barista
- Street Musician / Hobo
- Single Parent / Disneyland/world Employee *
- Recently Single and Heartbroken / Tech Support ***
- Runaway / Runaway **
Fandoms
- Bron/Broen ****
- Dollhouse
- Dragon Age
- Overwatch (Any combination of Genji, McCree, Hanzo and Mercy is delicious. Also Reaper 76)
- Firefly
- Gravity Falls
- Hannibal
- Pre-S4 Sleepy Hollow
- Vertigo's Sandman/Lucifer
The only thing worse than waking up so early in the morning was having to wake up to Judge’s barking orders.
Barns rolled in his bed, groaning, muttering a string of insults so incoherent even he didn’t understand them. He kept his eyes shut, hand blindly reaching for the alarm clock on his night stand. Sturdy thing, that. Had a proper sharp pocket knife sticking in between 12 and 1, and here it still was, ticking, months after the fact. Barns turned his head to look at it. 9.00.
Fucking hell, Judge.
Irritated, he threw the clock back on the table, and got up, snatching a grey woolen sweater on the coat rack before wearing it over his plain white tee. On the other side of the door, he could already hear everyone’s early morning banter, and it was already draining his soul with every passing second. Fucking hell. He needed coffee, stat.
A personal coffee machine was one of the best ideas he’d ever had, seeing as having to use the communal one often necessitated some degree of human interaction. He was doing them all a favour, really. Barns needed a certain amount of caffeine in his system before his propensity for murder got down to acceptable levels.
He dragged his bare feet across the stone floor, passing wooden shelves of foxglove and ivy embedded on rustic, blue walls. Barns’ room was surprisingly well-kept despite the demands of managing an indoor garden. His tools and equipment -- spades and knives, guns and vials, and all the little souvenirs he’d collected from past lives -- all laid in their respective drawers and cabinets, hidden from sight. Barns retrieved a white mug from one such drawer. Cursive, girly handwriting was printed on the ceramic: Good morning, Handsome!
Barns pressed a few buttons on the machine, and at last, it beeped in response, turning its cogs and releasing steam as the bitter scent of concentrated coffee slowly wafted throughout the room. He crossed his arms, impatient to have his cup filled, and while he waited, deep blue eyes drifted towards the vision board right above the coffee machine. A client had given him the idea to make one, which, considering how their … relationship concluded, proved, more than anything, that visions boards didn’twork. Barns thought it a fun exercise, anyway. His own was filled with pictures of greenhouses and of the arctic, topped off with a quote by Walt Disney: You may not realize it when it happens, but a kick in the teeth may be the best thing in the world for you.
Beep! The coffee machine shook him back to the present. Barns raised the now-filled mug to his lips, blowing it gently before taking a sip, and nodded, satisfied. Coffee in hand, he returned to his bedside table, wanting to check the time once more. Barns stood there for a full two minutes before he finally agreed with the placement of the minute hand.
At exactly 9.11 in the morning, the doors to Barns’ room flew open, revealing a man with dark circles beneath his eyes and a frown upon his mouth. His gaze found its way to the set of keys on the table, and, for half a second, he forgot himself, a half-smirk overtaking his scowl. ‘You trying to hit on Donny with that shit?’ He looked at Butch, right before plopping down his own seat, attention redirected at Judge.
‘Swear to god, Boss, this better be good.’ His now half-empty mug rested in front of him. ‘I was really enjoying me beauty sleep.’
Barns rolled in his bed, groaning, muttering a string of insults so incoherent even he didn’t understand them. He kept his eyes shut, hand blindly reaching for the alarm clock on his night stand. Sturdy thing, that. Had a proper sharp pocket knife sticking in between 12 and 1, and here it still was, ticking, months after the fact. Barns turned his head to look at it. 9.00.
Fucking hell, Judge.
Irritated, he threw the clock back on the table, and got up, snatching a grey woolen sweater on the coat rack before wearing it over his plain white tee. On the other side of the door, he could already hear everyone’s early morning banter, and it was already draining his soul with every passing second. Fucking hell. He needed coffee, stat.
A personal coffee machine was one of the best ideas he’d ever had, seeing as having to use the communal one often necessitated some degree of human interaction. He was doing them all a favour, really. Barns needed a certain amount of caffeine in his system before his propensity for murder got down to acceptable levels.
