Foolish Mortals Mod Account (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
grimgrinningghosts) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
foolishmemers2017-07-08 11:05 pm
grimgrinningghosts) wrote in foolishmemers2017-07-08 11:05 pm
Foolish Mortals Kink Meme!
(Stolen from DRRP's Kink Meme)
HERE'S SOME GUIDELINES/RULES:
1. All requests- smut, fluff, gen or otherwise (alternate murders, anyone?)- are welcome so long as it's about Foolish Mortals.
2. Fic and art fills are all good.
3. This is for all rounds of Foolish Mortals. Intermingled cast requests ("what if so-so and so-so from this and that round met?") are acceptable. (Even though there's only the Mock Trial and one Round so far)
4. Staying anon is fun but not required
5. There's going to be enough dicks to go around we don't need you to be one too.
6. Use proper trigger/content warnings for sensitive and/or offensive subjects, just like you would in FM proper.
7. This is a judge free zone, however, we only ask that you be mindful of character ages, esp. in regards to the younger characters.
8. If you do not want your character to be involved with the smut or things that make you uncomfortable please contact us. This is ultimately just for fun and we would hate for it to become upsetting for anyone.
9. Respect player wishes if they ask to not have their character be in smut or anything out of their comfort zone.
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(Anonymous) 2017-07-29 02:55 am (UTC)(link)execute the characters who didn't get executed, execute the other ones again, just kill everyone, GO
everyone and anyone can fill this it's always open you can't be late
The Liar
Wander couldn't dare look at her horrified face at the realization of what she had done. The galaxy needed him more than her, and he had to go back and be the hope for those Dominator left behind. But how could he ever do that knowing he had the blood of nineteen people on his hands, albeit unwillingly?
The Ghost Host betrayed no sign of emotion, but he looked tired. "You have voted correctly. The execution will commence." Wander looked up at him with worry in his eyes. He had always accepted his eventual death, but not in front of the people he cared about: the friends he met in the mansion, Sylvia, even Ghostave.
The lights went out for a brief moment, and when Wander reappeared, he was on a dark stage with a single beam of light centered on him. He kept his feet planted on the spot as he turned to search for whatever was going to come at him. Monsters, ghosts, robots, the things he knew how to evade.
A quiet, carnival-like song played from one end of the stage. Wander snapped to attention, mostly curious yet a bit worried, as to what that could mean. He could swear it was an accordion, so if the ghosts chose the instrument purposefully to make him angry--
Behind him, a pair of glowing blank white eyes and a matching too-wide grin shone against the black background. A sinking feeling in his stomach pulled Wander's head in that direction, but the face disappeared the instant he turned around and reappeared behind him once more. Wander took several steps back, and the beam of light followed him. As he turned around, the face stayed.
Wander leaped away with a shout as a tall man in a black hat and coat stepped forward, the backlight of the stage now revealing several of these large smiling men surrounding Wander. The broken, grainy music grew louder as Wander darted across the stage only to run into another of these men. They stepped closer and closer, offering a hand with their unchanging smile. Wander only grew more distressed, eventually giving up on escape, curled up, and covered his ears in a futile attempt to shut out the music. They found him, he can't escape, there's nothing he can do, they found him. One of the grinning men took hold of Wander's hat and whipped his last comfort off his head. Wander winced and waited for it to all be over.
...But the men did not move. They stood in a circle and watched Wander tremble. At least, the ground was trembling with him.
He cracked an eye open just as the floor split apart, revealing lava underneath the stage. The men drifted away on separate pieces as the center grew taller, revealing the true setting of the stage - the center of a volcano.
"No one else will die in this house..." The grinning men echoed Wander's sentiment at the start of the week in unison. With them drifting out of sight, Wander had time to recover and find a way out, but the pressure and lack of hat did nothing to calm him down. He could crawl over to one end of the rocky formation and climb up the stalactite, yeah. If he wasn't so jittery, he could get out in a matter of seconds.
Just before he reached the end, the edge of the formation collapsed, removing his only escape route.
Wander pushed himself onto his feet and ran to another spot. More ground collapsed, and a column of lava replaced it. With each new direction, less solid ground and more lava. Soon, there was nothing left but enough room for Wander to stand still and let the columns of lava surround him.
The last thing the others saw of him was Wander's terrified, sweating face as the volcano erupted, enveloping him in boiling magma. There was no time for him to scream.
