daflangstlairde-art - Tumblr blog

daflangstlairde-art · 11 hours ago

Text

"Extremophile" 1/4

Part 3 of ocean depths

Summary:

You drown every minute, every second, with every breath you take. You haven’t breathed for so, so long. The icy waters are inside you, deep, deep inside you. All you could ever feel is cold and colder. You haven’t seen the sun in... so... long. It was so far away from you that you couldn’t even picture it anymore. And here was the sun himself. Here was that gasp of air that burned. You’ve been so cold for so long, the warmth feels like death. — Alt summary: It's not easy but boy do I drag Killer (and everyone around him) kicking and screaming towards a healing arc

Chapter 1: "catabolic seed" 4351 words

Credits, warnings and additional info on ao3.

—

It's funny. The moth never did fly away. Maybe its wings were too burned up. Or, maybe, it didn't want to.

It was the flame that was put out first. But with the lethal heat went away the entrancing shine that drew the lowly insect in, too.

—

“Get out.” Killer didn't even bother with asking.

“It's a letter,” Dream said instead, standing at the other side of the Final Corridor, across the path with his back to the large windows. Once, it would've made him glow with golden light. But it’s been dark for a long time. A very long time. Dream’s voice echoed throughout the ruins of the hallway.

He was holding said letter out towards Killer. If he wanted to take it, Killer would have to get up from where he sat leaned against one of the many ruined pillars.

Everything was ruined around here. Fitting, for this place’s one inhabitant. It was his own doing, anyway. Home sweet home, huh?

(He had nothing but Nightmare. He had nothing. Nowhere to go.

And now Nightmare was gone.)

He couldn't be bothered with any Dreamtale bullshit today.

“He–”

“Get out.” Killer snarled, eyes dripping with the same violent intent that dripped from his tone.

“I’lll leave it here,” Dream calmly placed the letter on the ground. It was a dark purple, with a golden wax seal of a crescent moon.

As soon as Dream was gone, Killer hurled as much magic was needed at the damn thing until there wasn't even dust left of it.

—

It was a big deal. A very, very, very big deal, when the Corrupted Nightmare’s soul was finally released, and he returned to his personhood. All the events leading up to it were so dramatic, and when it happened, the whole Multiverse cheered and celebrated. Probably.

(Everyone but one.)

After years upon years of struggle and suffering, the balance of Positivity and Negativity was, at last, restored. No longer heavily tipped in the direction of darkness.

Probably.

Killer didn't particularly care.

Nightmare was gone.

That... thing, the one that stared at his back sadly and couldn't look him in the eye? The one whose touch didn't burn? The one who said pathetic things like “sorry”?

That was not Nightmare.

And so back to emptiness Killer went.

Here, in his familiar hell. Here, in this decrepit hallway. His own coffin.

His original universe. Or what remained of it, at least.

There was nothing to do. There was no point to him. He didn't even have the agony anymore, the one that made him feel alive.

It was gone.

Killer had no purchase. No purpose. Nothing.

Nothing upon nothing upon nothing.

His breaths were too shallow to even echo. The birds stopped singing forever ago. The weeds overtook the patches of decay.

Killer had never felt colder.

—

“Did... did you read the previous one?” Dream asked tentatively. Fidgeting with the new purple letter in his hands.

You stare at him. Eyes empty and dead. A grinning corpse.

You're so, so empty. If you were a monster, you probably would've Fallen Down a long time ago.

But you're not.

You place a hand on the pillar behind your back. Slowly, lumbering, you push yourself to your feet. Dream watches your movements with pinched brow ridges.

You start chuckling quietly.

It takes a single movement for you to hurl the knife at Dream, so fast he yelps and barely dodges. The blade had enough force that half its length embeds itself into the solid rock.

There is liquid despair-hate-determination leaking down your face. In a flash you are next to Dream, swinging a newly summoned knife and he dodges right into a third summoned knife. He sucks in a breath but you're already summoning the next attack.

Dream is far stronger than he looks. He must be feeling better than ever, really, what with that thing that ate his brother now gone.

But this place is a wreckage.

Killer attacked mercilessly, relentlessly, again and again and again. You don't feel exhaustion. You don't feel pain. You don't feel anything.

It's a mindless screaming of violence, the only thing holding your particles together. All sharpened to a point until Dream finally. Fucking. Flees.

He leaves the letter with you.

You destroy it in lieu of destroying its sender.

—

He sat in a single spot.

He slept to pass the time.

It all blurred together.

There was nothing left for him.

—

“Horror asked me to bring you this,” Dream said, holding two large tupperware containers in his hands. With food inside. You don't care what type of food. You don't care who sent it. You don't care.

“How many times,” you speak, low, reverberating with hateful intent, “do I have to tell you to leave?”

“I’m not giving up on you,” Dream states, determination clear on his face.

You would start laughing hysterically. You would attack him again. You've attacked him about a dozen times on these visits, now. So overtaken by violence you don't even really remember it.

You're just...

...too tired for it.

“Okay,” even though it wasn’t, nothing is, it never was and it never will be, “then can do you something for me?”

It's hilarious the way Dream’s eye sockets widened at that. It's pathetic the way his face brightened. So desperate. So foolish.

“Yes!” he exclaimed. “Yes, anything! Of course!”

“Tell that thing dirtying Nightmare’s name,” Killer’s grin stretched, “to let go of my soul.”

Dream blinked, thrown off.

“He– what? He still holds power over your soul?” he asked, incredulous, maybe angry, or maybe just crushed.

You spit a laugh. “Of course.”

“I’ll speak to him,” Dream nodded, serious. He lifted the tupperware containers a little, “I’ll just... leave these here?”

He did.

Killer destroyed them.

—

You wonder why this world still stands. You wish you could tear it apart with your own hands.

—

“...I’m sorry,” Dream said, standing sheepishly in the same spot across the width of the corridor. Another damned letter in his hands. Face twisted in upset.

Killer barked a laugh. Him and Nightmare were twins, huh? He could see the resemblance.

(“I’m so sorry, I– I can't even describe– Killer, what I– he– it– the way you suffered was so wrong–” “Nightmare” had stammered.

Killer laughed in his face.

“Oh it was!” he revelled, “That's what I liked about it,” he mocked.)

“Of course you are,” Killer muttered.

“Just...” Dream took a breath, “We're worried that if Night isn't... keeping a hold of your soul, that you might–”

“Yup,” you pop the word brightly. “End this torture for good? That's the plan, sunshine boy,”

Dream always looks devastated when you speak like that. It's hilarious. What a bleeding heart. It makes you want to slam him to the ground until he's really bleeding.

“...Killer–”

“Don't worry,” you laugh, “The determination will probably force me to keep at it instead, what a joy,” you shrug. You're doomed to suffer. You can't escape it, not even in death.

“We can try something else–” Dream begs.

“Night, huh?” Killer interrupted him, coldly uncaring. Venomously mocking. “Is that what he’s calling himself these days? How cute. Very harmless and gentle. You should tell him it really fixes all the lives he’s ruined,”

Dream’s expression flitted to something angry. Immediately he took a breath, held it, and let it out. Ohoo, so he’s not letting you get to him? You start laughing. That’s a challenge if you’ve ever seen one.

“He’s trying–”

“I can see that,” Killer nodded at the purple letter that Dream still held. “How cutesy. Did he, by any chance, put a time machine in there?”

“He’s working hard to change.” Dream was resolute. “He’s helping people.”

“Atoning for his sins, huh? Veery saintly. Someone better get some nails and call Cross,” Killer joked, and surprisingly, Dream had to smother a snort.