He dragged his bare feet across the stone floor, passing wooden shelves of foxglove and ivy embedded on rustic, blue walls. Barns’ room was surprisingly well-kept despite the demands of managing an indoor garden. His tools and equipment -- spades and knives, guns and vials, and all the little souvenirs he’d collected from past lives -- all laid in their respective drawers and cabinets, hidden from sight. Barns retrieved a white mug from one such drawer. Cursive, girly handwriting was printed on the ceramic: Good morning, Handsome!
Barns pressed a few buttons on the machine, and at last, it beeped in response, turning its cogs and releasing steam as the bitter scent of concentrated coffee slowly wafted throughout the room. He crossed his arms, impatient to have his cup filled, and while he waited, deep blue eyes drifted towards the vision board right above the coffee machine. A client had given him the idea to make one, which, considering how their … relationship concluded, proved, more than anything, that visions boards didn’twork. Barns thought it a fun exercise, anyway. His own was filled with pictures of greenhouses and of the arctic, topped off with a quote by Walt Disney: You may not realize it when it happens, but a kick in the teeth may be the best thing in the world for you.
Beep! The coffee machine shook him back to the present. Barns raised the now-filled mug to his lips, blowing it gently before taking a sip, and nodded, satisfied. Coffee in hand, he returned to his bedside table, wanting to check the time once more. Barns stood there for a full two minutes before he finally agreed with the placement of the minute hand.
At exactly 9.11 in the morning, the doors to Barns’ room flew open, revealing a man with dark circles beneath his eyes and a frown upon his mouth. His gaze found its way to the set of keys on the table, and, for half a second, he forgot himself, a half-smirk overtaking his scowl. ‘You trying to hit on Donny with that shit?’ He looked at Butch, right before plopping down his own seat, attention redirected at Judge.
‘Swear to god, Boss, this better be good.’ His now half-empty mug rested in front of him. ‘I was really enjoying me beauty sleep.’
Bzzt! Bzzt! Bzzt!
The doorbell rang incessantly, like an irritating bee buzzing close to one’s ear. Apollo hoped that if he ignored its existence hard enough, it would go away on its own, but who was he really kidding? He hadn’t had much hope ever since late December last year.
‘Apollo, I know you’re there, and you know I’m not going anywhere, so let’s just cut to the chase, shall we?’ Sometimes he was convinced that the voice on the intercom belonged to a telepath, to some sort of deity, just as he was.
Then again, that would involve admitting that he and Sabroe were equals. Apollo wasn’t sure his ego could ever accept such an insult.
He was lying down on a leather couch -- one-of-a-kind, and imported from Italy. The flat-screen was turned on, channel set permanently on HGTV, as it had been the past couple of days. At first, Apollo had the brilliant idea to turn the volume up in order to drown out Sabroe’s voice, but the tiny blonde woman would not relent.
Apollo grabbed his phone from the coffee table. By some twist of miracle, it managed to hold onto the last bit of energy its battery could muster. He dialled Sabroe’s number.
‘You and I also both know that you’ve got keys to my flat, so your gross insistence to keep fingering my doorbell is equal parts irritating and disturbing.’
There was a groan on the other line. ‘Apollo, you disg--’
His phone died just in time, thank god. How ever could he live with his handler slash manager calling him disgusting? Unfortunately, Sarah Sabroe had always been every bit as stubborn as he was.
‘Apollo, you look pathetic.’ A familiar figure now stood in front of him, though much to her chagrin, she wasn’t quite tall enough to block his view from the TV. Sabroe had her hands on her hips. She was fast approaching her late 30’s, the deepening wrinkles on her forehead starting to make her look more like Apollo’s older sister than anything. Funny how appearances worked.
‘You need to redefine your idea of pathetic.’ Apollo did not move from where he was. ‘This tracksuit, as tacky as it may look, is Dolce and Gabbana, thank you very much, and I’m living in a multi-million dollar penthouse with Taylor bloody Swift as one of my neighbours. Truly, Sabroe. Woe is me.’
Sabroe sat down on a lounge chair beside him. A soft sigh escaped her lips, but she was not defeated just yet. ‘You know, you just lost 5,000 followers on Instagram over the past week?’
He glared at her like she’d just said something offensive.
Okay. Wrong approach.
She threw her hands up in temporary surrender. Apollo had once whined all day when he lost a couple hundred followers over some interview mishap. ‘The internet’s still a bit upset you mysteriously cancelled your tour this year.’
