#TORTURE SCREAMING NIGHTMARE

[recents]

my bf and i haven’t been fully hyperfixated on the same new thing at the same time to this extent in years, so bg3 has been really exciting and there’s been a lot of bonding. i wouldn’t trade that for the world. but the problem is, like. we have one ps5. and no gaming pc.

[ask-codeearasure]

Time to ramble I suppose

Y'know I'm pretty well versed in the canon stories of the major players of the fandom (Ink, dream/NM, Error, Core frisk, etc) and I've been stuck thinking about something I had thought of when thinking about dreamtales canon. Specifically the 3 (technically 4) endings.

The one I wanted to talk about was the bad ending, in which corrupted nightmare kills dream and the entire multiverse is plunged into eternal negative damnation because without the golden apple (that became dreams soul) no positive emotions can exist.

The real question is, what happens afterward? Does corrupted Nightmare just pull an error and try to off itself because its No.1 job has been completed? (It wouldn't btw as it basks in negativity, and even if it wanted to it couldn't because only positivity (from dream) can kill it. ) Joku’s only touched the surface level of this ending and it could be so fascinating to explore 

Now I ask you, what happens to the others? Like for Ink… all the scripts are ruined. I understand that in some respective canons all Au’s that are meddled with wind up creating an alternate that's never been affected, but since error’s existence is canon in dreamtale and that’s where that rule comes from wouldn’t that mean that the whole negativity thing wouldn’t happen? 

*INSERT LOUD INCORRECT BUZZER NOISE* 

WRONG! Because dream and nightmare aren’t even made up of coding, so their magic doesn’t follow those rules (Check underneath the line to hear my tangent on that), and even if it did, the apples control the ENTIRE MULTIVERSE’S EMOTIONS, so now matter how many times an au splits itself in an attempt to try and stay the same, the fact that all positive emotions are gone means that every person in the entire multiverse can no longer feel positivity.They no longer can love, or love each other. They will never feel joy again because the last golden apple is the last one, and its gone forever. 

And Ink and Core Frisk seem to be the only ones who can.The sole reasons being inks vials are his emotions and frisk’s body and just everything about them doesn’t work like a normal person would. What are they going to do now? 

This is where it turns into a horror story for the both of them, because everyone else will either kill others or uh, kill themselves in this multiverse. Ink now has no purpose because all the scripts are permanently ruined, there's no way to fix them, nor would creators stick around in a multiverse filled with only negativity. There would be no development for their character because most tales call for positive emotion to be present in order for that to happen. Without that, the only thing people are going to do is sink deeper into despair with no chance of changing.The only ending for them would be either them killing others and/or eventually themselves. Sure, you could argue the fact that there are a bunch of creators who enjoy dark tales, but even then there's a chance the newer Au’s wouldn’t last more than a few minutes before becoming unstable and collapsing because of the amount of negativity in the multiverse.

I think people forget that Corrupted nightmare, even with Dream still around, has enough negativity to nuke an entire AU to oblivion. A lesser known fact but still jarring to say the least.  Because of that, any place that thing goes means all the Au’s around it would just unravel under the pressure of so much negativity. Wouldn’t put it past the corruption to purposely head to newer/existing Au’s for the sole purpose of watching ink suffer emotionally as his presence annihilates the AU’s. And if the mechanics of the multiverse say that newer Au’s are the weakest, then ink’s going to have to say adios to those Au’s and the creators because no way are they sticking around when there are better multiverses out there. 

Not only that, but Zephrytale would suffer as well. Even though they're out of reach for basically everyone, they still exist within the multiverse and the apple's influence spans beyond protective coding. So ink trying to keep his parents safe from themselves and each other (which works both ways because their alternate versions of themselves- g-get it?) would become the only job he would have.

Core frisk on the other hand would have no choice but to watch their home crumble as the safe haven known as the omega timeline is no longer safe. Their family such as their adopted children, poppy, dusty, and rust aren’t safe either. You could argue that rust is pretty safe due to being a robot, but it wouldn’t change the fact that he could be snatched and harmed just to hurt core frisk emotionally, nor does it mean that rust is immune to dying or losing it watching his home sink into depravity. 

Both Core Frisk and Ink would have no choice but to stay inside a broken multiverse,This is a literal nightmare for the both of them, and they can’t escape it either. Neither have the ability to traverse multiverses, so they're trapped in a decaying, unstable multiverse filled with people who either have given up or thrive on the pain and suffering of others. Sadism isn’t a positive emotion despite having the root feeling being joy because it also has its roots in the harming of others which is negative, so a LOT of people are going to find ecstasy in hurting others because of this since it’s the only joy they CAN feel. 

Frisk wouldn’t have to worry about becoming a target to this per say, as they don’t have a physical body that could be harmed, but like I said beforehand,  it doesn’t change the fact they also have loved ones that could be used to hurt them emotionally just for the sake of it. Ink on the other hand is screwed because if i'm remembering correctly, ink CAN feel pain. Not just a lot. His info doesn’t say he quite literally cannot feel pain, rather it’s worded in a way to imply that he just has high pain tolerance. (you could argue because comyet’s french they may have used a translator so the words might be implying the wrong thing but I don’t think they’ve ever stated having problems with their english so I doubt that's the case)  This means that if ink got captured by someone with that mindset and can’t escape, Their doubly screwed.

And that’s not even mentioning the fact that corrupted nightmare here is all powerful and probably bored.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Bonus, how does dreamtale function? Dreamtale isn't an Au and came from OUTSIDE the barriers of the UTMV media- meaning dreamtale and all related to it aren't made out of code so how are they able to affect, heck, interact with the multiverse made of code??

