#a dream itself is but a shadow. [ DREAM OF THE ENDLESS ; crack ]

[charnelhouse]

mausoleum (1)

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader (there may be more, but i'm not spoiling) Wordcount: 6K Warnings: gore. ptsd. references to captivity. implied cannibalism (no one we know and like tho). this story will be very dark, but you know a bitch likes a happy ending so buckle up. implied sex. references to suicide. there are mentions of hair. surprise at the end yay. Summary: Put on leave due to PTSD, she goes home and finds the apocalypse a really opportune distraction. A/N: Many thanks to @yeyinde and @moondirti for helping me brainstorm on this. Why am i starting a series. fml. On another note, “Slim” is just a nickname that will be explained later.

COD Masterlist

She dreamed of Kursk last night. There were hands on her as she choked on her own blood. Her eyes were swollen from the beating, and she could count the places where they had buried their blades. She was sick, her ripe-smelling injuries pulsing with infectious heat.

When she’d refused to give them information, they had done the rest for fun.

She was sitting in that chair. The cold, metal seat that became slippery from her sweat and blood. Her ankles screaming from the zip ties around the chair’s legs. Her arms wrenched so far back that she was certain the joints would pop. 

Go far away in your head. Go somewhere else. Go be -

The room switched, and she was staring up at him. His features were riddled with shadows. Unclear.  His thick hair was dark in the damp light as it curled over his brow. He lowered his head, bare nose brushing her cheek as his full lips found purchase along her jaw. 

“You drive me insane,” he muttered into her ear as he braced his weight above her body. Behind his blurry face, the ceiling oozed. She was still in the cell. She was still there, but he was with her. She had wished for him then, and now, in the magic of her dream, he had come to hold her through the rest of it.

Save me.

Save me.

I want you to save me. I can’t do this. I can’t anymore.

She frowned, palming his chest where his heart beat furiously. Strange. His pulse never rose to such a frantic rhythm. He dropped his hips and pressed forward until he was buried inside her. It was a faraway sensation. Pressure. She felt the idea of their sex. She felt him like a memory, the ghost of his cock stretching her.

Was this the time it had happened? Was this when it took root? He gripped her chin, forcing her to look at him. He opened his mouth. “I love -

The trip wire spouted an alert, ripping her from sleep and causing her to crack her temple against the windowpane where she’d been keeping watch. She'd passed out, apparently.

Thank God, she thought. Thank Fuck.

She couldn’t have another rancid, poisonous dream about Russia. 

She rubbed the aching side of her skull, where a goose egg was undoubtedly beginning to form. She’d have to forgo pain relievers due to her own stupidity.

When had she ever fallen asleep on watch? 

The alarm from her homemade tripwire jingled again. She snatched her binoculars and pointed them toward the front entrance, where the gravel drive disappeared into shadows. Nothing. It was still twilight - violet blue, but the night fog was lifting enough for her to see fairly clearly. She readjusted her spot on the second-floor ledge before scanning the rest of the gardens, including the hedge maze and fountain. A bush shivered, and there was a flash of pink. 

Bingo.

In rainboots and her mother’s nightgown, she fled the room, ran down the stairs, and burst through the front door. It would be a nice bit of action before breakfast.

***

It must have snuck through a hedge or squeezed itself through the iron bars of the fence that lined the property. The grounds went on forever, but she doubted it had traversed the acres of endless green to land near her front door. Most of them were from nearby villages having wandered up the road like they had remembered to follow the asphalt. As she walked closer, the scent of death lingered among the lavender and moss. The air was fertile and rich, and when the breeze fluttered through her hair, it brought with it the earthy scent of wet wool and cattle from the stables. 

Against the red-pink light of sunrise, she could see the mist clinging to the lake. She could see the tiny dark spots of houses in the surrounding hills. No lights. She hadn’t seen lights up there for several months. She wondered if it had come from one of those homes, ambling down from the peaks and into her garden. 

In the quiet, you wouldn’t know what had happened. No, you’d be too focused on the sheer beauty of Northwest England. You’d realize what had commandeered Wordsworth’s attraction.