‘Right. Would you be a dear and tell them I’ve got my hands a bit tied up trying to come to terms with my brother’s murder? I sincerely apologise for any and all inconvenience.’
‘You know that’s not how I meant it.’ Her face was awash with genuine concern, which disturbed him more than anything. ‘Look, you just need to … you just need to get out eventually, you know? It’s been weeks, Apollo.’ Sabroe reached into her pocket, and pulled out a small leather pouch. ‘I couldn’t get … everything,’ the government wanted to experiment on the remains, but Apollo didn’t need to know that, ‘but I figured: A few locks of hair… no one’s going to notice, right?’
This, finally, worked wonders at grabbing Apollo’s attention. He sat up, forgetting himself and his pettiness, and examined the pouch himself.
‘Sabroe?’
‘Yes?’
‘You’ll come with me to Greece, wouldn’t you?’
‘Do you even have to ask?’
‘Let’s go, then.’
That same day, the pair found themselves atop Mount Cyllene. Sabroe couldn’t quite remember the last time she saw Apollo bursting with such spirit, at least off-stage. At first, she chalked it up to all that pent-up energy from weeks upon weeks holed up, grieving, but then she caught a glimpse of his face reflected on the window of an abandoned cottage at the foot of the mountain. She decided that he was, on the contrary, tired, more than anything.
He led her to a cave long-forgotten, explained to her that this was where Hermes was born, where Apollo had nearly killed him once, in fact.
‘Ah, Hermes,’ he sighed, hand fiddling with the drawstrings of the pouch, ‘I will always remember you for the little shit that you were, bragging about the most inane things, like being on a handbag.’ Apollo stood in the mouth of the cave. When a gust of wind flew in from behind him, he released the contents of the pouch, Hermes’ ashes mingling with the winds of winter.
For a moment, the particles became suspended in the daylight, dancing in trajectories that would not have agreed with the laws of physics. The smirk upon Apollo’s face fell away. He extended an arm, reaching out, half-suspecting that he might regret this. He closed his eyes. A second later, he felt a burst of wind, and then the jagged walls of the cave against his back. He heard footsteps, heard Sabroe’s voice, and then he heard nothing.
Apollo woke up just as the chopper arrived to take them back. He gasped, panicked hazel eyes trying to take in his surroundings. Sabroe, as always, was right beside him.
‘Everything okay?’
‘You know how it’s been a while since I’ve had a prophetic vision?’
Sabroe frowned, instantly picking up on the fact that whatever he was going to say, it was not going to be good. ‘Go on,’ she said anyway.
‘We should go to DC, but before we get to HQ, we need to make a detour first.’
So it went that their twenty-four hour pilgrimage found its end at the front door of a shabby, little apartment. Apollo could only imagine why a god might want to live in a place like this. It was almost tempting to deem it sacrilegious, but who was he to judge?
Apollo pressed the doorbell, pressed it repeatedly, impatiently, as many times he liked until he got what he wanted.
‘And no, the hypocrisy of my actions does not elude me,’ he said in between button presses. Sabroe had her back against the wall, shaking her head as she wore an amused grin.
‘Mate!’ Apollo called out. ‘It’s me, Apollo. Emergency, obviously. Wouldn't be caught dead in this neighbourhood otherwise. Now open up.’
The doorbell rang incessantly, like an irritating bee buzzing close to one’s ear. Apollo hoped that if he ignored its existence hard enough, it would go away on its own, but who was he really kidding? He hadn’t had much hope ever since late December last year.
‘Apollo, I know you’re there, and you know I’m not going anywhere, so let’s just cut to the chase, shall we?’ Sometimes he was convinced that the voice on the intercom belonged to a telepath, to some sort of deity, just as he was.
Then again, that would involve admitting that he and Sabroe were equals. Apollo wasn’t sure his ego could ever accept such an insult.
He was lying down on a leather couch -- one-of-a-kind, and imported from Italy. The flat-screen was turned on, channel set permanently on HGTV, as it had been the past couple of days. At first, Apollo had the brilliant idea to turn the volume up in order to drown out Sabroe’s voice, but the tiny blonde woman would not relent.
Apollo grabbed his phone from the coffee table. By some twist of miracle, it managed to hold onto the last bit of energy its battery could muster. He dialled Sabroe’s number.
‘You and I also both know that you’ve got keys to my flat, so your gross insistence to keep fingering my doorbell is equal parts irritating and disturbing.’