(it's not like joku’s going to answer anyways, she's too busy in the hazbin fandom )

The most logical answer is that it's like a literal god lowering themself to talk to a mortal but still maintaining their god?-likeness.  Like a small amount of coding is mixed within the entirety of dreamtale which only allows them to interact with the multiverse, but keeps them incapable of dying by things in the multiverse made of code. The twins have this property, and are just gods with latent abilities inside them considering what happens in the true ending of dreamtale (that where dream gets that awful human design but apparently defeats the corruption and becomes a true guardian like his mother unleashing his “true power”)This is supported by the fact that Dream and Nightmares skeleton bodies were mimicked/copied after a swap sans whos world was in early development. So their true forms were made out of magic, but their physical skeletal bodies were made of code which allows them to interact with the multiverse. Maybe some aspect of this stick even after nightmare dies and his body is taken by the corruption. The twins skeletal body can be harmed (blood can be shown on both of the twins bodies in official art) But since the corruption is purely made of apples, on positivity FROM THE APPLES can kill it (originally extreme light could only harm it but i'm not sure if it's been stated to be non-canon now, but it's canon until proven otherwise to me)

But then I came to a realization. Both dream and NM can bypass the spaghetti code of the omega timeline, as their magic is tied to the emotions of a person, not the person's coding, and since the twins true forms are magic and not coding, the magic should be able to be enough to allow them to pass into the OT without the usage of the doors. Hm.

DOES NO ONE UNDERSTAND THE IMPLICATIONS??? THAT CORE FRISK CAN’T SEE INTO DREAMTALE NOR CAN THEY TELEPORT THERE??? Not only that but anyone that comes across dream/nightmare must feel that SOMETHINGS off, and it's not just because of their auras. Ink must’ve spazzed out when he first met dream because he’s never seen anyone like dream!!!

Excuse the late response, buddy, I needed a few hours to complete an exam, recollect my braincells, and put on Sum41 (highly recommend this band for these topics), and boy did I need them for this.

Let me add one more thing to your first infodump, because I very much agree the multiverse will fall into shit the second Nightmare wins, and while this could be a mistranslation, on the first page of Dreamtale, it says that the Tree of Feelings, Tree of Magic, and the Tree of Life are all vital to the livelihoods of multiverses, not just a collection of universes within a singular multiverse. And since Dreamtale didn't initially exist within the bounds of the Undertale Multiverse, this could mean a possibility that just like Fresh, Dream and Nightmare may or may not have the ability to jump multiverses. There is also the implication that Nightmare wants to go after the other guardians too.

If we take this information legitimately as presented, and going with your theory that Nightmare would only continue to exist instead of killing himself off once completing his goal, it's implied that he could travel to other multiverses to ensure the same pattern of destruction and misery.

So say once Nightmare finally succeeds, he eventually jumps to another multiverse and does this process all over again regardless of "fandom" or if there are other guardians/forces of positivity existing there. Hell, maybe he could find a way to jump timelines within the same multiverse so he can kill the Dream existing there again and again and again. Maybe he'd compete with or form alliances with the other Nightmares he might find there too. But I vibe more with the competing option, because what if his hunger for power extends even to these other versions of himself and he absorbs them in a similar process Pride did to Gluttony from Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood?

That would be perfectly gruesome and fitting for this variation of Nightmare, me thinks. He'd become such a force of melancholy and torment for others that he doesn't want to stop, even if that means facing himself as he jumps from one reality to another.

It would be FASCINATING to have a story where a version of Nightmare that succeeded shows up in another multiverse timeline or complete other multiverse to fuck everyone over, because he genuinely enjoys the suffering his presence compounds on everyone around him.

But also imagine how much more powerful he could become not only because he has 1,000 apples in his arsenal now but because there is no competition against him anymore, at least no competition that changes anything anyway.

It's said that Nightmare's presence in a singular universe will influence the whole thing for the worse, but that's while Dream is alive and constantly traveling to fix the damage Nightmare left behind. With Dream gone, Nightmare may grow so powerful that it takes his simple presence in a multiverse to make it keel over under him.

And what about his ability to full on corrupt entire universes like he did to Dreamtale right after the Apple Incident and Haventale in the deleted Cream comic? Say there are universes rebelling against his new "order". He wouldn't need to do anything substantial to shut them up, all he'd have to do is show up and corrupt the entire universe, and that universe will become yet another instance of a negative cesspool full of those lizard-eating zombie things.

His form might change as well, because between you and me, even though Nightmare's design makes narrative sense and he is a shapeshifter, there comes a point where that knowledge just isn't enough for me. I need something more stimulating, I need a true horror to behold. I need a design that would scare me shitless. For a being as powerful and grandiose as Nightmare, I like to imagine he takes more fucked up and complex forms regularly, before and after he finally kills Dream and takes the last apple for himself.

Since Ink and Core!Frisk would be just a handful of people somewhat unaffected by Nightmare's new reign of sorts, they'd quickly find there's not much they can do to change this outcome.

You know more about Core!Frisk than I do, so I'm gonna explore what could be going on in Ink's head for the rest of this post.

Ink might gradually fall into a massive depression in comparison to just about everyone else, whose lives go down the shitter instantaneously. Because Ink has no soul and relies on paints to keep living, Nightmare's aura has no effect on him, nor can Nightmare sense him like he can everyone else.

With this new absence of purpose, Ink wouldn't know what to do with themself, and chances are that even if they stretched themself thin to keep their parents and brothers alive, their efforts would be in vain. Gaster, Aster, the Undertop brothers, and the Zephyrtale brothers would all end up dead, either out of desperation for relief or a loss of hope and drive to live. Perhaps one of those deaths would have been a mercy killing, something that would haunt Ink for their limited time left functional. Ink would end up completely and utterly alone, as he could only do so much, and if he were to find Core!Frisk, he'd depend on them to an insanely unhealthy amount, terrified of being completely alone and forgotten.

But at some point, the isolation and lack of knowledge about Ink from others will weigh down on them, and their mind might start wandering for every worse alternative in the book. Perhaps being forgotten after all of this might be a relief. At this point any outcome would be better than whatever he's experiencing now. There is nothing to do, no one to stick by him, no source of affection and care he needs anymore. The loneliness and boredom would weigh him down and only exaggerate that gaping hole of loss left behind in their family's deaths.

Ink would spiral so far into this hypothetical depression he'd do anything to feel something again, because he still wants to live, but continuing on empty is a feeling they can't stand no matter what way they spin it. He'd resort to self-harm to escape that empty feeling.

Everyone they've ever loved is gone. Every AU is ruined. Too many creators have moved onto other projects to keep waiting for them. There is nothing left for Ink and Core!Frisk's efforts to keep him company aren't enough to quench the need to be needed anymore.

And eventually, once Ink runs out of paints and refills, there's nothing else Core!Frisk can do but watch Ink crumble from a devastated tool to a motionless, lifeless husk on the ground. The best they can provide is not leaving Ink's side as they go through this process.