It was funny how this was the most time she’d ever spent at Ashcroft Hall. She’d never been particularly attached to her parent’s summer estate. It was beautiful. It was majestic. It was old and full of ghosts, and when she was a child, she’d been terrified to sleep alone in one of its many wood-paneled bedrooms. 

Now, she was guarding Ashcroft. Now, Ashcroft had become her port in the proverbial storm. 

She didn’t know if she loved it or hated it. She didn’t know how she felt about anything anymore.

The world had cracked. That was the only way she could visualize it. It had splintered down the center, infection cobwebbing outward to raze cities, countries, and continents. 

She supposed that she had crumpled with it. The situation in Kursk had removed a vital piece of herself that she had been unable to replace. It was only a coincidence that news stations had begun to report on the infection a month after she’d been rescued.

By then, she’d been put on leave and carted back to her parent's home to recover. No one outside of her team could look her in the eye, and that stung more than the bullets and the knives. Pity. They pitied her, and there was the distinct undercurrent that they all believed she would have been better off dead. 

As if she didn’t know that already. 

She understood why they’d kicked her out. She was a liability. She was in desperate need of therapy. She wasn’t the same, and she never would be again.

Not after Kursk. 

She spent weeks curled up in one of the Ashcroft bedrooms she’d feared as a child. She was numb - practically brain-dead on a cocktail of pills to keep her head together. She watched television. A lot of it. She saw the writing on the wall when the news became fixated on the strange behavior of the recent dead.

A young boy in Fenghuang had woken up mid-burial. 

An old woman in Sydney had sat up off her gurney. 

A famous singer had been nearly cut in half from a car accident, and there was footage of him crawling across the road. 

That image had stayed at the forefront of her mind to this day. She’d thought she was numb to violence and gore, but seeing a corpse dragging his obliterated carcass behind him had shaken her. 

Those initial days had been dark. She stopped the pills and instead focused on preparation. She had an underground contact slip into her London apartment and drive her weapons up North. She restocked her father’s armory with AK-47s, submachine guns, and sniper rifles. 

She stockpiled candles and kerosene for oil lamps. Seeds. Small livestock in addition to the horses, cows, and chickens they already had at Ashcroft. Batteries. Radios. Medications. First Aid Kits. Flashlights.

She’d been so focused on her project that it didn’t register when the rest of the world realized this wasn’t just the media exaggerating. It was real.

She hadn’t looked at her phone in a week, and when she did, she saw two missed calls and two texts. Two from Price. Two from Soap. 

Call me. 

Call me ASAP. 

But by then, the cell towers and wifi had gone out. The Eastern Seaboard twitched black as the cities fell first. Paris was overrun. New York was decimated. When London burned, she’d been forced to shut the television off. She couldn’t bear the image of it scorched and empty. She did not want to think of the pubs she had frequented with her team blackened and silent. 

Had they made it home? They were probably safe and secure on a military base. They were probably in better shape than she was.

After the major cities, the smaller areas were next on the chopping block.

There was screaming. Insistent screaming she could hear from Ashcroft. It rang out like one high-pitched musical note. Fires started. There was smoke slithering from the little towns nestled in the hills. The weather had been crisp. The sky was a raw shade of blue, and she thought it mocked her.

Society was burning, and everything else was lovely.

To make matters worse, she could not stop thinking about Kursk. She could not push it away. It caused her to swell with guilt because everything else had gone to shit, and what was her grief compared to the apocalypse. 

There came the point when she chose to bury it. She did what every therapist had warned her against doing. She took Kursk and stuffed it beneath her ribs, behind her liver, where it could not distract her. 

She’d set up a radio but rarely listened to it. It was nothing but sticky shrieks for help and aid, and please, where is shelter, food, or a cure? Everything is gone, and we have children. 

Gradually, the radio became mostly static. There’d be the occasional clip of a song or a snarling preacher spouting about fire and brimstone as the last vestiges of humanity clung to the airwaves.