There was a groan on the other line. ‘Apollo, you disg--’
His phone died just in time, thank god. How ever could he live with his handler slash manager calling him disgusting? Unfortunately, Sarah Sabroe had always been every bit as stubborn as he was.
‘Apollo, you look pathetic.’ A familiar figure now stood in front of him, though much to her chagrin, she wasn’t quite tall enough to block his view from the TV. Sabroe had her hands on her hips. She was fast approaching her late 30’s, the deepening wrinkles on her forehead starting to make her look more like Apollo’s older sister than anything. Funny how appearances worked.
‘You need to redefine your idea of pathetic.’ Apollo did not move from where he was. ‘This tracksuit, as tacky as it may look, is Dolce and Gabbana, thank you very much, and I’m living in a multi-million dollar penthouse with Taylor bloody Swift as one of my neighbours. Truly, Sabroe. Woe is me.’
Sabroe sat down on a lounge chair beside him. A soft sigh escaped her lips, but she was not defeated just yet. ‘You know, you just lost 5,000 followers on Instagram over the past week?’
He glared at her like she’d just said something offensive.
Okay. Wrong approach.
She threw her hands up in temporary surrender. Apollo had once whined all day when he lost a couple hundred followers over some interview mishap. ‘The internet’s still a bit upset you mysteriously cancelled your tour this year.’
‘Right. Would you be a dear and tell them I’ve got my hands a bit tied up trying to come to terms with my brother’s murder? I sincerely apologise for any and all inconvenience.’
‘You know that’s not how I meant it.’ Her face was awash with genuine concern, which disturbed him more than anything. ‘Look, you just need to … you just need to get out eventually, you know? It’s been weeks, Apollo.’ Sabroe reached into her pocket, and pulled out a small leather pouch. ‘I couldn’t get … everything,’ the government wanted to experiment on the remains, but Apollo didn’t need to know that, ‘but I figured: A few locks of hair… no one’s going to notice, right?’
This, finally, worked wonders at grabbing Apollo’s attention. He sat up, forgetting himself and his pettiness, and examined the pouch himself.
‘Sabroe?’
‘Yes?’
‘You’ll come with me to Greece, wouldn’t you?’
‘Do you even have to ask?’
‘Let’s go, then.’
That same day, the pair found themselves atop Mount Cyllene. Sabroe couldn’t quite remember the last time she saw Apollo bursting with such spirit, at least off-stage. At first, she chalked it up to all that pent-up energy from weeks upon weeks holed up, grieving, but then she caught a glimpse of his face reflected on the window of an abandoned cottage at the foot of the mountain. She decided that he was, on the contrary, tired, more than anything.
He led her to a cave long-forgotten, explained to her that this was where Hermes was born, where Apollo had nearly killed him once, in fact.
‘Ah, Hermes,’ he sighed, hand fiddling with the drawstrings of the pouch, ‘I will always remember you for the little shit that you were, bragging about the most inane things, like being on a handbag.’ Apollo stood in the mouth of the cave. When a gust of wind flew in from behind him, he released the contents of the pouch, Hermes’ ashes mingling with the winds of winter.
For a moment, the particles became suspended in the daylight, dancing in trajectories that would not have agreed with the laws of physics. The smirk upon Apollo’s face fell away. He extended an arm, reaching out, half-suspecting that he might regret this. He closed his eyes. A second later, he felt a burst of wind, and then the jagged walls of the cave against his back. He heard footsteps, heard Sabroe’s voice, and then he heard nothing.
Apollo woke up just as the chopper arrived to take them back. He gasped, panicked hazel eyes trying to take in his surroundings. Sabroe, as always, was right beside him.
‘Everything okay?’
‘You know how it’s been a while since I’ve had a prophetic vision?’
Sabroe frowned, instantly picking up on the fact that whatever he was going to say, it was not going to be good. ‘Go on,’ she said anyway.
‘We should go to DC, but before we get to HQ, we need to make a detour first.’
So it went that their twenty-four hour pilgrimage found its end at the front door of a shabby, little apartment. Apollo could only imagine why a god might want to live in a place like this. It was almost tempting to deem it sacrilegious, but who was he to judge?
Apollo pressed the doorbell, pressed it repeatedly, impatiently, as many times he liked until he got what he wanted.
‘And no, the hypocrisy of my actions does not elude me,’ he said in between button presses. Sabroe had her back against the wall, shaking her head as she wore an amused grin.
