char 🫀

@highthemme.bsky.social

221 Followers 978 Following

they/them | 🔞 | i write stories about haunted places, the people they devour, and the horrors of space. i also love tabletop (dnd, wod, mosh, fabula, and more!) i enjoy yu-gi-oh! a normal amount. 💌 the partner is @mochidreams 🫀 the banner art @beleoci

"Wait—" he says, and Uriel's hand stills almost instantly. "... I don't want to do this angry." Uriel sighs. "We have five minutes." He bites his lip. "I'm... just sorry. Okay. I'm sorry and I love you and I did this because I..." "Because you're selfish and you don't give a shit what I think about how on the brink you are—the path you're on is going to fucking destroy you as we know it, Valiant, you're going to stop existing with one wrong move. No more sleeves, no more hotfixes, even Luna won't be able to put you back together again. You will be dead. And what the fuck am I going to do with that?" Val takes one long breath, his body stinging from head to toe, the acid unneutralized still eating away at his skin slowly. "I know..." he says hoarsely. "You clearly don't, because you keep doing it." He closes his eyes. "I know..." A beat. "I love you. That's why I'm angry."
a screenshot of ellipsus document stats. bruh i wrote 23,956 words and i haven't even finished it. the document is called "just bones & questions" and was started on november 17th of 2025. wahoo.
a photo of an ipad on a table with the writer balancing their foldable bluetooth keyboard on their leg to write.
As the doors towards his mother’s quarters draw open, Penny feels his form shrink and compress, back to the bipedal human form he has grown used to in many ways. He growls a little as he is made so small, scooped up in his mother’s great paws as she brings him eye level and for a moment Penny is feeling the fear sink into him of how great his mother is, and of just how much she needs to eat in order to remain as she is. Her arms are thinning and her skin hangs loose on the great bovine head of her. Drool slithers down her chops as she smiles vaguely. “So my most beloved son returns… and for what?” Penny smiles, a thing that feels so false the blood floods his mouth. “My wonderful wedding, mother…” The only lie it seems he’s permitted to tell. “Please. When may this unworthy one resume such service for his House?” His mother grins, all flat teeth save the razor sharp canines as she unfurls her tongue from her mouth and laps at him once bottom to top, wet and viscous, starving.“Now,” she says. “Come.”
All of it—the holes in his memory, his broken watch, his lack of a phone, his missing car—coalesce into a pit low in his belly as he stands pillar-still. The panic cools on the back of his neck and he's mentally falling backwards into his own skull, the ground beneath his feet suddenly foreign and untrustworthy. He doesn't even have any quarters in his pockets to try and use one of the three beaten up payphones scattered throughout the Falls. Not his lucky day. Figures.
a silly picture of juniper, a black smoke colored cat sat politely with her tongue out.
Wayland dreams—he feels his mother's soft hair in his dreams and her rough hands holding his face, her teeth in his ruff when they fight each other to train. He feels his father's hand on his head having to reach further and further until he's too tall and they compromise with Wayland dipping down to hug him instead, feeling that this is precisely where he belongs. He dreams until— [ Way— ] He takes a sharp, cold, sticky breath in and suddenly coughs—wet and rough and hard. He coughs and something stringy and cold falls out of his throat, off his tongue. [ Wayland. ] The voice says again and he opens his eyes, lashes feeling cold and almost brittle on his face. He keeps coughing and the voice in his head continues to speak. [ Diagnostics beginning—blood pressure at— ] it rattles off a variety of vitals, none of which scroll down Wayland's left eye like they usually do. There's a distinct lack of mesh as he tries to see anything at all, but it seems like his muse is starting to flicker online, blips and scattered scratching noises as she comes to life. [ Rise and shine, Weathers. ]
Chester stabs the Klaive into Devil's lower back. He twists it where the base of her spine is and wrenches. She snaps, turning on him with a raking claw. As she strikes, the innate sensation of being enshrouded by a hard carapace takes him, and her claws bouncing off of it as Chester's arms wrap around himself. As he's about to unfurl himself in a panic, a voice pops into his head, small and quickly chattering: Careful—they don't suffer from silver the way you do. Watch her claws! The scent of flesh burns thick in the air as Wayland tears one of the silver rods from his body and yanks it free with a roar another and another, even as it clearly burns his palms. He lands crouched, two feet on the ground, and the both of them stand to face three Garou-skinned creatures. Something terrified whispers in the back of Chester Marrowfinder's mind: Those are not Garou. "Stolen Moons," Wayland rasps at last now that he isn't being smothered by silver piercing his skin. "Stolen?" the self-declared Devil-You-Know croons. "Or rightfully won!" Together, the patron that binds them says decisively. Chester holds out the Klaive and Wayland takes it, the blood dripping down between both of their hands, slick and viscous.