“He wasn’t himself when he did those things. It wasn’t his fault.” Dream insisted, calm, but sure of it. Seems he really believed that. How... humanitarian.

Killer leaned further back. Tilted his head at the dreamboy.

“So what?”

“...What?”

“You’re here to deliver a beautiful final speech?” Killer was grinning, mocking. “Tell me how everyone deserves a second chance? How everyone can change, if they really wanted to? For the better, even? Hit me with that ‘Killer, I believe in you’ maybe?” he chuckled flatly.

Dream’s mouth was twisted flatly, brow ridges pinched together again.

“...I do,” Dream said quietly. In the silence of the corridor, it echoed loudly enough. “I do believe that.”

Killer let out a breathy laugh, letting his head thunk back against the pillar. How absurd. Dream was trying so very hard to make something out of nothing. It’s you. You are the nothing.

“...In every universe I know,” you start. “The character that holds that stand is the one who dies oh so tragically. Pretty early on, even,” you lament, eyes dark, darker. It’s all hopeless. There hasn’t been light at the end of the tunnel for... so, so very long now. It’s just the vast ocean depths.

A red scarf in the snow. You were upset about it, the first many times. Then you started taking it in stride. Then you were numb to it.

“Either that, or, well,” you shrug, “Or they’re forced to change said stand. So where does that put you, sunshine?”

Quiet. It’s always so quiet. Sometimes you’d rather Dream take the matter in his own hands and just kill you already. You’ll never understand why he still bothers. How he still has the energy to bother.

“...I’m still alive.” is Dream’s quiet argument. You bark a laugh. You suppose that’s true. Some people are just lucky like that.

Dream leaves the letter with you. You rip it in half and watch it burn.

—

“Hey,”

It was almost startling, and immediately Killer’s eyes snapped open from his tired dozing.

“Dust??”

And– dammit. That... there was a flash of an emotion from Dust’s unexpected presence here, but as Killer tried to pinpoint it now, it was already gone. He couldn’t decipher what it’d been.

“Heyo,” Dust wiggled his fingers in a greeting. His appearance hadn’t changed much — still with the hood up, still with that red scarf. But there was no longer radioactivity in the lights of his eyes. He didn’t have, well, dust clinging to him anymore. He seemed... more stable. More present. Good for him, Killer thought, neutrally, not particularly caring.

...Good for him.

He stood where Dream usually did, but he shuffled to walk to Killer’s side, unafraid. Sat down slumped with his back at the pillar Killer always sat against.

“Not worried I’ll go Stage Three on you?” Killer teased. That was the highest stage, as opposed to his usual ‘Stage One’ — his regular soul, with two red circles and a white one between them, like a target. As far as he knew, there were only three variations it could shape itself. There's been... a lot of Two and even Three these days.

“Go ahead, I’ll kick your ass anyday,” Dust shrugged, grinning. “Just like old times, huh?”

Just like old times. Huh.

(Memories of staying awake at ungodly hours and chatting to keep the whispers of silence at bay. Memories of competing for how much EXP they could gain without outright killing anybody. Memories of just the two of them in a room, after Horror wasn’t with ‘em anymore.

...But it’s not Killer who left.)

Cold. Icy. Black and bitter. Hands clenched. A fuzz around the edges of your vision at the memory of emptiness. Of endless, looming, silent walls. The feeling dissipates, leaving only dark stains against your psyche. Maybe you will go Stage Three on him.

“Right.” you don’t look at him. Your voice remains neutral and unbothered. It always does. “Soo. Which one sent you?”

“Neither,” Dust shrugs, paying no mind to your aura. “I just used them as a bridge to get here. I wanted to see you,”

That... what?

You snort. “Why?”

“Just wanted to. Haven’t in a while. I told you you could visit at any time,” Dust reminded. “But you never did,”

“Sure I did,” Killer argued.

“Yeah, like two times in the beginning,” Dust elbowed him, teasing. “And when Nightmare turned, you could’ve come and stayed with me and Red, not here,”

That’s not Killer’s place. This is Killer’s place.

“You’re my friend,” Dust said quietly, smile gaining some other tinge. “I would’ve welcomed you,”

You’re my friend.

Killer exhaled through his nose, shaky with amusement.

You’re my friend.

He started chuckling. He started laughing. It was cracking out from his ribcage. He couldn’t pin down the feeling it mimicked. Amusement? Incredulity? Absurdity? Irony?

“No I’m not,” you kindly inform through your laughter. “I think you’re forgetting I couldn’t feel less about you,” it’s hilarious. It’s bonkers. Dust really is fucking insane.

Dust didn’t let it get to him, just rolled his eye lights. “Sure buddy, whatever helps you sleep at night,” he teases, but you know he knows what you’re truly like. He knows you’re not lying. Which begs the question: how did that delusion still manage to take root?

Hah.

“I mean it though,” Dust rolls his shoulders, stretching his arms idly. “You’re welcome at any time. We could go right now,”

Killer snorted. “Yeah, I’ll take you up on that offer when I need some free EXP,”

Dust paused. Huh. Funny reaction. He really cared about those from the ‘fell verse, huh?

“...No, you won’t,” Dust said, tone reserved to himself. “But that’s fine. Mind if I stay with you instead?”

Killer huffed in mirth. “...I couldn’t care less,” he said, like it was an inside joke between them.

Dust chuckled. And stayed with him.

(It...

...It was so much better than the emptiness.)

—

You wish it was as easy as sleeping all the time, but that’s not exactly possible. Instead, when you’re awake, you’re in a sleep-like haze.

Time passing far too slowly and yet all at once. You blink and it’s been hours. Probably because those hours are all the same, they feel like a single unchanging moment, playing on loop. The rise and fall of your chest. The faint change of light outside those grand, cracked, dusty windows.

It’s...

It’s agony.

It’s a constant, unyielding numbness. An empty existence. A corpse with awareness.

The hours are all the same. None of it feels real, because there’s nothing to differentiate it at all. Fantasy and dreams and reality, it’s all the same, always unchanging, horrible. It’s like being so deeply starved that you stop feeling even the pains from hunger. Everything always the same, and always horrible, until none of it matters.

It’s just a soul-deep craving.

For something. Anything. Whether it be your own blades faintly cracking along your bones, the back of your skull repeatedly slammed against the pillar, something, something. You’d raze the entire fucking Multiverse to ashes and launch your body into its fires if it let you feel something.

Your soul...

...Metaphysically, it’s here, with you. At the center of your chest, bare and vulnerable like an open wound. When you hold it, the red and white circlets glow against your sickly bones. It’s been more unstable than ever, messy and erratic.

The red glow is fitting against the knife in your hand.

The pain is horrible. It’s something that feels mildly real, it’s all you have. Until it bleeds and bleeds and bleeds and you are screaming just for there to be a sound.

It’s all pointless anyway. You bring it into the decimals, shaking and burning with your own self-inflicted violence, but it doesn’t break apart. DETERMINATION holds back just as tightly.

Hah. Haha.

Horror and Dust never had quite the same arrangement with Nightmare that you did. And that fucker, that poor excuse of an existence that insists he is Nightmare now still hasn’t let your cursed, rotten soul go. Not fully.

Dream implied it’s because he knows you want nothing more than to destroy it.

You hope it’s because he is selfish, because he wants you hurt and ruined like always, because he wants you. You wish you could bludgeon him until the pitying expressions he gives you are unrecognizable.

You wish he’d go back to how he was before.