‘Mate!’ Apollo called out. ‘It’s me, Apollo. Emergency, obviously. Wouldn't be caught dead in this neighbourhood otherwise. Now open up.’
mad·ly
|ˈmadlē| adverb
1. with desperate haste or intensity; furiously:
She madly called for him, fading cries slowly overwhelmed by approaching siren calls.
2. foolishly:
He madly clung onto the hope that he, too, would disappear one day.
3. insanely or wildly:
The world spun madly on.
|ˈmadlē| adverb
1. with desperate haste or intensity; furiously:
She madly called for him, fading cries slowly overwhelmed by approaching siren calls.
2. foolishly:
He madly clung onto the hope that he, too, would disappear one day.
3. insanely or wildly:
The world spun madly on.
Oil splattered from the pan, runaway drops stinging at the back of his hand, throwing him back into the present -- whatever that meant anymore, anyway. Soren slipped the blade of the spatula underneath the overcooked eggs, and transferred them onto their individual plates.
Bacon, pancake and eggs were a staple of the Winter household breakfast, at least when it was his turn to cook. Soren set the dishes on the table, three fresh glasses of orange juice accompanying the food.
‘Up, up, up! Breakfast is ready!’ He tried a piece of the burnt bacon, carrying on with his meal, waiting for no one to start his day.
Half an hour later and he was cleaning up, throwing the leftovers into the compost bin, leaving the dirty dishes in the sink.
‘It’s such a waste, Soren.’ Rosie spoke in monotone nowadays. Her face was unblemished, beautiful as ever.
‘It’s not my fault, is it?’ And him -- he spoke in whispers and mumbles. He did not want to be heard.
‘No, dear. Nothing is.’
Soren smiled, crystalline blue eyes unmoving. Eventually, he’d made a game of it, had tried to remember when she'd said the same words last. Lately, it was getting harder and harder to win at his own game. He chalked it up to old age.
‘I have to go,’ he said, knowing the magic words to avoid the rest of the conversation. Soren put on his old, navy blue windbreaker, retrieved a set of keys from the plastic bowl by the front door.
‘Don’t forget about the photograph.’
‘I won’t.’ He slipped the keys into his jacket’s right pocket, felt them sitting snugly beside the glossy, tiny piece of photo paper inside. ‘I love you,’ he said, shutting the front door behind him. If there was a response, he couldn’t have heard it.
The roof of his tiny, yellow car spared him from what little sunlight winter had to offer. His days were marked with periods of excruciating silence, occasionally interrupted by the phone calls and/or drunken declarations of love in the back seat. It was a worthy distraction. He felt privy to the secrets of half of New York. Everyone, he found, held onto things they’d rather bury. Even him.
He looked over his shoulder, throwing a passing glance at the man who just entered his cab. As the meter started so had he wondered what secrets his new passenger held onto. The man looked like right in the middle of twenty and thirty. The dark brown curls on his forehead were flattened with sweat. His light brown eyes were bloodshot. His right hand never left his pocket.
Soren could not care less. ‘Where to?’ He simply asked. They navigated through the city’s chaotic labyrinth until the pair of they arrived at a dingy, nearly empty sidestreet.
As it was with every labyrinth, his minotaur waited for him at the exit. It came in the form of a 9mm pistol, its nuzzle kissing the side of his neck.
‘Glovebox.’ Soren parked the car in between two pick-up trucks. The last thing he wanted was to create traffic. He closed his eyes, trying to keep his heart rate down, waiting.
‘Keep your hands on the fucking steering wheel!’ The man reached forward, trembling fingers opening the compartment, pocketing the wad of cash that waited for him inside. He needed more. ‘Your wallet. Now.’ He tried to reach into Soren’s right pocket, and it was then that the latter finally broke.
His hands were off the steering wheel at once, gripping the other man’s hand with an iron-like hold, but as quick as he was to seize him was he quick to release the agitated junkie. Soren needed to reach for something else, for his neck, for the warm, crimson liquid that now stained his shirt, his beloved windbreaker.
‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’ He swore he heard the other man cry out, but his ears had long frozen up after two deafening gunshots.
Whatever more was said or done became lost on him. His head fell onto the steering wheel, and his tiny, yellow car cried for him in response, sustaining a bellowing plea that perhaps no one would hear. Just as well. Soren didn’t mind dying one more time, and, in his heart, he silently wished that it could be the last.
What's Next?
Send me a PM with a writing sample, and a potential plot (if any).
My Discord: Edgy#2162.
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