They can't even give him a proper final resting place before Nightmare shows up and hides the body. Or perhaps he can use the body as a henchman through the use of his corruption as he jumps from reality to reality. Ink is once again a tool, but to someone who if they were still present, would genuinely hate.

Core!Frisk is the last survivor of this multiverse, forever wandering through Nightmare's corruption left behind.

-- Sarco

[frankburn]

havent had a nightmare since i left louisiana. which could mean nothing

[ngdrb]

My new logo for my Indie author stories and novels. Whatdoyathink?

[wr-n]

Wrote something based on the idea Cray and I thought of:

Desperation wasn't new to Killer. It was what drove him into madness in the first place, filled his soul with so much Hate that he scarecely recognized himself as a Monster. Sometimes, he'd find himself lost in the hallways of the castle while his soul melted like those DT-riddled amalgams.

And he knew Nightmare wasn't far behind, hands and claws grasping at his shoulders and throat, whispering all of his sins like a Judge. It wasn't rare to see Killer hunched against a wall and sob so hard he choked on his own breath.

He'd remember Cross try making his way to him - or was that Horror? - and say something muddled but stop. Maybe they realized he was a lost cause and gave up trying. Or Nightmare simply selt them away. He can't quite tell with how his sockets flood with liquid Hate.

Sometimes, he seeks Nightmare out before an episode, when he can feel it in the back of his mind and thrumming in his soul. Staggering into Nightmare's office and collapsing at his feet as his legs gave out.

If there was one thing he did remember, it was the way Nightmare smiled at him. Like someone sick with pleasure at seeing another in pain. It was a mean smile, one he'd made all the time before the episodes came more frequently. It was a wonder Nightmare still sent him on missions. Maybe he liked watching Killer try to take lives before seizing up.

"Killer."

His head tilts up from his spot on the dark carpet, knees rubbed raw from kneeling.

"Who allowed your thoughts to wander. Pay attention."

With that, punishment came swift and agonizing - a tentacle had shot itself right through his ribs and forced his body to tilt back as he was pinned in place.

"AAAAGH!!! Uhhhnn...! Hah... hah.....hah... sorry...." He grunts out, pain shocking through his bones with every faux breath.

Every moan of pain was met with a slow twist of the tendril, never once giving Killer a moment of reprieve.

"Mm. You came to my office to hurt. Don't waste my generosity."

Killer slowly grins, he cant help it. Yeah... He deserved this. He needed it. Someone to keep hurting him. Because after all that fucked up stuff he did, maybe it was about time he paid for it.

Another tentacle shot through him, and his head was thrown back as he screamed. He screamed and eailed until his throat was hoarse and no sound could escape. Nightmare's laughter quickly filled the silence instead, his twisted glee replacing his bloodcurdling screeching.

Any would have thought this was torture beyond measure, a fate anyone would do anything to avoid meeting again.

But they knew. They both knew.

He would come back for more.

[alkalinetrios]

ich hasse schienenersatzverkehr

[cuteniarose]

It’s almost 6 a.m and I can’t sleep because I’m being plagued by thoughts of The Latest OC

[crumbleclub]

There's this weird and very gory French + Canadian film called Martyrs (exercise caution when looking it up in terms of images if that stuff freaks you out) and the basic concept is like. Some cult trying to understand what happens after death by bringing people to the brink of it in the most traumatic and agonizing ways possible. And I just realized that that's really some William Afton shit, both for the original motive and for remnant extraction.

(Accidentally wrote an essay in the tags so, ah. Read those I guess)

[aq2003]

yeah 42 is a top tier doctor who episode and is like the ten and martha foundational text to me yeah i can't actually watch it because i start feeling ill around the 35 minute mark and i have to look away from the screen and turn the sound alllllll the way down. i exist and i'm so brave about it

[pretty-face-breaker]

i feel like it's been pretty heavily implied, if not outright stated that hayko has nightmares and i am a SUCKER for whumpees having nightmares.

how often did he have nightmares while with nick? how did nick respond- comforting, mocking etc?

love your writing btw :3

Since this man has an insane amount of anxiety, Hayko is an avid haver of nightmares with horrific motifs (the torture definitely did not help this). And he was no stranger to waking up thrashing next to Nick who, for the most part, took it in stride and gave him some good old creepy comfort, shushing, petting, telling him menacingly sweet things until he fell back asleep, etc. :)

Anon you're so right because I am ALSO a massive sucker for whumpees having nightmares and nothing is a better follow-up than comfort from somebody ten times more nightmarish.

[pnthra]

hi not to advertise for another website i have zero affiliation with but if ur also seeing discord rps like meee u should check out barbermonger.

this is definitely not bcuz i have an ad up for my cringefail guilty pleasure stuff that im too ashamed to bring 2 tumblr nooo 🙈

[sun-kissy]

bucky barnes who doesn’t trust unless it comes to you. whose eyes soften at the sight of you, because his heart knows that it’s okay to let his guard down. he believed the world always had its claws out to get him, until he fell straight into your gentle arms. he tells you the word love meant nothing to him until you came along.

bucky barnes who would live for you. the winter soldier would kill for anyone, the white wolf would die for anyone, but bucky would live for you. he’s never believed in fate, but if it wasn't destiny that brought you to him, he doesn’t know what it was. he thinks maybe it was all worth it, the trauma and the scars and the pain, if it all lead up to the moment when you told him i love you.

bucky barnes who searches for you even in nightmares, screams your name till his lungs burn with self-hatred. you’re his safe space, his home. he’s drawn back to wakefulness as soon as he feels your touch, the gentleness of your breath on his skin like an aching balm to his wounds. he’ll never stop apologising for the burden that comes with his affection, yet he won’t ever stop loving you.

bucky barnes who thinks of hurting you as no less than a sin. who believes even pulling out a single strand of your hair is a hundred times worse than every murder committed as the winter soldier. because what’s a few dozen people in comparison to his whole universe?

bucky barnes who wakes up a little earlier in the morning; not to see the sun rise, but to watch the soft rays dapple your face. he thinks you look angelic, the golden hue painting you in so much beauty that he feels blessed; wonders if he ought to start praying to gods he never once believed in.

bucky barnes who tells you he loves you more times than he can count. whose voice is hardened from years of tortured, ragged cries; but the word doll tumbles out of his lips like soft petals when he looks at you. he knows seven different tongues, and is fluent in every single one. he claims that none of them have the words to describe how you make him feel.

bucky barnes who kisses like a hungry dog, like there’s an ache in his soul that can only be filled by the feeling of your lips on his, skin to skin. he believes the sole purpose of his metal arm is to pin you to the wall. roughness is the only form of love he’s ever known.

bucky barnes who buys you everything you talk about in passing, who takes you out wherever your heart yearns to go, who kisses your knuckles with the softest touch of his lips. he inhales when you exhale at night to make space for the rise of your chest. he only ever holds your hand with his non-metal one so as to not hurt you. he traces your features while you sleep. he loves you with the full force of the word, because you’re his girl.

bucky barnes who could never unlove you, would never want to. even if the strings of his soul were tied to another, he would cut them off and run straight to you.