She had no room in her for kindness. She felt stripped to her bones, and that’s what she wanted. Bones. Dust. No emotions. No empathy. No love. She thought of the texts and phone calls from Soap and Price, and she assumed the worst. Either they were dead, saving babies, or something equally heroic. 

She knew Price. He wouldn’t have just run. Soap, Gaz, and Alejandro would have followed him. 

He would have stayed. He would have died fighting because that was just who he was. 

She, on the other hand, stayed in place. She bunkered down and made lists. 

She was very good at surviving. 

***

Its moans shuddered through the gardens as its feet scraped across gravel. She was surprised it could make such sounds. She’d seen several with their vocal cords split into ribbons; tongues chewed to mush. Those corpses so deteriorated from the sun or hard rain that they could only manage a thin whistle. It had to be muscle memory. Even in death, they remembered the inclination to speak and be heard.

She loosely spun the ax in her hand as she studied the intruder. 

“How’d you get in here, hmm?” The question slipped between them, echoing in the pleasant morning quiet. The garden was a riot of colors: magenta tulips, cream-white and orange daffodils, violets, and golden primroses. Amidst the fruity sweetness was the cloying scent of decay. Insects buzzed. The wind rustled the magnolia trees. 

The maze of hedges was beginning to lose its shape and would undoubtedly grow wild as time passed. The shrubs were distorted, and the grass was too long.

As she closed in, it jerked its head at her scent. For a moment, she felt that tantalizing bite of adrenaline. Every drop of her blood pulsed between her ears. Her heart throbbed as she lifted the ax just as it twisted around to look at her. 

Its foggy eyes were unseeing, the pupils unevenly dilated. Its flesh was a myriad of shades, not unlike the colorful garden around them. Purple. Green. Yellow. White. A few wet strands of hair were clinging to the crown of the skull. She could see inside its chest where the brown lungs had shriveled within a mottled rib cage.

When she brought the ax down, it grunted. The bone split. The blood was sluggish and the color of tar. It had been a person once. A woman. Her terry cloth bathroom was still attached to what was left of her arms.

 She swallowed thickly, wiping the blade of the ax on the ground. The blood and gristle smelled terrible, but it was impossible to escape it. It had almost become familiar. 

She was lucky. Ashcroft was located on hundreds of acres of land. She bet the cities were far worse. She bet that death stench hung over it like a fish bowl. 

She glanced back at the Jacobean estate. It was certainly a fortress with its turrets, towers and red sandstone facade. The place dated back to the sixteenth century and had been altered and renovated due to fire and two World Wars. It was far too big for her to care for herself. The staff had fled or were infected. Her parents had been dead before everything exploded, and they had left the damn thing to her. Fresh from the medical facility, she’d shown up to a home she hadn’t considered hers in years.

 It would fall apart; the grounds would turn back to nature. For now, she had opted to inhabit sections. The kitchen, the library, the billiard room, and the master bedroom with its bay windows that offered a perfect view of the main path to the front gate. 

With her foot, she nudged the dead woman onto her back. The shriveled corpse looked disturbing against the emerald green grass. She’d need a wheelbarrow and gloves to remove her.

She sighed, turning her face toward the sun and allowing it to warm her skin.

She’d handle the body in a minute.

***

“Nice form, Slim.”

She spun around to find Bambi staring at her from the veranda. Clad in ratty shorts, a sweat-stained tank, and knee socks, Bambi looked like a washed-down version of a pervy uncle. Gone were the strappy heels and Selkie baby doll dresses. No more black cards, Ibiza, or Annabel’s. 

“I think dad used to wear that same outfit,” Slim quipped, and Bambi narrowed her eyes, chin thrust out and nose tipped upward with her special kind of arrogance.

“Times are dire, G.I. Jane,” she huffed, gesturing to her outfit. “I’m too lazy to wash this shit by hand so it shall serve me another day.”

Slim laughed. Bambi was disarming and unpredictable. Gorgeous and sometimes mean as a snake though the apocalypse had humbled her a bit. 

“You look gross,” Bambi remarked as she folded her arms over her tits. “Think there’s some brain on you.”