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The thing about Fiddleford McGucket, the thing he always tried to pretend was less of a problem than it was, was that he always did things in extremes. A single stab wound wouldn't have been enough to take down Maui, but enough of them, all put together? Anywhere he could get them to land, chest, stomach, throat, because he wasn't thinking clearly enough to really aim? Well, anything in excess can be deadly. It wasn't until things were already too far past the point of fixing that he realized he'd followed the wrong red flag again, one that wasn't really there.
That would have been bad enough except that Jiminy had seen, of course he had, and by that point Fiddleford was already in too deep and it was easy to just stomp once, twice, and done, and toss the tiny mangled body into the study fire. Maui's body was harder. He hadn't tried to get rid of it, there was no way he could have, but he'd taken a steak knife from the kitchen and bloodied it and left it out in the hope nobody would notice that the wounds came from a very different blade. He'd smudged out the tracks he left in the blood around Maui's body, knowing that being the only person who regularly wore no shoes and had feet his size would give him away instantly. His stained tweed jacket went in the study fire as well, and his mistake was not staying to make sure the whole thing burned, because once people found the charred remains of a leather elbow patch it narrowed down the pool of possible culprits quite a bit and he'd always been a bad liar and it all spilled out of him the moment the first direct question came.
He can't look at any of them now. At Ford, who somehow thought he was better than this, better than a scared and broken man who's never been brave and never been strong. At Lefou, whose love he took away because he couldn't control his own blind panic. At the girls, who thought better of him, and at Mike who tried so hard to insist he was a good man and his mistakes didn't change who he was in the here and now. In the here and now he is a dead man walking and really that feels right to him considering how many times he's said the words I am going to die in this house. He's always been right.
He looks down at where he's typed his own name into the headstone. He feels as though he ought to give a speech like Star and Mulan did. He can't muster it up. He does look sidelong at Ford, whose face is stony in that particular way that means he is trying very hard not to break down completely, and open his mouth, but what can he say? Nothing feels right in this situation. Eventually what he settles on is:
"Don't you dare type your own name in. I won't be responsible for you too." Ford very conspicuously deletes what he had written. Satisfied, Fiddleford hangs his head again until the majority is reached (and so quickly and he can't blame them) and he's dragged off to the now-familiar rotating stage.
The lights come up on a semi-circle of figures in red hooded robes. They're standing around a chair with plush red upholstery and a golden frame. Fiddleford is sitting in this chair, held down with thick leather straps across his shoulders and wrists. He doesn't struggle. He designed his chair, he knows how difficult it is to get out of. His eyes are fixed on a small box sitting on a table several feet away from him.
The tallest of the hooded figures steps forward and opens the box. Inside of it is a strange-looking gun, one that should be familiar to Ford and Wendy and anyone who happened to watch the television several weeks ago as it played all the scenes from his past he never wanted anyone to see. The other figures begin to chant in Latin, a low background rumble.
There's clear fear and confusion written on Fiddleford's face as the hooded figure lifts the gun from its stand and begins with fiddle with the dial on the side. It isn't a deadly weapon. Even at prolonged and constant exposure it never killed him, only undid his mind, and he can't imagine they're going to leave him on this stage for as long as that would take.
Two more hooded figures enter the stage, wheeling along with them what looks like a generator. The chanting gets noticeably louder. One of them takes a wire and plugs it into the gun in a way he definitely didn't design it to be able to handle and he still doesn't know where this is going but he knows he doesn't like it, not at all. His fingers clench nervously on the armrests of the chair as the hooded figure raises the gun level with the spot right between his eyes. He tries to say something and his mouth moves but the chanting drowns him out. Too little too late, like always.
The figure pulls the trigger. The light the gun fires should be a bright blue, the blue of forgetting, the pure featureless blue that made up so much of Fiddleford's memories until Ford's journal began to bring them back. This gun fires a beam of sickly green, brighter and far more concentrated, and Fiddleford has a single moment to realize exactly what they've done to his invention before he isn't really thinking about much at all.
The gun always worked on radiation. That isn't new. It would burn away all the neural connections you didn't want in what he used to think was an elegant and streamlined process. But if you were to up the output, if you were to power it with more than just a couple of double A batteries, then it wouldn't just be a couple of neurons you burned away. As the chanting rises to a fever pitch his skin burns and sloughs off, and so do the layers beneath. His legs kick and shake and his hands clench and unclench desperately on the armrests but there's nothing he can do. The hooded figure doesn't release the trigger until all that's left atop his shoulders is a dark smear on the smoking back of the chair, and only then does the chanting stop.
The hooded figure lowers the gun. They turn to the audience. And they begin to sing.