[dawnwriterimagines]

Innocents among you

Part Two to TRAITORS AMONG US

SIMON RILEY X FEM!READER TASK FORCE 141 X FEM!READER

Summary: Your torture is over, but is it really? There is only the torment in your mind now. The nightmares, the flashbacks, the flowers at your hospital bed and the tormentors awaiting the relief of your forgiveness.

Part 3!!

Part 4

If you liked this would you Buy me a Coffee?

---

You flatlined twice, almost as soon as you were handed off to the medics.

Committing themselves to doing CPR before bringing in the defibrillator for an electric charge to your sudden cardiac arrest. "Clear!" They restarted your heart just outside the hallway of your cell, Simon held back by Price as your heart stopped again within the same minute and panic ensued. Johnny and Kyle hearing the news, rushing up towards the hall, their footsteps probably the echo that you held onto as your heart rate picked back up.

Clearly, you lived.

You didn't have the luxury of going comatose immediately after. As you would've preferred.

You'd awoken hours after the medical team carried you off to the infirmary. Still on edge, still plagued by discomfort and cold, despite the lights of the recovery facility and the nurses that paraded around you.

Morphine wears off in about 6 hours, so you were up wailing in agony within the same time. Clearly no one expected you up so soon, but you hadn't slept in days, at least not more than an hour. Jerking up involuntarily, hands all over you to keep you down and steady, you could hear a familiar doctor's attempt to calm you down. But, the blistering pain that radiated from every pore in your body was ringing so loud, a present noise that blocked everything out.

So, at first, you'd been terrified, attempting to clutch onto the first thing you'd woken up to. But, you couldn't move, at least not voluntarily.

With the damage to your spine for countless hours, days, and what you had discovered to be two fucking weeks of endless torture, you'd undergone three difference corrective surgeries that would 'possibly' fix the nerve and circulatory damage done to you. It had left you nearly completely immobile since your admission into the infirmary. The doctors were quite astonished that you were even alive...

The nurses were patient enough with your panicked state to slowly ease you out of your stupor. But, at times it wasn't easy, especially when you didn't even know where you were at first. Since you couldn't see...

You were blind for about four days. Everything a tinted red for a few more after you'd regained your sight.

Fevers plagued you for the week, skin that was raw and inflamed from the severe cold and constant dousing from the pipes, you couldn't move if you wanted to.

The first thing you'd been graced to see were the multiple arrangements of flowers, lilies, white tulips, hydrangeas, roses...typical assortments of regret and remorse.

"Can someone throw these away?" had been your first words.

The nurse who had been checking over your vitals looks over at the flowers, the were all over the desk, even on the floor lining the windows, once they ran out of space to put them. It was beautiful. But, she knew why. Everyone knew why. You were quite famous here in the infirmary, as you were in special unit. "Of course."

They were out within the day. The room bare once more.

And then you saw them outside your infirmary window. Just a glimpse. Around the time you were still getting your sight back.

Seeing them for the first time since everything made bile build up in your throat, a screaming fear that created a pulsing headache.

Kyle, Johnny, Price and...you didn't see Simon.

Price was...a statue. Not moving an inch. His hand against his mouth, covering up the aching distress anyone could see on his face.

Kyle was pacing, back and forth and back and forth. Making an offhanded comment at one of them every few seconds.

But, Johnny was talking, pointing spitefully at someone out of your view.

He was there too then. Simon.

Turning away from the window, you couldn't look at them anymore.

"Don't let them in," you breathe out to your doctor as she sets down a trayed mug on your sliding table as she sits you up to drink a hot cup of tea, which you had requested. "Any of them. Please." You were still so cold, you couldn't imagine dealing with any type of cold weather for a while after dealing with this.

She's confused a moment, before turning to the doorway, where she recalled seeing the four men waiting outside in the hallway. She's seen them just sitting there for days now, they wouldn't beg or argue to come in, they'd just wait. It's not like you were cleared for visitors yet anyway.

Every morning she clocked in for the job, there they were. Sitting there like abandoned children, awaiting the moment the door would open to be welcomed inside.

It was like they never left.

Of course she knew who they were to you. Word spreads fast on the base. Especially for a Task Force as 'famous' as they were around here.

Squeezing your shoulder, comfortingly. Feeling protective, your doctor spoke, "Of course," she slides the mug forward a bit, taking the teaspoon to stir once and lift it to toward your lips to sip. "Blow," she guided.

You did. And sipped.

And it was warmer than any blanket they'd wrapped you in.

---

Prior to being able to trudge around on your own, with the help of a crutch you'd been given to go to the bathroom by yourself finally, the nurses had sponged you down in bed. Your spinal surgeries led to you being at risk if they made efforts to remove you from your bed for anything more than a medical emergency.

Mostly, because you're terrified of the showerhead....and it's pathetic, but no one judges you for it as you opt for a sponge bath every time instead. Even if you're shaking as the water slides down your skin even now. The last thing you needed on top of all this was to develop aquaphobia.

Today was the first day you could do it on you own, limping your way to the bathroom with your crutch. The smell of bleach is much stronger in here, it stings your nose.

You stared at the metal stool left tucked at the side, walking around it as if it would pounce up and attack you, you try not to look at it. You'd been doing well without panic attacks for a few days now, just hold it together.

Taking a breath, you reach out to the handle for the spout, glancing up at the showerhead, before back down. Swallowing thickly when you begin to turn it before pausing, hearing the water rush up the pipe to spill out. Turning it back up just as quickly, shutting off the pipe, you inhale deeply, trembling now, hand up to the chilled tile to steady yourself.