"You're a mangey little guy, aren't you? What's the matter… never seen someone like me before? 'Course not." the beast wearing wolf's skin taunts. Chester feels the slow trickle of blood sliding down from his nose as the Beast bites down from the inside of his skull and tears through. This is part of who he is, but the skin always stretches too thin for his liking before it snaps like so much plastic. His Beast comes careening out of his body with all of the force of a transport truck rumbling across the overpass, careening like a comet of steel and diesel from northern leech territory. Tossing his head, limbs growing long and lean, a familiar growl from far off, a howl, spurs him on. He tips his head back to release a sharp howl ("I'm here.") before throwing himself forward. Chester's senses are suffused with the scent of the Wyrm, lungs full of the stench of it and allowing it to fuel himself. He can see rough stitches in the other Garou's fur, a scarified tattoo over what looks like a familiar Bone Gnawer mark in the forearm. The brindle fur pattern is too familiar—it belongs to a member of Bad Company's pack. Chester bares his teeth, enough fucking around. He thrashes and bites down on that arm, just to feel a massive paw on his throat, lifting him back, but only as he tears through the fur, the flesh, snarling and feeling the foam fill his mouth. He squeezes and Chester sputters, scrabbling with claws at the forearm to gather his bearings as he's lifted off the ground.
a screenshot of ellipsus' mobile site showing the side panel in a soft pastel rainbow gradient for pride!!
"Earth to Wayland! Pay attention to me!" says Bryler's voice on the phone. "I'm here, I'm here, hey—" "No you listen to me. If you fuck this up and Chester has to cart your dead ass in a casket back to me, I'm changing our pack name and you're never going to have a say." Wayland presses the heel of a palm into his eye, laughs. This is such a non-threat, but the message is clear. Come home so we can say hello again. "I'm serious, Walker." "Got it." "Walker." "Moore," he mimicks. And then suddenly, quickly, like Bryler has to hoist the words up as though their weight is boulder-like. Like his lips are smushed into the receiver (as if that's covert): "Love you." "I… A… yeah. Love you, too." he murmurs into the receiver, just as softly. Like something unfavorable could overhear them. "Be safe."
“Rage feels different for everyone… huh.” he says at last. “I think so. What enrages the Beast depends on the wolf…" Wayland says. "We got our commonalities, but what sets us on fire… that's different.” Chester furrows his brow, thumb slowly rubbing the filter of his dwindling cigarette. “What's yours feel like right now? If you were to reach down and really grab hold of it this minute?” Wayland is poised, standing unafraid this high up. He's leaned against one of the sturdy rebars with his eyes on the lack of moon, mouth twitching a bit into a frown as he seems to search for the answer. “Like some age-old tar pit, like I could wade in if I wanted to, if I needed to, and it'd cover me. It's in there, below the surface.” He turns and Chester tries to read the look in his eyes. Presses his mouth into half-frown when he does and turns out to look at the moon, hiding Her face. New Moon, the stars are bright and Chester’s skin feels electric, Ragabash singing under his skin.  “What about you?” Wayland asks. “Mmh… like something biting into my guts. Maybe it's the Beast trying to chew its way out.” “Saw a movie like that once.” “Alien?” “Yeah.”
