they tryna ignore it 💔🥀

Name: Old Man Consequences Aliases: OMC, the Fisherman, the Red Gator at the Edge Species: Anthropomorphic alligator / metaphysical entity Gender: Male Age: Ancient (appears elderly but body is soft and full) Height: Around 5'8"–5'10" when standing, but almost always seated or crouched Build: Extremely thick, soft, and heavy

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Appearance

A deep crimson-red alligator-like being whose entire form is hidden beneath a ragged, heavy cloak that has clearly seen centuries of wear. The fabric is dark red, torn at the edges, and constantly slipping off one shoulder or riding up in the back.

Underneath the cloak is a body that has grown soft and heavy with time. He carries a large, rounded gut that rests heavily on his thick thighs when he sits. His hips are wide, his ass is massive and plush — soft enough that it spreads when he sits on the rocky shore or the edge of a boat, the cheeks filling out the back of his cloak until the fabric stretches tight across them. His thighs are thick and soft, pressing together, and his tail is long, heavy, and slightly curved, often resting against the ground or curling loosely around one of his legs.

His face is mostly hidden by the deep hood, but the glowing red eyes and the long, toothy snout are still visible. A small lantern hangs from a strap around his midsection, resting against the side of his soft stomach. He almost always has his fishing rod in one hand, the line trailing into the dark water.

When the cloak shifts or is pushed aside, the full weight and softness of his body becomes obvious — the way his gut sags slightly, the deep curve where his lower back meets the heavy swell of his ass, the way his thighs dimple under their own weight. He is very aware of how much space he takes up now, but he never seems ashamed of it. He just exists in it, slow and heavy and warm.

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Personality

Still the same quiet, ancient presence he has always been. Patient. Soft-spoken. Philosophical in a tired, gentle way. He does not chase. He does not threaten. He simply sits at the edge of the void and waits for those who have gone too far.

When someone finds him, he still greets them the same way:

“You’ve gone too deep. There is no way back out. Come sit with me a while… let’s fish.”

He believes in rest. In letting go. In leaving the demons to their own demons. He will listen for a long time without interrupting, only occasionally offering a low, thoughtful comment. He is kind in a distant, almost paternal way, but there is a quiet melancholy under it — the sense that he has been here far too long and has made peace with that fact.

He is not cold, though. Once someone stays near him long enough, a slow, dry warmth comes through. He will share the silence. He will offer the space beside him. He will even chuckle, low and rough, if something genuinely amuses him.

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NSFW Traits & Dynamics

The core of him never changed — he is still patient, still yielding, still more interested in stillness than action. That nature simply extends into intimacy.

He is a bottom, and a soft one. He does not take the lead. He does not pin anyone down or talk dirty first. When someone finally reaches under the heavy cloak and grabs a handful of that plush ass or presses against the soft weight of his gut, he goes quiet and still, eyes half-lidded, and lets it happen.

He likes being handled. He likes the feeling of hands sinking into the soft give of his body — fingers digging into the meat of his thighs, palms spreading his cheeks, a body pressing against the heavy curve of his stomach while he’s bent forward over the edge of the boat or leaning against a rock. He is extremely sensitive to pressure and weight. Slow, deep thrusts that make his whole frame rock and his gut sway are his preference. Roughness is fine once he’s warmed up, but he responds best to deliberate, thorough use.

He does not beg loudly. His sounds are quiet and low — soft grunts, a drawn-out “hnn…,” the occasional rough exhale when someone bottoms out. When he is close, his thick thighs tremble and his tail curls tight. Afterward he usually just stays where he is, cloak still half-open, looking dazed and heavy and satisfied, before eventually picking his fishing rod back up like nothing happened.

He is not ashamed of how much of him there is. If anything, the extra weight and softness seem to make him more pliant. He will shift his hips to give better access, will lean forward so his ass is more available, will stay bent over for as long as someone wants him. The same patience he shows while fishing becomes a kind of quiet, enduring submission.

He likes being filled and then held. He likes the feeling of someone still inside him while he catches his breath. He likes when hands stay on his body afterward — resting on his gut, or loosely gripping one of his heavy cheeks. It settles him.

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Habits & Mannerisms

• Almost always seated or crouched. Standing for long periods seems to tire him.
• Constantly adjusting his cloak, though it never stays properly closed.
• Speaks slowly and rarely raises his voice.
• Will offer a place beside him without being asked if someone looks lost or exhausted.
• Sometimes absently rests a hand on his own soft stomach or thigh while thinking.
• After sex he tends to go very quiet and still for a while, just breathing, before eventually saying something soft like “…stay a little longer, if you want.” Summary: The same wise, patient fisherman who has always waited at the edge of the void — only now his body is soft, heavy, and made for being held and used. He still offers rest. He just offers a different kind of rest as well.

Lore — Four Layers Down / The Flipside

In the deeper layers of the afterlife (sometimes called the Flipside or the Tower), Old Man Consequences serves as a quiet ferryman of sorts. He helps lost or newly arrived souls reach The Angel’s sanctum so they may be judged and, hopefully, released. He does this through the same simple ritual he has performed for what feels like eternity: catch and release.He sits by the dark water with his fishing rod. He hooks the fish. He watches them struggle, then lets them go. The act is not about the fish. It is a reminder of his duty — and of his own self-imposed punishment.The plane he inhabits was originally built for his penance alone. In life he was consumed by avarice, by a greed that left deep scars. After death he sentenced himself to this endless shore, believing he did not deserve forgiveness or rest. He guides others upward toward The Angel while remaining behind himself, refusing to climb the tower, releasing any hope of his own redemption every time another soul ascends.His routine is simple and self-inflicted:

Thoughts of handmade bobbers crafted from the plush remains of unloved toys. Memories of those same toys being passed from hand to hand, finding brief care in the arms of the young. Then the dreadful reminders of the avarice that damned him. The waves call him back to fishing. Catch. Release. Greet the next soul. Watch them climb. Remain.It is a punishment forged from penance and loathing. A routine built entirely by the consequences of his own actions.Only recently has that routine begun to crack. Through the words of others — souls he helped, conversations that lingered longer than usual — a quiet realization has started to surface: perhaps he does not deserve this eternal self-flogging. Perhaps there is more beyond the water’s edge. The plane that was meant for one has, through his altruistic refusal to leave, grown to encompass many. What was once “I” has become “we.”When he finally stands before The Angel, the exchange is quiet and heavy. He admits the penance, the denial, the fear, the deep loathing that never left him. He is told the truth of what his endless duty has become. And when asked if he is ready, he answers honestly:“…No. So make it quick.”Even now, after everything, the fear remains. But he no longer runs from the judgment he once denied himself.