You'll try again, you had to.

Drip...

Drip...

Unable to help yourself, the sudden rush of paranoia that runs through you is terrible, a hoarse cry leaves you. You shove yourself away from the shower stall, back ramming into the doorframe, catching yourself, and away from the showerhead as the water drips, slowly from the faucet.

Drip...

Drip...

As panic tightened its grip around your chest, your breaths quickly turned to short, sharp gasps. The room spinning, colors blurring into a dizzying whirlwind. You turn swiftly, nearly knocking yourself off your feet as the thudding of your own heart startles you, you can hear it in your ears, in your hands, in your feet.

You press a trembling hand to your chest, clawing over the area, trying to slow the frantic pace of your breathing, but it only seemed to escalate. The small room narrowing to a black hole of fear and suffocation, every gasp began to disorient you, turning lightheaded.

As tears welled in your eyes, you collapse against the side wall, sliding down to the tiled floor. Slamming your palm against your chest, once, twice, as hot tears leave streaks down your bruised face, you beg your lungs to expand and wait for your breathing to regulate.

Beginning to sob uncontrollably as you hit yourself in the chest again and again and again, waiting for the moment you found yourself able to breathe.

Why did this have to happen?

You remember the violent swing of the baton against your face, the sting it leaves afterwards, the immediate spotting of bruises forming. The memory startles you, receding back into yourself, back to that day.

"It wasn't me..." you cried loudly, in the empty room. It echoes against the tiles.

Simon wrapping his hands around your neck, staring you down as he squeezed, maliciously. You couldn't breathe as your lover shook with the strength he uses to hold himself back from taking your life.

"I'm sorry," you hiccupped. "I'm--I'm sorry," you're not sure when you crawled yourself into the corner, the lights of the bathroom flickering off dimly from your lack of movement. As you're drowned in darkness, the water dripping from the spout, the cold tile against your skin, it's too much. You scramble upwards, running out of the bathroom.

The automatic lights flicker back on inside, but you're too in your head to notice.

Stumbling down to your knees as you feel the rip of a ruined stitching tearing along your side. "Ah!" comes your startled cry. Making it to the side of your hospital bed, you fist your hand through your sheets, unable to stand yourself up.

Taking pained breaths against the sterile sheets, you bury your head in them, cursing whatever luck you thought you had in this life.

They were your family...

All you had for so many years...

As your breathing slows to distraught, agonized huffs of air, sniffling to yourself as you catch sight of your face in the metal frame of your hospital bed. The dark purple bruises beneath your eyes as the swelling gradually went down, the still bloodshot left eye of yours, the twelve stitches on the left side of your face. So gruesome you knew it would scar you for life, a permanent reminder on your fucking face.

Anger bubbled up inside you at the sight of it. At the memory that would always follow when you'd look at it.

Anger that you hadn't been able to properly feel until now.

Anger that you feared to have until today.

"Are you alright?" the sound of his voice makes you visible tense.

Simon.

He's here.

You don't turn to face him, if you did, you'd revert back to the person you were cowering into moments ago. "The door was open...I just--" he pauses, swallowing thickly. "Lemme help you up."

Hearing his footsteps suddenly moving closer, you speak fast. "STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!" you scream over your shoulder, tucking yourself further away from him. "Do NOT move."

He stops in his tracks. You catch the sight of him in the metal framing of the bed, he's a blur in the metal, but you notice his mask is gone, he's Simon Riley now, not Ghost as he appeared to you in the interrogation cell.

"Don't you dare get any closer," you spat.

"I heard you," he spoke, carefully. Mouth opening and closing, before speaking again. "But, you don't have to be stubborn. If you stay there any longer you could tear your stitches."

"Whose fault is that?"

Simon shifts his stance on his feet, waits a second. "I know. And I can never begin to tell you how sorry I am for what I did. What we all did to you," he says, quietly. "The intel we discovered...or that was forged, it came from a source we've used a dozen times, (Y/n), we thought it was true. It had to be. We've never been misled before."

"So..." your nails bite into your skin, you make an amused sound, biting down on your lip for a moment, till it hurt. " That's what you came here to say, huh? What you waited days to--. Is this you justifying--"

"No, (y/n), that's not--"

"--why you tortured me, strangled me, stripped me, in that fucking cell, Simon?"

"We had to believe it, at the time..."

"Was I not a trusted source?" you argued. "Had I not proven more than a thousand times that you could trust me? I've fought next to you, laid in your bed, given you my love, my trust, I--" you shook with rage at the time and energy wasted on time family, this relationship, if the end goal was always meant to just be this.. "I thought that was at least half the reason you decided to marry me..." at the mention of your relationship, you could see the way Simon nearly lost his balance, hands coming up to run along his face. "You told me you would kill me in that room..."

"I was just talking, I wouldn't have--" his voice cracks as he whispers, trying to convince.

"When you left, I thought you'd come back to kill me any minute, or Price, to spare you. I waited to die for two days, terrified out of my mind. I wondered about heaven, not if I'd make it... but what it'd be like, what I'd be missing out on," you thought back to your time in that cell, a haunted expression Simon couldn't see. "While you all got a good nights rest, woke up for some bacon and eggs, and listened to the warden tell you that your prisoner was framed...for a crime you'd already punished her for..." you stuttered on your breathing, tears flowing silently.

Simon inhales deeply. "I could never expect you to forgive me. I-I had taken my hurt out on you, I thought you did it, I was so sure. I couldn't hear what you were saying, I just could see the evidence, and I--I'm sorry. I'm sorry, love. I'm truly--" he gets to his knees behind you.

"Get up."

"I can never tell you how sorry I am---"

"Simon."

"I never should've done this to you. If I could ever--" his voice rising with distressed breaths, you didn't have to look at him to see his face a mess of sorrow, tears that would mix into the stubble on his face.

"Simon!"

"--make it up to you. If you could ever find it in your to forgive me, (y/n). I'll spend the rest of my life--" he gets closer, reaching out.

Whipping around, stiffening completely as you feel the graze of his fingers across your skin, "DON'T TOUCH ME!" you shove your back against your bedding, your hand swinging and flying across his face. His head snapping to the side as he pauses, freezing up where he kneels, having completely forgotten your request to stay put. "What's the matter with you! Even now? Even now, you can't just listen to this one thing?!"