—

“Hey,” Dream appeared once again. Just like always, right across the hallway’s width at the other row of pillars. Or, well, what remained of them, which wasn't much.

He seemed to be appearing at similar times of the day, even. Not that Killer cared to track. For him, the moments when he wasn't alone weren't even real, and then suddenly, here's the Dream Boy.

It was funny to call the centuries old Guardian ‘boy’. It always felt unfitting that someone who seemed so weak was so... not that.

Killer didn't care to reply to him either. He was tired. He didn't care about anything. Why bother?

“It's not a letter this time,” Dream informed, smiling politely as always. You really do believe him when he says he believes in the good in people and that he cares. You just don't care.

Dream produced a couple stapled papers. “I thought about what you said,” he started, “And we did some research. Turns out, actually, statistically,” he held out the papers to Killer, “It's Papyrus — his archetype — that has the highest track record of turning Players away from the Genocide route,” he was grinning.

...Huh.

That's... mildly interesting, actually. You suppose he does have the resources for something like this at his disposal.

“Also,” Dream continued, pulling out a bar of chocolate. “Night sends you this,”

...Damn. Damn. So he was switching up tactics, huh? Curse his knowledge of Killer. He was a fan of chocolate. Something about the cocoa and the sugar giving you a mild artificial high, the strong flavor. Or maybe whatever remained of Chara in him, hah.

Killer couldn't be bothered to push himself up. “Toss it,”

Dream tossed him the chocolate bar and Killer caught it. It wasn't the cheap kind. Maybe there were some upsides to having a sorry little insult like ‘Night’ feeling, well, sorry for you. Killer could abuse this.

“Stop giving me that expression,” he told Dream, who was beaming. Eyes sparkling like sunshine glitter on the surface of the ocean. “Before I peel it off of you.”

Dream, the nuisance that he was, just laughed brightly.

“Want the research too?” he waved the papers at Killer.

Killer sighed, stashing the chocolate in his inventory.

Reading about Papyrus-es in the Geno runs? That could hurt, hopefully. Nice. Or he’d feel nothing, but he always felt nothing. Plus, he supposed just reading anything at all would fill in the emptiness.

Or he’d just use it as kindling, haha.

“Sure. Leave me alone now.”

—

Another chocolate, of a different kind this time but no less high quality. Hah! They thought they were being smart. They thought they had a foot in the door with him. Hilarious. He was just using them for his own personal gain.

Well, if they wanted to be used so badly, Killer sure wasn't going to stop them!

“Dust has been asking for you,” Dream said as he tossed over the chocolate. “Told me to remind you. He didn't specify remind you what though, so I just assumed you'd know,”

Who appointed Dream to be everyone’s messenger to Killer? They could haul their ass over here too. Killer held zero warmth for Dream. Negative warmth, even. Night could transport anyone here too; same went for Ink, yada yada. But whatever. Not like Killer cared. It would've been more fun if it was someone fun that kept visiting him, though. Maybe Dust himself, and they could hurl bullets at each other and trade insult-quips. Or Horror, or someone.

“Yeah, I know,” Killer stated plainly, stashing this chocolate in his inventory too. He had actually eaten the other one. It was... nice, actually. He enjoyed it.

“You know what?” Killer placed a hand on the dilapidated pillar he always sat leaned against. Pushing himself to his feet. Tired. “Sure.”

Dream blinked.

“Sure?”

“Yeah,” Killer shrugged, grinning mean (aka his go-to). “Take me to Dust and his bitey puppies, why not? Can't be worse than this,”

It would be something. It would be people and sounds and sensations and it won't be empty. Killer could even score some EXP no one would miss.

“Oh. Oh!” Dream beamed again. It's hilarious, the way he thought hope still existed for Killer. “Yes, I’ll take you there! But first. Can I ask for a favor?” he gained a look in his eyes. Hopeful, mischievous? Opportunistic maybe.

Killer raised his brow ridges. “Very transactional of you, Mister Selfless,” he teased.

Dream rolled his eyes. “I’ll still take you there if you refuse,” he reasoned. Always so reasonable. What a diplomat, hah.

“Well, if you insist,” Killer said in a low voice, grin stretching. He was in a mood to be entertained by cheery fools, why not?

“How about... a hug?” Dream opened his arms. Calm. The very opposite of pushy about it.

Killer blinked at him, and promptly burst out into laughter.

“And they call me a maniac!” he gasped, slapping his knee. Oh this was golden. A hug? From Killer? How Papyrus of him!

“Oh, oh, or have you finally gone on a mean streak?” Killer kept laughing. To his credit, Dream wasn't faltering, just waited out his fit calmly. “Gonna dunk on me? Finally finish me off, Peaceful Pea?” Killer kept mocking, his voice echoing throughout the empty Judgement Hall. It was rare that he raised it these days.

“No,” Dream replied timidly. “I just want a hug, from you,” he said like that was normal. Like they were besties who embraced all the time! Like Killer wouldn't take the first opportunity to stab him in the back, literally!

“Sure buddy, bring it in!” Killer accepted cheerfully, opening his arms. If the idiot wanted to get dunked on so badly, who was Killer to rain on his parade? In this world, it's dunk or get dunked on!

Insane, the way Dream stepped forward with a warm smile for an embrace. This sucker didn't know the oldest tricks in the book apparently. Because as soon as Killer’s hands wrapped around him, past Dream’s vision, he was summoning a sharp, sharp knife.

And then–

And–

They hugged.

...The thing about the Corrupted Nightmare’s aura — and touch — is that they were concentrated negativity. Negativity completely out of balance, off the rocker. He could turn the mood of everyone in an AU abysmal simply by going there. He could kill you with a touch if he didn’t actively keep it reigned in, because physical contact, being the closest you can get to him, was also the most intense.

When he turned Passive, that disappeared. Or so Killer had assumed.

Because Dream was–

He was–

He... was... warm.

Not just ‘body heat’ warm. Not ‘nervous’ warm. Warm like healing magic, like eating soup with your friends, like– like sunshine. Like happiness and excitement and hope and–

Like Nightmare’s icy fire but with none of the lethality, just light and warm warm warm–

“Killer–?”

You’ve been buried in the depths of the ocean for so, so, so very long.

You are a shipwreck.

Your construction is frail and jagged and rotten. Even the concept of ever moving from where you’re stuck died long ago.

And here was the sun himself.

Here was that gasp of air that burned.

You’ve been so cold for so long, the warmth feels like death.

(...all this time...

...Dream had an aura too?)

Dream cries out as your blade sinks into his back. You planned to keep him in the embrace to hurt him, but you only twist the knife deeper once before you’re wrenching yourself away from– from–

“Killer–!” the idiot extends a hand towards you like you didn’t just fucking stab him– “Wait–”

“SHUT UP.” you snarl, and you’re not angry, not really, you can’t feel anything, you haven’t felt anything in what feels like centuries. An eternity.

(Warm like sunshine and happiness and excitement and hope–)

“You’re LEAVING if you know what’s GOOD for you.” you inform him kindly, violent intent thrumming through your bones, your soul, echoing off the grand walls. Surrounding and unstable.

“I'm not leaving you,” Dream refused adamantly, and you’re laughing as you attack. You're ruthless as you attack. You hurl a barrage of violence at him, cheap hacks and traps to ensure the numbers tick down, bit by bit. You wreak destruction on this already rundown hallway. It's what you do. You are destruction.

You want to be alone. You want to snuff him out. You need to snuff him out. You need it existentially.

It was an irrevocable truth: this light, this warmth, it doesn't exist. And even if others claimed it does, it does not for you, not for you. It never has. It never will. It's not that it’s too far out of your reach — it doesn't. Exist.