This begins with a dream that becomes a nightmare, it begins with the gasp of breath. And it began before all of that, when it was as simple as two men, half-spirit and half-earth, standing knee deep in the crux of the Colorado River and the creek that flows just beyond The Junkyard. Their blood mingles in a fast food paper bowl that used to hold ninety-nine cent chili fries. One might think it sacrilegious, but Wayland conducts himself without missing a beat, even if he chuckles when he slices his palm and dribbles his blood into the cup. Chester had made it a point to lick it clean before Wayland had swirled it in the river a bit to get the last of the residue. It sits in his hand as Chester squeezes blood from his own palm into it. They crouch together among the reeds now, the animal things in their souls hiding from watchful eyes among the shimmering lights beyond the Colorado. Wayland mixes their blood together and lifts a crimson-drenched thumb to trail the blood over his cheeks, across his uncut palm, and then slipped into where his shirt has parted to lay the sign of his auspice over his heart in their co-mingling blood. When he moves to do his own, Chester grabs his wrist, looking him in the eye. "You wanna?" "I'm gonna miss Racoon for a bit, let me show 'em the good faith of this."
Austin, Texas: The Junkyard — Several days ago, The Junkyard is falling apart and it starts when Bad Company doesn't return from their business in lower Texas. Clever-For-Food, Shakes-the-Can-Before-Giving (Tin Can), and This-Side-Up are a competent trio: A Theurge, Galliard, and Ahroun joined at the hip since their binding as a pack and with such seamless combat tactics, they were new hopefuls in the fight against the Wyrm. With Sardine Breath and Chester down a packmate and recovering, the three had been tasked with following up on reports of several slaughtered Garou found along the borderline. It was supposed to be simple, but Chester knows that sometimes things get out of hand. He should trust his fellow packmate, but part of Chester is still bleeding out over the wound left behind by Lydia. Sardine Breath runs the perimeter at night like she's waiting for her to come home still. Calling in a favor from the Dreamers felt too big, like he'd get a no, but the phone call had picked up almost instantly, Wayland hadn't even balked, offering himself up, his other two packmates already traveling on their own for a short period of time. ("I was starting to feel left out. Lone wolf's not my style anymore.")
A snippet: "We're cool?" "Sure, we can be cool." Dick's eyes softened in a way that was familiar, but not quite right, like something was trying to act appropriately under a gaze of scrutiny. It felt perverse, and Bunny wished they could just reach inside of his skull and see what was going on.
meet my #WIP! a 3 x 3 image collage: row 1 from left to right: an image of someone with their back facing the audience with light pink hair in a messy bun, an image of tall city buildings towering into the sky, an image of three hands reaching towards each other. row 2, from left to right: someone rising into the sky while one of their shoes is falling off, the word POW in a comic book speech bubble, various ingredients for baking. row 3, from left to right: the word courage, dripping honey, a newspaper that says "everything awful oh god somebody do something."
100,005 words!
A screenshot of Reedsy showing 77,605 words written and 100,000 words due February 28th. Currently 584 words have been written.
a 3x3 collage: first row left to right, a group of pale hands reaching downwards desperately, a spiral staircase viewed from the top down, a radio display with the words "I MISS YOU" instead of the track. second row left to right, a series of black ghostly smudges that have eyes, the words "we are all eventual ghosts", a tumblr post that says "*whispers into my coffee cup* help me". third row left to right: a lit up blue neon string wrapped around someone's throat, the words "time passes bye" gradually becoming more and more crossed out in certain places until it just says "bye" at the end, a pair of hands pressed up against slowly fracturing ice.
a 3x3 collage: first row from left to right, a billboard that says your pretty face is going to hell, a set of guitar strings with blood sprayed over them, a series of alcohol bottles on a table. second row from left to right, a red lollipop surrounded in a little smoke, the words "killed my old self but the new me isn't much better", a pair of hands twisted into another hand, both covered in blood. third row from left to right, a microphone underneath a lone light, a pair of hands offering a pomegranate to a hand that is taking some, a light up sign that says "you are in my inappropriate thoughts"
a 3x3 collage of images row 1 left to right: an overhead view of a spiral staircase, an overhead view of a rushing river, an ornate golden tile. row 2 left to right: a radio tower with a red light, the words "you were dead. yet, here you are" on a white background, a coffee shop window with the word "relax" on it. row 3 left to right: a vaulted church ceiling in many colors with a crucifix hanging, a rushing waterfall, a series of liquor bottles lit by a yellow background.