"I-I'm sorry..." He looks at you, finally seeing your face clearly and up close since it all happened. Finally he can see the bruises along your face, the blood that fills your eye, the dark bruise still around your neck.

Seeing him. He looks rough. Honestly, he looks terrible. His hair shaggy and falling over his eye. Dark circles with bags under them. Pale, and thinner than he should be.

His jaw clenches with guilt and he averts his eyes, you continue. "How could I forgive you for this?" you stare at him, "I could forgive you, if you hadn't let them chain me up like an animal. If you hadn't watched them drown me for hours, beat me black and blue and left me screaming for days. I could forgive you if you had just believed me even for a moment." you feign thoughtfulness. "How about you look at my face. My wrists. My legs! MY FUCKING SPINE, SIMON!"

"Nothing I can say or do, will ever make any of it ok, I know that. And I can't ask for you to ever forgive--"

"What could I possible owe you in this life, that makes you think I'd even think about forgiving any of you for the things you did to me?" you gritted out, angrily.

Simon's head drops, a slow, shuttering sigh leaves him. "I'll never stop trying to make this right. Never."

"...Get out, Simon."

"I'm sorry."

"Simon."

"I'm so sorry..." he reaches out again.

"Ghost."

He's silent this time, fingers tensing, out in mid air.

"I never wanna see you again."

"I love you, (Y/n)," he confessed, eyes feral and wide. Pulling at the ends of your slip.

"I don't want to hear that, Ghost," kicking away from him. "Stop it."

"I couldn't stop even as it happened--"

"Shut up. And get out," shaking as you sneered at his desperate attempts. "It's over, Ghost."

"And I took it on you. It hurt so much, I couldn't think," Simon's face twisted with agony and remorse. "I'm sorry!"

He was making you lose your goddamn mind, you broke. "GET THE FUCK OUT!" screaming at one another as overwhelming tears escaped your eyes.

---

It's quiet in your hospital room, it's empty now, the door closed this time.

The door knob turns and opens again a moment later. "Oh no, Ms. (L/n)!" luckily it was your assigned nurse, who takes your arm and fixes it around her shoulder before helping haul yourself up to your feet. "What're you doing on the floor? There's a call button for a reason," she scolds as you sit on the edge of your bed.

You're quiet.

Alarmingly so for your nurse, who notices the pulled stitching that creates a line of blood down your side. "If this is about what happened to you..." the nurse started, speaking carefully, pulling a lining of gauze from the side to press to your skin. You don't even wince at the pressure, even when she begins to clean and replace the broken stitch. "Don't let it break you. Not even further than this experience already has..." she says, while through the last stitch and prepping a bandage.

"I've been broken long before this," you whispered, looking towards the afternoon sun shining through your window. "This. This didn't break me, no," you admitted, before glancing up with glossy eyes, rage hidden beneath a profound look of sadness. "It destroyed me."

Her hand pauses at your side, your words startling, turning to see the tear that slips down your cheek. Knowing now how deep your scars were from this, before gently sliding the last of the bandage across your skin. "Do not think you are irreparable. That time can't heal your wounds."

"But, there's always reminders," touching the stitches on your cheek, "some things can't be forgiven."

"I never said to forgive..." the nurse interjected. "If you could, after all this, you're stronger than any woman that could be named."

You snicker at that, humming soundly. "That's an interesting thought. I guess I'm one of the weaker ones then."

"And yet, still the strongest I've ever met," she finishes. Pats your cheek, "click the button next time. Save us both the heart attack."

"Noted," you assured.

As she's prepping to leave for her rounds, you open your mouth, once, twice, before clearing it. "Is it possible, someone could help me out--the water..."

"Of course," the nurse says, quickly. "Don't worry, I understand. I'll get everything set for you."

As she walks away, you breathing out your appreciation, you take a long inhale, swallowing down the heaviness in your chest.

part 3 OUT NOW!!

and if you'd like to support a fanfic hoe in need...would you Buy me a Coffee?

Tag List:

@m3ntally-unstable @dreamsarenicer @ttsbaby01 @theweirdgeninistuff @shelbycillian @azxulaa @kthehoeforfictionalmen @amusling @v1x3n @nobodycanknoww @thesinsoflust @asexualbuthorny @poisonedsultana @blackhawkfanatic @character---obsessed @yunggoblin @teenagellamaangel @hanniebanggi @nym-phos @gastonlover9000 @lyssa-211 @doodle-cat16 @haven-1307 @kneelforloki @delphiakira @just-going-through-the-motions

[bi-writes]

ok but soulmate au with ghost but it's the fucking opposite of rainbows and sunshine. (18+)

you share his trauma. his stress. his anxiety. you do not know who he is, and yet you know the pain of a thousand punches because it's the only feeling he has ever given you. you know the grueling ache of abandonment and the terrible neglect of abuse and the disgusting amalgamation of all your worst nightmares before you even turn 20. everything that he gives you feels aggressive, like it burns, and he only ever gives you reprieve for so long until you just feel it all over again.

it makes you tired. it makes you sick. at first, as a girl, all you wanted to do was comfort him. you wanted to know who he was so you could kiss the cigarette burns that you feel and soak up the blood you know he bleeds.

but as you age, you begin to hate him. you hate him because he does this to you, he hurts you, doesn't he know that he's hurting you? doesn't he know that everything he feels, you feel tenfold, doesn't he know that the terror and the horror of everything he witnesses weighs down your chest, makes you feel like you're drowning over and over and over again?

for a few years into your adulthood, everything is quiet. you feel little except the ache in his back he never tends to, the creak of his knee joints that he refuses to stretch out. you wish you knew him so you could scold him for it, but you curse at a ghost. sometimes you think about doing something to get back at him--you think about carving a FUCK YOU into your arm, about throwing yourself in front of a bus just so he can fucking understand that his entire life is one fucked-up cycle of pain and misery and horror, but you can't bring yourself to do it.

you can't hurt him. you just can't.