...Except.

Except, here it is. Expertly doing its best to dodge the onslaught of your hateful violence.

You need it gone, because if it's real...

“I hate you,” you snarl when you're up close, hands almost shaking with the effort you're putting in stabbing Dream. But he holds his block. “I hate you so, so much.” you spit black hatred like venom.

Maybe it's the sheer intensity of your negativity that finally gets him to relent. Maybe he just gives up on you as he should've ages ago.

You stand among the ruins of your life, the echoes of your harsh breaths. Blood dripping from your blade like the despair from your face.

Alone.

11 notes · View notes

daflangstlairde-art · 4 days ago

Text

Ommgg so honored to be here! I'm very glad you enjoyed reading my fic! <33

Big Ol' Rottmnt Fic Rec List

Hi, I've needed to do this for a while, so here's a big bundle of fic recs from me !

I've broken it down between one shots, chaptered fics, and series. I'll try to mention what the character focus is along with a brief summary and some personal thoughts. If you need more details I encourage you to check the fics summary and tags for yourself! I will only include an author's tumblr account if it's easy for me to find haha

One Shots

Mama's Boy - ashtreelane: Technically two chapters but it feels like a one shot. Casey Jr. angst, involving him finding out that maybe you can fix kraang infections and that he failed to save his mother. I love when people really pile the grief on Junior after all the fighting is over and the fic does it so well.

Forget-Me-Nots - GibbousLunation (AKA @klunkcat ): Hi, oh my god??? Leo and Mikey centric angst, in which saving Leo from the prison dimension has an insane ripple effect. Mikey dying? Nah he's going to start getting erased from every timeline and Leo slowly watches it happen (and refuses to do nothing about it). I utterly adore how this fic handles this concept. You see almost all of it from Leo's POV, noticing the little changes but writing them off as memory failures, because of how subtle some of it is.

Fight or Flight - pickledcarrotsandradish: Leo centric, post movie, Leo keeps waiting for his family to start lecturing him about all the dumb stuff he did during the invasion, and they aren't, so it's getting to him. A very neat narrative about how self loathing can warp our perception of how others see us. A++++

The Friend Zone Sounds Pretty Good, Actually - Cryptvokeeper: Eating this, eating this. You probably already know I love aroace Leo and this fic is an INCREDIBLE exploration of that. Even as just an ace person it hit SO many notes where I was just like "Oh god... I've been there buddy". And as a bonus the dynamic between Leo and Yuichi is v sweet. Love this a lot I've read it like five times.

Pink in The Night - unnamedmystery: Incredible April/Sunita fic. Like seriously this author wrote April's crush so well I think I was starting to fall in love with Sunita. Just incredibly cute all the way through, and great April writing, adore it.

《 until then, matriarch 》 - chiangyorange: HI OH MY GOD A nice chunky oneshot about Karai, about her being a leader, and it's phenomenal. It hits and hits and does not miss, really going in depth about her emotions involving her father turning into something wicked and having to destroy him, and how it ruins all of her good memories.

The Kindness of Collision - SpoonerizedSwiftness (AKA @splickedylit ): Hi I still remember the fic and the art suddenly showing up in the tag and then I was thinking about it for the next like five weeks aslkdjf A very interesting idea that when the turtles reach the age they were in the doomed timeline before things got reset, all the memories of their other life more or less hit them like a train. All of them have to comb through that information and it's a wonderful and emotional ride.

Chaptered Fics

Hamartia - Punable (in progress): Hi this is one of my all time favorite rise fics, mainly because in a way, it helped me come to terms with my chronic pain. It's Donnie centric and smack full of angst in all the best ways. Shorthand summary, an explosion in Donnie's lab almost takes him out (or kind of DOES take him out) and the recovery is not only long and agonizing, it may only go so far, and Donnie doesn't cope well with that.

Kick It Up a Notch - Brokenpitchpipe (completed): Hi this is my other all time fav rise fic. Donnie centric separated AU in which Donnie is raised by Draxum. My love for it stems a lot from the characterization of Donnie though, and even Draxum in this case. Not to mention that in a lot of cases it matches the vibes of the show. And in spite of all the humor, there's a few really gut wrenching moments. 10/10 will re-read.

Lightning in Our Fingertips Today - DaFlangsLairde (AKA @daflangstlairde-art) (completed): Leo and Donnie centric, mostly angst, with body swapping between the twins which results in Donnie finding out that Leo's ninpo hurts him. Love love love the character writing in this, and also how the swap is written.

Under Pressure - ParvumAutomaton (completed): Not sure this is a single character focused fic, but basically April goes cave diving and is out for a while, and the turtles get worried and go looking for her. This might be personal bias but as someone who gets really into caving stories, this fic hits the spot for so many reasons. A really great emotional ride, and if you wanna see April go through it then I super recommend it.

Nothing Haunts Us (like the things we don't say) - mad_and_thick_as_theives (completed): A lot of great fics by this author btw, but this one personally stood out to me. It starts of silly and light only to sweep in with the emotional weight. Turtles are all cursed with a truth spell, basically, but I think my favorite bit is who gets out of it first (and why). V sweet.

Creation of a Philospher's Stone - IgnisCanis (completed): Whoooo boy, if you want some Draxum centric character exploration this is a great one. It really fleshes him out as a morally grey character and also does a fantastic job at writing Mikey when he finds out.

The Ol Switcheroo - radishhqueen (AKA @radishhqueen) (completed): Haha not going to lie I have a few by this author (so I'll only tag them once) but MAN. Hands down my favorite take on future leo coming to the past, and maybe I'm biased because I like when those fics actually explore Junior's character in the process buuuuut I love it. Junior's already struggling to adapt himself to the present, and after getting caught up in a foot clan spell which summons his sensei to the present too it really doesn't get any easier.

Vigilantism for Fun and Profit - radishhqueen (completed): The Cassandra Jones fic ever. Zero contest. If you're uncertain about writing Cassandra because she had so little development in the show I encourage you to read this for inspiration (I know it inspired me a lot). It does such a great deep dive into her character post show and a bit of the movie too. Honestly anytime radishh has a Cassandra fic I am clicking.

Tried to Grow Up Good - Sroloc_Elbisivni (AKA @sroloc--elbisivni )(completed): The Casey Jr. fic ever. CRAZY in love with this post movie take on him. It's messy, it's fun, it's so so real and you get a good chunk of Casey Sr. in here too. Adore it.

Hold On (Or Three Times Donatello's Soft Shell Almost Killed Him, and One Time it Saved His Life) - dunk_on_em (AKA @spockazilla )(completed): If you ever want a bit of angst involving Donnie's shell this is my go to. Every chapter has an emotional swing, even the positive ones. And shows something most people might see as a disadvantage as a good thing, actually.

Atlas, My Brother - swampcryptid (AKA @the-name-is-rizzotherat)(in progress): Get your Raph angst, specifically involving him always shielding his siblings, this time via a curse. My guy is already going through it and I think it'll get worse if a solution isn't found.

I've Got You Under My Skin - Cass_Phoenix (in progress): More Raph angst, and some Donnie, a truly chilling exploration of the possible consequences to connecting with the kraang. This fic constantly has me on the edge of my seat, and constantly stressing for Raph.

What We Leave Behind (How We Start Anew) - iam57311 (AKA @iam-57311)(in progress): Any Baronjitsu fans here? An alternate take on canon in which Draxum and Splinter co-parent the kids since they're first born (made?) Hilariously while I love the Baronjitsu content in here, I think some of my favorite parts are actually with the sisters, Big Mama, and Draxum's sister who is so so cool I love her.

