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Desmond D. Descant
13 March 2012 @ 12:05 am
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Desmond D. Descant
01 March 2010 @ 12:10 pm
Look. You don't know me and I don't really know you, but I know you broke into the medical files in the Conrad's basement and I know you think Kara's here. Fact is, yeah, she was.

She's dead now. I was there when it happened. Some kind of behemoth demon got her. I know that being stuck here's bad enough, but I figured someone ought to let you know.
Desmond D. Descant
Coming soon to a Millennium Park near you. (Specifically, January 31st if that's too vague for you)

The wedding of Martha Jones and Desmond Descant.

Be there. Or I'll hunt you down. Dmitri knows where you live.

[Locked to Luke and Dmitri]

I have no groomsmen. My groomsmen have been killed or eaten by Rifts. Dmi, you get the honors of being Best Man. Cat-Boy, if you think you can stand being out in the cold for long periods in a zoot suit, you're more than welcome to a spot. The rest I'll.... Figure out.

Maybe I can put up a personal ad....
Desmond D. Descant
24 November 2009 @ 04:05 pm
OOC: Written for Rizzy with the prompt, "Until you realize the blood is probably yours." CONGRATS, YOU ALL NOW KNOW HOW THE NEWEST VERSION OF THE SECOND DESCANT BOOK ENDS... Kinda. May make very little sense out of context. Oh well. >.>

There's blood spilled on the floor
Everyone's staring at you, what for?
Until you realize the blood is probably yours

Will you feel sorry for what you've done? Will you put down your gun?Collapse )

Muse: Desmond D. Descant
Word Count: 235
Current Music: Accidental Death- Rilo Kiley
Desmond D. Descant
24 November 2009 @ 03:29 pm
OOC: For magi, with the prompt, "Gasoline dreams of girls in blue jeans, he's grazing the surface of sleep."

Muse: Desmond D. Descant (OC)
Word Count: 444
Current Music: Ask DNA- The Seatbelts
Desmond D. Descant
05 November 2009 @ 03:16 pm
Okay. I'm not looking for a headcount in my journal (although if you're reading this and I know you, you better fucking tell me where the hell you are, because I am not going insane looking for you all), but, as far as we know, all the firstborns came back today, right?

...So that's it then, huh?

Jesus Christ.

Let's never do that again, okay, Chicago? OKAY?
Desmond D. Descant
Des is drowning in a sea of tulle and menus and floral arrangements, and currently flopped bonelessly on the couch with a book of sample patterns for tablecloths draped over his face and snoring softly. There's a little gray cat on his stomach with a plastic flower between her paws that she's currently concentrating on gnawing and no matter how much she flops about, Des is completely dead to the world.

Three months until the wedding and with everything that's been happening, he's hardly had time to actually process the fact that he's really getting married. He's had tequila shots until he felt like choking with Dmitri and talked down Mathias from half a dozen different bachelor party ideas (all of them guaranteed to land them both, and whoever felt stupid enough to follow them, in jail), but the actual processing part hadn't really started up until he was bombarded with things that required his inexpert opinion and torn between wanting to keep Martha happy and retreating to the "DUR" mentality of the man he is, he settled for pretending he knew what he was doing and then calling Rachel up at the earliest convenience to get her to offer an opinion for him.

He's getting married. Four thousand years old and he's never even so much as thought about marrying anyone- he always struck himself as the sort of person women would pass over as "not the marrying kind." Perpetual big brother, devoted lover, but never husband. But there's a ring on Martha's finger and everywhere he looks, he's surrounded by a thousand little reminders of what's coming and it sends butterflies all through his stomach and keeps him up at night.

No wonder he keeps passing out on the couch.

The front door shuts and Martha calls out and Des's only response is to snore a bit louder and roll over on his side, tipping Cy off his stomach and onto the floor with a surprised yowl. She somersaults dizzily and clambers back up onto the couch, batting at his ear underneath the book. "Up and attem, Desiree. The pinks and paisleys wait for no one. I want tuna!"

Des groans and lifts the edge of the book up, groggily blinking at the cat in his face. "You have thumbs, kitten. Use the can opener."

"THUMBS!" Cy chirps and a little naked silver-haired girl drops down on the floor, tilting her head at him.

Satisfied, Des drops the book over his eyes again. "There you go."

The next thing he knows, someone's tapping the book lightly and he snorts. "Cy, it's a can opener. Not a Gray's supercomputer."

"Is that right? I must be overcomplicating it then."

That is definitely not Cy's voice. Des lifts up the book to see Martha looking down at him with that coy little quirk of the lips that he loves and, for a moment, he remembers again. This is his future wife. He's about to have a normal life- if you can count being in a polyamorous relationship with your wife and another man and living in a Chicago prone to chaos as normal, that is. It's enough to make the butterflies start up again.

"Any luck with the tablecloths?" Martha asks, her lips still quirked.

"I like the dark shadowy ones," he responds without missing a beat and Martha just laughs. The laughter's enough to make the butterflies go away again- it's enough to make everything go away. It's all he can do to just keep looking at her, his face breaking into a wide, happy grin.

Until an indignant, "THUMBS!" breaks up the moment and there's a cat trying to climb clumsily up onto the couch again. "Pay attention to me now. I still want my tuna."

Martha covers her mouth to stifle another laugh and pulls the book away from Des's face. "I think tuna's more important than tablecloths right now, yeah?"

Des sits up, scooping Cy up and cradling her in his hands before managing to get to his feet with a small groan. "Yeah, I think so," he says casually once he's up and moving, giving Martha a kiss on the lips, which she responds to by moving close enough to wrap her arms around his neck, Cy crushed gently between them. The cat in question merely wriggles uncomfortably for a few seconds before falling into a deep sulk.

"It's dark," she says, rather pathetically.

Word Count: 734

Desmond D. Descant
18 September 2009 @ 03:14 pm
SO. PEOPLE. As most of you already know, I have created a new prompt comm (a no-stress, no application, unlimited muses prompt comm) based around writing fic with daemons in, because... I think there needs to be more daemonfic out there and since the last daemon prompt comm sort of... Petered out of existence, I wanted to revive the concept.

You can find the comm at daemonprompts (whoo original name, huh?). The first prompt post is already up and new ones will be posted every Friday. TELL YOUR FRIENDS. ....Mostly, because I love daemonfic and would love to see more of it.


*coughs* I mean.... What?

(The real reason for this is so I can pretend I have an excuse to write ALL THE DAEMONFIC EVER, because it's fun and everyone should try it.)

That is all. We return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

Desmond D. Descant
24 August 2009 @ 11:56 pm
I need you at the house. Now.

...I'm in desperate need of a shapeshifter with good negotiating skills.