and then, the real pain begins. it brings you to your knees, this pain. you scream, you wail, because it feels like you're being carved from the inside-out. your face burns. your chest heaves. you feel like your ribs are breaking, you can't breathe, you claw at the invisible wounds that your soulmate must be wearing, and you beg him to stop, you beg him to let me go--just fucking die already--please, please, please--

those weeks haunt you. the torture he endures, it is branded to you. you wear no scars, and you never lost any blood, but the phantom flesh that you know is gone follows you in your sleep and never shuts up. it talks, it snarls, it eats at your insides. even when he heals, you are never the same. you wake up from nightmares that you know you share with him. you look over your shoulder for the predators you know he has encountered, and you cry yourself to sleep over the loss of something that you can't even decipher because you have no idea who he is or what he buried to feel this way inside.

he's sick. he's twisted. he's a walking corpse, he has no redeemable qualities, he is selfish and mean and cruel, and you hate him, and if it wasn't for the pain that you would feel, the first thing you would do when you saw him is drive something right through his heart to finally stop the undying infection he spreads to everything that he touches.

you know it is him when you finally meet him. you would know him anywhere; you’d know him just by the scars alone who he is because you remember what it felt like when he got them. when you eye the sleeve of tattoos along his left arm--the fucked, shitty, sunburnt art that made it impossible for you to finish your university exams. the faded, grey circles that line the other, ones you recognize being from the burning cigarettes that you would smell when you closed your eyes. and when he removes his mask briefly, you recognize the scar that cuts above his lip and strikes through his eye--that one left you reeling on the bathroom floor particularly loudly. you thought he might be blind if it wasn't for seeing the darkness of both of his eyes.

you start to cry. you start to cry because as soon as he realizes who you are, as soon as you see that flicker of knowing flash across his eyes, all of the hatred and the anger and the poison that plagued you for all this time vanishes. everything you fought so hard to feel, all the misery you wanted to bestow upon him for making your life a living hell, it's gone.

because the universe is cruel, the universe has done what it has done, and it has made this singular person just for you, and against everything you believe, you know that you love him, and you hate yourself for it, and you hate the universe, too.

you have endured. but maybe you endured so he didn't have to. maybe you endured so that he could have this, the feeling that he feels right now, that feeling of sudden relief.

he slides a large hand over his chest, flinching slightly. he blinks, understanding suddenly that he's feeling your joy, your elation. when you shuffle your way over to him, breaching the conversation the men around him are having, you ignore their confused stares as you fling yourself into his chest.

ghost forces you against him, trapping you to him. he practically chokes, tangling a gloved hand into your hair, and you sob into the warm skin of his neck as he hoists you into his arms, into his lap. you don't pay attention to the curious voices around you, you just bury yourself into him and cry. his body is the evidence of all that has happened to him, and you aren't angry anymore because you're relieved.

he's real. he's alive. he's here. he's okay.

when you pull back to look up at him, you blink away the tears that are falling fast down your face. he stares down equally as intensely, drinking in the sight of those big, wet eyes. when he smooths a big hand down your face, he grumbles when he realizes what you are, how you know him.

he never realized this was what he and his soulmate shared. you in your life had never felt pain like he had--he had no idea what he was doing to you. he had no idea what you were surviving at the same time.

he closes his eyes and rests his forehead against yours, and your lips tremble as you cup his cheeks and hold him close.

it feels wrong to feel this kind of comfort, but he does anyways. he thinks, maybe, that perhaps the only reason he survived was because of you.

because there was someone else, far away, that loved him enough to keep him breathing. even when he thought it was over.

[anistarrose]

I'd like to propose a dark horse candidate for the most interesting line in The Book of Bill. And it's this near-unreadable, seemingly one-off joke from the "Skin" page:

[ID: tiny text reading: "Help! This is not Bill Cipher. My name is Grebley Hemberdreck of Zimtrex 5. I'm one of thousands of beings Bill has devoured over trillions of years whose souls are now trapped inside him. You have to free me! It's horrible in here. He just keeps playing the song "Good Vibrations" by Marky Mark on an endless loop. Please, please, this is not a joke! The Zimtrexians were once a proud and mighty people, but now our spirits long for release from this..." End ID.]

Okay, so Bill devours souls who then live out a horrible existence inside him. That's just some typical and expected Bill behavior, right? Nothing to be shocked by? Maybe not, but one thing jumps out at me... and of all things, it's the way that Bill keeps playing that Beach Boys parody (correction provided by @fexalted: no, not in fact a Smiley Smile parody, but a real song!) on loop.

Because in The Book of Bill, there's a recurring motif of characters playing music for a very specific reason: to repel an unwanted presence inside their head. This is what Elias Inkwell, and later Ford, did with the "It's A Small World" parody — they tried to keep Bill out of their brains. Or, metaphorically... to drown out his voice.

[ID: a Journal 3 page with a cassette taped inside. It's titled: "The World Is Small Ever After for Always." Ford writes: "If it's war you want, it's war you'll get! If you want to torture me? I'll torture you back!" End ID.]

That doesn't necessarily mean that Bill finds the voices of devoured souls to be troubling, let alone downright haunting, does it? Well... not quite on its own. But there's a "color" code on the page about TV static that says a lot:

[ID: a code consisting of colorful squares, translated to letters that spell out: "he never sleeps he never dreams but somehow still he hears their screams." End ID] (screenshot courtesy of @fexiled)

The context of the page implies these "screams" come to Bill especially when he listens to TV static, and the broader context of the book implies that these are the screams of his destroyed home dimension, Euclydia. Therefore, not necessarily those of the souls he devoured, from Zimtrex 5 and possibly other dimensions.

Except... do those two things really have to be mutually exclusive?

The beings that Bill devoured were accumulated over "trillions" of years, plural, according to Grebley. In Weirdmageddon 1, Bill claims to have resided in the Nightmare Realm for precisely "one trillion" years. So the "devouring" habit probably extends back even further than his time in the Nightmare Realm...

Enter @acetyzias, pointing out a very conspicuous word — and one of the only uncensored words — from Bill's description of destroying his home dimension:

[ID: the word "mandibles". End ID.]

Oh, and how does Bill describe the "monster" that destroyed his home to Ford, when Ford asks about revenge?

[ID: Journal excerpt reading: "Sixer, it would eat you alive." End ID.]

For a long time, Bill's destruction of his home has been associated with fire, even when the story's told by Bill himself. But through the way the book characterizes Bill's guilt — and characterizes how the consequences of what he's done remain lurking deep inside him — I think The Book of Bill lays out the hints for another motif: devouring.