Proof of Redemption - iam57311 (complete): Another one of theirs! A short and sweet lil close to canon fic about Draxum steadily gaining the trust and affection of the Hamatos, with each chapter focused on a different character. I love how they're all paced out from each other, really hits how some are much slower than others to trust Draxum hehe.

No Crime* Only Brooches - OllieTheScribe (AKA @olliethescribe) (in progress): Well I have to get THE HypnoWarren fic in here. Such a fun take on these characters, I love love love the backstory they built up for Warren too, plus the dynamic between these two and the turtles after (eventually) become friends haha.

Minor Interference - bambiraptorx (AKA @bambiraptorx) (in progress): What can I say? This fic is delightful. Between the hilarity of the turtles going with Draxum just to mess with him, the lore additions for yokai and the Hidden City, HoH Donnie, and their slowly building dynamic, always eager for a new chapter with this one.

Series

A Butterfly with a Mechanical Wing - Amethyst_Goldenwind (AKA @amethystgoldenwind ): Donnie centric series about being a non-verbal autistic. I'm always fond of non-verbal/mute explorations of characters, and so far I really like how, because his family has grown up with it, all of it is very normal for them. The various forms of communication are delightful. Excited to see further entries.

Analogous Hues - alwerakoo (AKA @alwerakoo): It's a separated AU with similar titling themes as my own, needed to check it out. The titles are just about all they have in common though! This AU focuses a lot on the turtles (Raph and Leo with Splinter and Donnie and Mikey with Draxum). I love how this explores not only the dynamics of the two groups and how different they are, but also the dynamics between each of the siblings, also how some magic sibling connections can influence that. Not to mention the different home life in more ways than one. If you're into separated AUs that really dig into the turtles dynamics try this one out !

#rottmnt #rise of the tmnt

145 notes · View notes

daflangstlairde-art · 4 days ago

Text

Aaaa tysmmm so happy you enjoyed!! <33

"she ain't worth a goddamn in anyone else's hands" 5,334 words

Part 2 of ocean depths

Work Summary:

Nightmare was all, all Killer had. He defined Killer’s entire world. He was the most important thing to Killer. But, just as well, at the end of the day — even if in a very different way — Killer was all Nightmare had. — Being left in the Antivoid is just as much of a torture as you’d imagine. Real torture.

Credits, warnings and additional info on ao3.

—

Killer wasn't sad when first Horror and then Dust ditched their operation.

It didn't happen fast, nor at the same time, but it happened. It wasn't a shock. And he wasn't sad. He wasn't. He wasn't. He couldn't be.

As he stalked the halls of the dark castle, he felt nothing.

It was emptier than ever.

There was no longer Horror to cook warm soup and to splinter wood with a cleaver. He was introduced to some universe of farmboys. He left. He cared for his own universe, which remained alive.

There was no longer Dust to shadow him because company was better than the emptiness. He was harder for those Stars to convince, but apparently, Underfell admired violence and strength. Apparently, he was being “rehabilitated”.

And, well! We all know how Nightmare was. He had always been above them. Killer could linger in his company only if allowed.

There was... nobody.

Nobody.

Just massive, spanning walls of dark, cold stone. The rare slits of light only enough to illuminate the particles of dust in the air, really. It was all abandoned. Silent and dead. Empty.

Desolate.

Familiar.

...Haha. Hahahah.

How funny.

Killer kept ending up in dead ends.

—

He sat at the kitchen table.

He laid down on his bed.

He wandered the halls.

Emptiness of emptiness of emptiness.

Bored.

Killer wasn't sad. Killer couldn't be sad. Sadness was... it was a sincere emotion.

Killer was drowning in the dark, dark depths.

Killer felt emptier than ever.

It's like he wasn't even real.

—

“If you don't get your act straight, you’ll keep messing everything up.” Nightmare growled, tentacles holding Killer aloft and pinned to the wall by his throat.

Missions were boring. It was the same, all the same. Hurting and ruining and sometimes killing. All alone. All repetitive.

But Killer was Nightmare’s one loyal tool left. The only one.

Of course the Stars tried to break him too. Of course they offered many things that... probably sounded appealing to others. Like forgiveness, or help, or freedom.

Killer didn't care about those. Killer didn't care about the Stars. He didn't even know what their deal was! He had never particularly cared, and only really knew the most vague of details. Because none of it mattered to him.

Nightmare was the only thing that mattered. He was all Killer had. All.

...And Killer was all Nightmare had left.

Killer chuckled low, even as the restriction around his throat tightened painfully.

“Anything for you baby,” he teased, because it drove Nightmare up the wall with annoyance. It earned Killer the prize of pain, just like he wanted it to. He was discovering being provocative and crude made people react hilariously.

Missions were a fog. He lacked drive, he lacked interest, he lacked attention. On missions, heck, in everyday life, Killer was in a fugue state.

But he didn't need a brain! He just had to do as told.

Nightmare says kill, you kill.

—

“Why are you still fighting for him?!” Blue yelled, trying to keep up in parrying each of Killer’s violent slashes. “He doesn't care about you! He– he’s awful to you! I don't understand you!”

Killer just started laughing in his face.

Slash, stab, attack and attack and attack. Again, and again, and again and again, repeat upon repeat.

All the same. All meaningless. All horrible.

—

“I heard them talking about some ‘Cross’ guy,” Killer mentioned, twirling a knife, its point against his fingertip.

Nightmare paused in his irritated pacing, and for a moment Killer was sure he would get another “Shut the hell up while I’m thinking” for his generous efforts to help his boss.

Instead,

“...Cross, huh?” Nightmare hummed, considering.

—

They beat the Stars to it and now, once again, after weeks and weeks of emptiness, there was finally someone else in the castle.

And Cross was even fun to poke fun at!

“What’s got you so angsty?” Killer teased, tailing the guy into the kitchen.

“Leave me alone,” Cross dismissed him all huffy. He had this stoic attitude going on. Not very fun, except when Killer got it to crack. He was still exploring which buttons gave him the best reactions — honestly, he didn't know much about this Cross guy, and didn't care particularly to learn about his tragic backstory or whatever.

“I don't think I will,” Killer hummed, as Cross started searching through the cabinets.

“Is this place just empty?” Cross muttered to himself.

“Like my soul,” Killer joked. Ah, a classic.

Cross gave him a flat look and continued searching. “Where is all the food?”

“Oh the guy who did that left,” Killer replied.

“Did... food?” Cross turned around to look at him.

“Yeah, that was his thing,”

“And you... what, don't?”

Killer shrugged. “Nope, I'm not into it,” he chuckled, and Cross groaned.

“Why are you like this?” he demanded, exasperated. “Aren't you, I don't know, uh, in a–” and then he seemed to reconsider his words. Frowning. “...What is the deal with you and Nightmare?”

Killer started laughing so hard he teared up.

Cross disregarded him.

—

Knock-knock-knock at the door. Cheerful as ever. Waiting for the multiple locks on the inside to be unlocked, even when Killer could've just used a shortcut right in. That's to signify he’s coming with no violent intent, or whatever. Well. Minor violent intent maybe, haha.

The door opened, and immediately Red grimaced.

“H–!”

“DUST!” Red yelled to the inside of the house. “NIGHTMARE’S BITCH IS AT THE DOOR!”

“What?” called muffled from inside.

“ONE OF Y’ FUCKIN’ MANIAC FRIENDS!”

Killer laughed. Maybe someone else would've been hurt. He wasn't. Both of those statements were delightfully true.

—

There was one little problem. A little thorn in Killer’s side. Not enough to change his modus operandi — again, emotionless and uncaring — but enough to be noticeable. Enough to be annoying.

“Cross, you're in charge of this mission,” Nightmare stated.

“Yes sir.”

That thorn was called Cross and Killer might just hate him.

Before Killer could stop gaping and reply, Nightmare was already gone, leaving them in some random forest (not unusual, not important).

“Let's go.” Cross turned to walk in some direction for some reason.

“What– do you know where we are??” Killer sputtered, waving his knife.

“No.” Cross didn't even look at him, like he was better or something.

That wouldn't do.

Killer grabbed his shoulder and turned him around.

“Then why are you ‘in charge’?” he asked, so very friendly.

“Because I don't fuck off to do whatever I want every time?” Cross raised a brow ridge. Ohohoo, some spunk in him today! “Because I'm an actually good henchman and don't talk back constantly?”

Oh the nerve of this guy. Heh. Heheheh! Hilarious!

In fact, Killer was chuckling. He was laughing. He was hysterical.

“You?” he gasped. “Whatever gets you off, puppet boy!”

Because there were a few easy answers to Cross’ question from awhile ago.

What was their relationship? Easy.

Killer was Nightmare’s. His yes-man, his victim, his tool, his loyal toy, his lackey, the only one who stayed. His bitch, to put it oh-so-elegantly. Everybody knew that.

—

“What have you done with Cross?!” Dream demanded, parrying Killer’s attacks beat for beat. That guy was not to be underestimated, which Killer was admittedly guilty of! What could he say? These positive, soft types never went for the kill — how can you be truly afraid of them?

It's not like he felt much fear, anyway. That was reserved for a special someone.

“Horrible things!” Killer exclaimed, laughing. “He's suffering as we speak!”

“What?!” Dream exclaimed, horrified.

(Cross was probably just sleeping. There wasn't much else to do when you're stuck at the castle and need to pass the time.)

“Terrible!” Killer nodded, dodging to the side and using the movement to try shanking Dream. It was evaded.

“Where is he?!”

“Where do you think?” Killer teased. “Same as always! He's not some treasure to be hidden,”

“Oh,” Dream was caught off guard by that. Probably wasn't expecting it. That meant he also wasn't expecting the knife Killer stabbed into his shoulder, haha.

—

Killer’s gotta give it to the Stars. Having experience with Horror and Dust, they retrieved Cross pretty efficiently this time.

—

Killer’s skull slammed into the wall behind him so hard the pain reverberated through it and echoed throughout his body. He groaned, a gutteral drawn out sound. The tentacle that’d grabbed him by the throat now also lifted him off his feet by it, in that uncomfortable way where Killer’s body dangled and felt like it’s about to drop away from his head.

“HOW DID THEY KNOW HE WAS HERE?” Nightmare demanded, shoving rage and disgust and fear into Killer’s soul like it's nothing, like it doesn't drown him.

“How am– I supposed– to know?” Killer choked out, grinning, hands clutching onto the tentacle in a poor attempt to hold himself up a little, to loosen the pressure. He was barely able to think through the onslaught of horror and misery. It was like a diseased, starving, feral animal clawing at his body. Unrelenting with you're horrible disgusting scum you're going to die die die you are going to SUFFER there is no escape you–

“You useless tool!” Nightmare pulled him away from the hard stone wall, only to slam him against it, and again and again and again until Killer was crying out with the pain. Everything was ringing with the building concussion. It was a little difficult to hear whatever Nightmare was saying through it, pardon Killer’s manners, but it sounded something like “This is your fault, isn't it?!”

In case it wasn't clear, Nightmare was really pissed. This whole weakening of his forces seemed to be really getting to him. How sad.

Killer blinked against the shapes swimming in his vision. He could feel that hateful substance trickling, leaking even, from his eyes down his face. Warm. No, it was cold. He could never quite decide. The probably-blood oozing down the back of his skull was certifiably warm, however.

“That’s very– presumptuous of you–” he struggled out, breathing heavily, breathing through the pain and the merciless barrage of rancid emotions. Grin widening. “I can see you’re– angry, baby– are you hhngh on your period?”

Nightmare was livid. Killer started laughing, even as there were great efforts being put to choking him out.

“Shut. Up.” Nightmare said, cold and reverberating off the walls until it surrounds you. He lowered Killer down slowly, but didn't let go of him — it was just so Killer wasn't held aloft anymore, but rather, Nightmare, with all his engulfing darkness, loomed over him. “Need I remind you betrayal. Isn't. Tolerated?”

Killer couldn't help but snort and cackle at that, past the rancid, cloying smell of death from Nightmare’s general aura.

“Betrayal?” he exclaimed. “Me? Please. You and I both know I'm all you really have.”

There was the kicker.

Nightmare was all, all Killer had. He defined Killer’s entire world. He was the most important thing to Killer.

But, just as well, at the end of the day — even if in a very different way — Killer was all Nightmare had.

He was the only one truly allied with Nightmare. Not through force or violence or threats, none of that — because he wanted to be. Because Killer was an empty husk of a being and adored the force and the violence and the threats and the fear. A living wound that only exists when it's bleeding.

Nightmare knew that Killer knew that. But Killer knew that Nightmare knew it too. They both knew where they stood. They both knew Nightmare could leverage whatever suffering he wanted against Killer and that Killer would only enjoy it the worse it is. Killer only did as told when he enjoyed it, because he wanted to. He misbehaved for the very same reason.

Killer was so ruined through his own fault. There was nowhere further Nightmare could ruin him. Nightmare couldn't hurt him because Killer hurt himself, and Nightmare was just the most intense, most effective, most convenient way to do it.

That's why Nightmare’s glare narrowed. That's why the tentacle holding Killer’s neck loosened, letting him exhale and inhale deeply.

“You're not as clever as you think you are, loudmouth.” Nightmare spoke slowly. Promising danger. He always carried out his promises. He was cute like that.

...Except.

Except it wasn't what Killer expected. It wasn't sickening, merciless violence. It wasn't choking suffering. It wasn't burning agony. It wasn't animalistic fear.

It was... white.

Just white.

Endless, shapeless white.

All it took was a moment for Killer to be brought there, and a second one for Nightmare to be gone, and then it was just Killer and the endless white abyss.

He exhaled, standing amidst it all. It was so much larger than anything that could be conceived, and yet. And yet it was empty.

Hah. Hahahah.

Like his soul.

...It was always... a strange experience. The way the emotion would rise, like a tidal wave. A split second explosion of anger-hate-fear-despair at the devouring vastness, at the fact that he was just ditched there. When Nightmare knew he despised the emptiness. Or, rather, precisely because he knew how much Killer hated it.

And just as quickly it would be gone. Like a sudden electrical surge that blew out the fuse. And he was numb as ever. All the feelings he may have felt about this just the lingering buzz in the non-air. Only serving to make him even more aware of the nothing that remained, that lingered.

Killer couldn’t parse whether being stranded in the Antivoid was a worse or better hell than the Void. He supposed it didn’t particularly matter.

He sat down on the concept of a “ground”.

He didn’t even have a shadow. It was all empty. It was all nothing.

He didn’t have the energy to laugh. He laid down, staring up at the whiteness (as opposed to the whiteness to the side, or even: the whiteness down below).

—

Being left in the Antivoid is just as much of a torture as you’d imagine. Real torture.