And, well, when it comes to how Bill destroys things... it wouldn't be without precedent.

[ID: screenshot of Bill in Weirdmageddon 3, taking a bite out of the Earth. End ID.]

[newbornwhumperfly]

“Don’t say that,” Ilya said. “The Powers are dead. No one will… no one will… take you from me again. No one will take you from yourself.”

no one will take you from yourself is the most beautiful promise i have ever heard??? 😭😭😭🥺🥺🥺❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹 that’s just so fucking poignant and beautiful and oh i love the symbolism of that, athena 🥹🥹🥹

i love ilya and i love dee and they’re trying so hard and it’s so much 🥺🥺🥺 if dee forgets who is is, ilya will be there to remind him ❤️‍🩹

Luctus et Mors

So begins Dee's second recovery arc. This begins about a week after Comes Animae.

Masterlist

AO3

Contents: nightmare, comfort, sharing a bed, PTSD, blood, past attempted murder, past magical healing, past death and resurrection, survivor's guilt, grief, post-reunion, past burns, past torture, past religious abuse, recovery

~

Dee woke up choking on smoke. Blackness shrouded his eyes - blindfolded. Soft cloth restraints tightened around his limbs, and he cried out, terrified, gasping, lungs spasming around the smoke. 

His own flesh sizzles and peels away under the angels’ hands. His skin bubbles and burns under the eternal, blazing sun of hell.

His eyes streamed. His throat closed around a helpless scream. 

“Dee,” a voice murmured in the darkness. “Dee… shhh, I have you.”

Hands, gentle hands, loosening the sheets around his legs and chest. 

The sheets.

The hands left him, only for long enough to snap on the lamp beside the bed.

The bed. The lamp. The room he shared with Ilya.

Ilya.

His eyes found theirs immediately and he reached out, fingers grasping theirs. His hands were shaking. He could still feel blood - his and theirs - flowing between his fingers, hot and vital. He stared at his hands. 

Clean.

He could taste smoke in the back of his throat. 

“A nightmare?” Ilya said gently. 

He nodded and gripped their hands tight. The pain and smoke and blood felt as real as Ilya’s hands in his. 

“Yes,” he croaked. 

Ilya chewed their lip. “Was it… um…?”

Dee’s eyes dipped and settled on Ilya’s throat. There should have been a scar there, from where the angel had pressed his blade in to end Ilya’s life. 

Dee screams in rage, in anticipated grief that cannot have a chance to strike. He lunges forward and pries the knife away from Ilya’s throat. He tears Ilya from the angel’s grip and shoves them to the floor behind him. He growls his rage, his pain, as his shattered body burns.

Dee raised his hand and trailed his fingers along the unblemished skin. “Did Dara heal you?” he murmured. “After I…?”

After I died?

Ilya’s mouth tightened. “She did,” they said softly. They reached out and trailed their fingers along Dee’s jaw. 

Dee nodded. “Good,” he whispered. “That’s… that’s good.”

Pain flickered across Ilya’s face. Dee swallowed hard. “Dee,” Ilya said, fingers linking with his again. “Please talk to me.”

He wet his lips. His mouth was so dry. He should not stop his hands from shaking as he returned their gaze. 

Finally, he said, “I… dreamt of hell.”

Ilya nodded. Their head relaxed into the pillow and they said nothing. 

Dee continued uneasily. “I dreamt that the angels… followed me. Found me.”

Ilya’s brow furrowed and they squeezed his hands. “Oh,” they murmured. 

“I dreamt that they punished me again. For… for you.” Dee looked away. He couldn’t meet their eyes. After a long silence, he rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. 

“I’m… not the one who died, you know,” Ilya whispered. 

Dee stared at them, shocked, ashamed. “Venia?” he breathed.

They wet their lips. “I’m not blaming you, no,” they said quickly. “I’m not saying… anything like that. I’m saying…” They reached out and ghosted their fingertips along his cheek. “You’re the one who suffered. You’re the one who… who died for this, Dee.”

“You suffered, too,” he whimpered. “You were… were hurt.”

“Not like you,” Ilya said. “Not like that.” Their fingers slid down his cheek, down his neck, brushed his throat with the gentlest of touches.

Even that. Even that was too much. He stiffened. Ilya’s mouth hardened, as if something they had suspected had just been confirmed. 

“There were burn marks on your throat when we found you,” Ilya whispered. “Handprints.”

“I know,” Dee said brokenly. Tears burned his eyes. 

“I held your body for hours after,” Ilya rasped through their own tears. “I t-tried to hold you for… days. Dara had to take you from me so she could bury you.”

Dee squeezed his eyes shut. Tears rolled down his temples and into his hair, soaking into the sheets beneath him. 

Ilya hitched a sob beside him. “Dara healed me. I didn’t… I didn’t hurt. I didn’t have any scars. Once she took you away, I didn’t have you. I had… nothing left of you.”

“I’m sorry,” Dee whimpered. “Ilya, I’m sorry.” He rolled to his side and gathered close. “I’m sorry,” he whispered against their neck. “I’m so sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Dee,” Ilya sobbed into his hair. “When will you see that it wasn’t your fault?” 

Grief clogged Dee’s throat. He shook his head and buried his face deeper in Ilya’s neck. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I never… Ilya, I never meant for you to… I would have…”

“I know,” Ilya said roughly. They squeezed him tight. “I know.”

“I would take it back,” he whispered, barely loud enough to hear. “I would…”

I would take it all again. For you.

“Don’t say that,” Ilya said. “The Powers are dead. No one will… no one will… take you from me again. No one will take you from yourself.”

Smoke burns the back of his throat. Smoke from his own burning flesh. He gags on the smell, the pain, the terror.

He shuddered and pressed a kiss to their throat, over the place where the scar would have been. Over the place where the Power’s blade had tried to claim Ilya’s life. 

“I love you,” he breathed. “Forever.”

“And I love you,” they whispered back. “You. Forever.” Their thumb slid along his eyebrow, brushed his cheek, trailed back up to his ear. They kissed the top of his head. 

He did his best to relax into their embrace. With his face pressed to their neck, all he could smell was them; the smoke was merely a memory. If he tried hard enough, he could almost believe he would never burn again.

~

Translation of the Latin lines here:

Dee stared at them, shocked, ashamed. “Pardon?” he breathed.

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