It’s... familiar. In the worst of ways, You hate “familiar”. You hate the staleness, the sameness, the stillness. It’s all the same, for hours upon hours upon hours.

Haha. Funny how you keep ending up in dead ends.

It’s more barren than your own universe. It’s more repetitive and deprived than hundreds of repetitions of the same goddamn day remembered with crystal clarity. It’s not warm and it’s not cold. It’s not nice, and it’s not even painful.

If the Antivoid was painful, that would’ve been a mercy to you.

The emptiness devours you whole. It rips you up piece by piece. Slow and deliberate, unbothered by the passage of time, which makes sense, because it’s not like time changes anything at all around here.

You don’t know how long you’ve been here. It couldn't have been that long, but it already feels like weeks. The void spaces have that effect on people. It’s by definition. Here, eternity is stored in every second.

You sleep, mostly, to pass the time.

When you’re awake, you self-destruct. Your mind is starved and desperate, looking for something something something to grasp but there is nothing. It’s just you. You engrave your own bones with sharp points. You claw at your being. You seek and seek and seek and you find nothing but yourself, until your self is indistinguishable from the nothing as well.

You feel like screaming just to hear something, but nothingness has no voice.

—

You wake up. Again. All the same every time. Repetitions for eternity. You despise abstract concepts, except you don’t, because emptiness doesn’t contain emotions.

...Except.

“Good thing it’s not Error who found you first!” Ink jokes, standing over you all cheery. He’s... he’s colorful.

It takes you several moments to remember that, conceptually, you have a body, and you leap to your feet.

“Woah there buddy!” exclamation mark in his eye, Ink stumbles back so you don’t ram your head into his accidentally, but that triggers some desperation in you and you grab him by the scarf and yank him back.

The feeling of something material in your hand, something that isn’t you, is like a shock. Except you still feel nothing. You just stare at the bunched up fabric.

Ink remains in place, a little awkward. In a position showing he’s unsure what you’re up to, whether to be prepared for an attack. You consider attacking. You feel nothing about the concept.

“Heeeeyyyy,” Ink draws out, regaining his nonchalant cheer with a blink. “Yyyoou okay there...?”

How are you supposed to answer that? The question strikes you as absurd. Nonsensical. You laugh even though you feel no amusement. That’s normal for you.

“...Right,” Ink clears his throat. “Sssooo whatcha up to? Where’s Nightmare?” he asks, mostly curious. Ink has always struck you as a weirdo freak, something off about his reactions, but you’ve never thought about it too deeply.

You shrug. You’re still holding his scarf. You’re unsure why. You don’t particularly care and he doesn’t seem to mind it either, so. No reason to stop.

(He’s real he’s tangible he’s something different he’s something something something–)

“Well I’m just passing by, I’ll be out in a–”

“If you so much as think about leaving I’ll stab you through the spine.” you immediately counter, calmly threatening.

“Awww if you wanted company you could’ve just said so!” Ink takes it in stride, and again, off reactions. It’s the most interesting thing that has happened in what feels like eternity so you latch onto it.

“You’re weird.” you point out.

Ink laughs. “Yeah, I get that a lot! Part of having a creative nature,” he strikes a pose all cheeky, eye light in the shape of a sparkle. You’re still holding him by the scarf. “Soooo what have you been up to??” he asks, rocking back and forth on his feet all silly.

You gesture around with a flat expression. “Nothing,”

Ink snorts. “How long have you been here?” he prods you (literally, with a finger, which you allow because he’s physical and here and real).

You shrugs. “Not like I can keep track,” you huff.

“Yeesh. You gotta be careful with that one, spend too long and the glitching disease will get to you,” Ink says like he’s joking, except that is literally a fact. People go insane and corrupted in the void spaces.

You consider demanding from Ink to get you out of here.

...You remember you have nowhere to go.

You remember how livid Nightmare was. And how much more powerful he is than you. And how he owns your soul. And how if he wants you to be here, here you will be, so there’s not really a point to it. Everything always ends up like this for you, huh? Everything always the same, and always horrible, until none of it matters. That’s how your existence has always been, and how it always will be.

“Need me to get you somewhere?” Ink offers, lifting his brush, like he was on a similar train of thought but departed a few stations earlier.

“...I’ve stabbed you several times,” you point out like an echo of amusement, because Ink is best described as quirky. And again, considering circumstances, it’s currently the most interesting thing in your life. What a tragedy.

“Yeah...?” Ink prompts with a question mark in his eye, like he isn't seeing how that relates to his question at all.

You tilt your head.

“Why do you want to help me?” you ask, because the closest thing to emotion you have right now is curiosity-fascination. Though that doesn't say much, considering it just as distant as everything else. “We're enemies, or something,”

“Oh!” Ink exclaims. “Oh I don't really care,” he shrugs. “I mean, I guess that's the narrative, yeah! But it's not like I hate you personally or something,” he chuckles.

Weirdo freak.

You've never cared to learn anything about the Stars. You realize you barely even know their tragic backstories. You still don't particularly care, but Ink is a natural yapper, so maybe you can use him to fill the silence.

(Until he leaves, of course. Until you are left alone. You are always left alone.)

“You don't find my actions abhorrent? Not how I've killed hundreds? Not how I enjoy torturing others?” you seek for the buttons to press, grinning. You recall that yeah, Ink is a lot more difficult to get a rise out of compared to the other two, who are so openly emotional.

“I mean,” Ink scratches his skill. “On one hand, a good story needs villains. On the other hand, the best narratives are about how good triumphs in the end, and so you need someone to be that component as well. In that sense, I am against it!” he concludes. “Although works that explore dark endings are also fascinating and have their own merit,” he considers. “Like tragedies, or darkgrim stories. They–” he starts rambling, distracted by the topic.

It's interesting for maybe a second. It quickly stops being so. You can't bring yourself to care about whatever he's talking about, or to want to.

You consider attacking him, again. But then he might leave, depending on whether he has something else to do instead or not.

“Are the other two coming around?” you interrupt, though Ink doesn't seem offended that you completely ignored his spiel.

“Hm? Uh, I don't think so, why?” he asks in turn. Damn, that means they have no business around here. Though, after a brief pause, Ink’s eyes widen and he exclaims a “Wait!”

He tries to pull away but you hold onto the fabric of his scarf tighter, summoning a knife in a kind reminder of your threat. Ink lifts his palms placatingly, chuckling.

“Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere!” he assures. “I’ll just call them over too and then we can all... talk!”

Oh.

That meant he was going to seize the opportunity to try and “reason” with you like they did with Horror and Dust. Again. Like you didn't laugh in their faces every previous time. Respect for the persistence?

“You do realize that won't work, right?” you generously point it out to Ink.

He blinks.

“I’m not betraying Nightmare,” you snort.

Ink tilts his head. “Why?”

He asks it so simply. No “You know he doesn't love you, right?”, no “But he's awful to you!”, none of that. Maybe that's why you answer him.

“Because,” you say, almost amused, shrugging. You're unsure how to finish that. You're unsure how to explain, so you just say the truth — “I don't care about anything else,”

Ink is looking at you curiously now, his previous idea of calling for backup seemingly forgotten, which is typical for him.

He sits on the ground. He pats the ground in an invite. You sit down too, mostly because you're still holding his scarf.

“Nothing? Really?” Ink asks, pulling his leg closer to rest his chin on his knee.

“Nope!”

“You don't have a family?”

You burst out laughing. You pretend to wipe a tear, even.

“What? Do you know nothing?” you exclaim, cackling.

Ink is just staring at you with question marks.

“Know what?” he asks. What an idiot. You'd roll your eyes if you had any. At best, you manage to mimick the action.

“I killed them all,” you say easily. “Many, many times,”

“...Oh. Right.” Ink seems to remember. “But why??”

Huh. Apparently Killer wasn't the only one who couldn't give a flying fuck to learn anything about his supposed enemies.

Killer sighs dreamily, “To listen to their sweet sweet cries of pain,”

Ink grimaces. “Oh. Really??? You come from a twist on the original timeline though, right?” he asks, frowning in confusion. “The classic version of Sans is not like that,”

“Clearly I'm not the classic version of Sans,” Killer pointed out flatly, and to emphasize the point, he gestured to his soul. You know. The one that is nothing like a monster’s or a human’s.

“Oooohhhhh,” Ink nodded along, hand reaching forward– Killer flinched. Body immediately strung tight, ready for the barrage of suffering that always followed when his soul was grasped and squeezed and–

But he was so baffled by the action, he let it happen.

Ink pulled his hand back, however, staring at his face.

Killer snorted, and moved his hand to offer his soul, that wretched thing. It's not like he cared if anyone did anything to it. Or hurt it.

(His soul. His being. His self. The essence and shape of his existence condensed into one. The most vulnerable part of you. The most you part of you.)

“Go on,” you shrug. “Not like I care,”

Ink hesitantly reaches out a hand to prod the cursed thing. It feels just as uncomfortable and bad as you'd imagine, to have your soul poked. He pulls his hand back.

“...Well,” Ink starts, “at least you have one?” he offers, chuckling. “Better than nothing!”

You tilt your head. That's a strange way to say that.

“What, you don't?”

“Nope!” Ink says as easily as you would.

It's your turn to blink and stare. At his neutrally cheerful grin.

And suddenly... it does make sense. The sense of emptiness behind half his expressions. The lack of care where others would have at least some. The odd view of the world. His flat affect, even if it was a positive one.

...Huh.

Ink was telling the truth. He was soulless.

You raise a hand to where yours returned to the middle of your chest. Always sitting in front of it. Always bare. Detached from the rest of you.

“...How?”

“Just never had one,” Ink shrugs.

You can only think of one other soulless creature — that yellow flower.

But... it doesn't make sense. The wretched flower reached the point of destroying everything, over and over again, to curb the nothingness and boredom. You reached the point of destroying everything, over and over again, to curb the nothingness and boredom.

Yet here Ink was. Playing as one of the so-called “good guys”.

“Then how do you feel?” you press the issue.

“Oh? I’m good!” Ink says cheerfully.

“No– how do you feel feelings if you're soulless?” you huff.

“Huh? Oh!” Ink exclaims, and then takes out one of those colorful vials he carries on a sash everywhere he goes. “I don’t! Not naturally, anyway. I have these to help me!” he shakes the little vial — yellow, barely anything remaining inside. They're all in different quantities.

You frown. “What? How? Are they magic?” you reach to take the vial but Ink pulls it back. Now that's interesting.

“Sort of?” Ink squints at the vial. “They correspond to different emotions, but I think they only work on me,”

...Of course.

You let go of his scarf.

You consider fighting him to snatch one of the vials and try it anyway. You know it's pointless, however.

The disappointment is crushing. You feel like a drug addict who was just handed a bag overflowing with white powder only to discover it's flour.

“You should leave before I dice you into dust.”

The disappointment is crushing.

Hah. Hahahah. As if. As if it could be as easy as drinking some paint. Of course not. When has your life ever been easy? No, you are doomed to be like this forever. You knew this. It's downright hilarious you thought (hoped), even for less than a moment, that there could be anything else.

It's so funny you're chuckling.

It's so funny you're laughing.

When Ink leaves, you're still howling with laughter, black liquid streaming down your face.

—

The quiet around here was deafening. It was starting to make Killer hyperaware of every quiet rustle of clothing from every little movement. Several times he caught himself starting to talk to himself, trying to fill the quiet with jokes or something. But that was a slippery slope, so he shut the hell up. If he didn't talk, hopefully nothing would start replying. He refused to get corrupted by the glitches.

Luckily — and that is a weird descriptor — Ink returned. For some known-only-to-him reason.

“Why the hell are you back?” Killer asked, not bothering to get up this time. Just laying on his back. He's here on a vacay.

“Well!” Ink said, and judging by the changing direction of his voice, he was moving around. “The empty white is literal torture, isn't it?” he chuckled.

“What would you know,” Killer mimed rolling his eyes. Wasn't Ink some almighty creator? He could just hurl some ink around and it wouldn't be white anymore.

Ink laughed. “Oh trust me, I know,”

Killer felt like he was missing something.

“Can't you just, I don't know, paint it?”

“Yep! That's what I'm doing right now!” Ink explained cheerfully. Killer pushed himself up to look, now.

Huh. Yeah. Ink was going around with his brush, using the white space as a big canvas. Killer squinted, unable to decipher what exactly he was drawing, besides some colors and shapes. Red and pink, blue in different shades, yada yada.

“...What is it,” Killer observed Ink’s movements, walking around him, deliberate but free flowing.

“Just whatever feels right,” Ink shrugged. “The different hues have different, you know, vibes, depending on how you mix them, how you use them against one another– oh can you step to the side there?”

He did, getting to his feet and stepping aside.

“Thanks!” Ink said, filling in the spot.

Killer squinted, still trying to figure out what it all was. The warm colors looked like a flame maybe...?

He kept watching Ink work for a few more moments. It was weird, to be alone with someone, without a constant background thrum of negativity. Killer couldn't call it pleasant, but... it was better than the emptiness.

Suddenly he was hauled up and his reflexes immediately fired off, magic materializing in an immediate attack and just as soon he was dropped.

“Wow you are jumpy!” Ink exclaimed, holding the wound that Killer cut into him. It didn't seem too deep, mostly due to Ink’s durability. He was standing on top of a short pillar of ink.

“Don't forget who you're talking to,” Killer threatened with a low tone, grin stretching as he gripped a sharp, sharp knife in hand.

“Whoops!” Ink didn't seem all too affected. “Don't you wanna see what it is though?” he leaned on a hand, all silly.

...

Killer accepted being lifted up by a glob of ink, mildly curious.

He stared at the splatter on the white ground.

It was a moth. In shades of icy, hopeless blue. Surrounded by scorching red flames. Huh. Okay them. Pretty cool, or something. At least it was colorful.

Ink put him back down on the ground. With his hands on his hips, he admired his own work, chuckling.

“It’s nice to fill the emptiness, don't you think?”

Killer had never bothered caring about the Stars. He didn't care about them as people, what they felt or what they thought.

He... never would've expected to find understanding with one of them.

“...Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, it is.”

—

“ARGH we’re too late?!” Dream blurted out.

“Huh, I could've sworn he seemed to be staying here for longer,” Ink commented, much less affected.

“The one time he and Nightmare aren’t attached at the hip–” Dream continued groaning.

“Maybe Nightmare sensed we were planning to talk to him–?” Blue suggested, trying to investigate the nearly empty white space. All that remained were splotches from Ink’s activities. No Killer in sight.

Dream sighed loudly, rubbing his face, greatly dejected. “That's... possible,” he breathed.

“We should've come here sooner,” Blue put his hands on his hips.

“He wasn't very happy with the idea,” Ink shrugged.

“It’s... we’ll have another opportunity,” Dream concluded. He had to stay positive and hopeful. “No matter how long we need to wait, we’ll figure out how to help them,” he remained determined.

#undertale #undertale aus #sanscest

31 notes · View notes