A bit. Humbled a bit. 

Truth be told, Slim probably would have drowned herself in the lake if it hadn’t been for Bambi. Two months into the end of the world, her childhood best friend showed up at her door. She was dirty, her hair greasy, and her face gaunt, but her dark eyes still sparked with life. Everyone was dead, but Bambi, spoiled and regal, was burning with a vivacity that Slim no longer felt.

She’d run from London before they started shutting down the exits. 

“I knew you’d be here,” Bambi had whispered before throwing her arms around her neck. ‘I fucking knew it.”

Slim was so stunned that she didn’t even check her for bites. Bambi’s mouth brushed her ear, her fingers clenched in her t-shirt. “I knew that if anyone could survive this, it would be you.” She pulled away, dry, pale lips cracking around a smile. “You can protect me.”

She’d had a car for a good part of it, but things fell apart by Manchester. The traffic was unbreachable. Someone started shooting.

“I hid in the backseat with a blanket for maybe two days. I remember two dawns, at least. No one gave a shit about the cars because the roads were blocked. People shot at each other instead.” Bambi sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “A bullet went through my window, and I stayed frozen. There was this guy - this kid, maybe seventeen, who’d been shot in the head, and he fell across the hood of my car like crazy perfectly. It was so weird. I’d never seen someone dead, and I remember thinking about how you saw people die all the time - you’d killed people and survived so much, and maybe this was a sign, and so I realized I had to get to you.

“Assumed I’d still be in Cartmel?”

“Last we spoke, you were there, and I figured it’d be better than any of the cities. Plus…” She’d grinned, and it had lit up her perfect face. “You have weapons.” Bambi suddenly held Slim’s face between her hands and kissed her firmly on the mouth. It was sour and stale, but she allowed it. “Now, I’m fucking knackered, you beautiful bitch. Where’s the kitchen and the showers?”

Bambi never told her what she had to do after Manchester to reach Ashcroft, and she didn’t press. 

The very thought of Manchester had left her sick and shivering. It only brought recollections of him. Was he out there? Had he been on a mission on the opposite side of the world when everything burned? Did it even matter because surely she’d never see him or any of them again? 

“Slim!” Bambi snapped, violently wrenching her from her memories. “What are we doing with that?” She pointed to the dead woman in the grass. “It’s ruining the pleasant vibes of our home.”

“Do we have people coming over?”

Bambi smirks and lifts an eyebrow suggestively. “You never know, old girl. One of these days, some fit fucking gents may wander up the road.”

“Because every person who’s tried to trespass has been so attractive.”

“Well - you keep shooting them.”

Yes. In the beginning, she had been ruthless about it. In times like these, you had to do what was necessary, and she had no interest in taking a chance. It was the people you had to watch out for. Not the dead, but the human beings who’d kill them just for her armory alone.

She fired a warning, and if they continued, then they were fair game. It was always the mean-looking ones, too. Beady eyes and ponchos, waving shotguns like they were playing at war. They’d see Red with her marksman rifle in hand and immediately relax. palms up as they continued forward.

“S’alright, birdie. We’ll keep you safe, yeah? You can’t stay here alone. Girl like you won’t last-”

She’d blow their skulls after that.  She didn’t lose sleep over it.

What had Price told her? We get dirty, and the world stays clean.

Red would get dirty for both of them.

“Get the wheelbarrow,” she ordered, abruptly switching lanes. She turned away from Bambi’s scowling face, tucking her hair behind her ears. It had grown so long that even Bambi had offered to cut it.

Your hand-eye coordination is awful. Remember the last time you tried giving me a haircut?

That was twenty years ago, you daft cow. Who is going to see it, anyway?

I can still be vain about some things! 

“I’m only getting the wheelbarrow because I know you do all the dirty work,” Bambi declared, shoving her socked feet into too-big loafers that had belonged to Slim’s pa. She began to shuffle toward the ravine at the rear of the property.

“You’ll be bludgeoning the undead soon enough,” Slim yelled after her. Bambi threw up a middle finger.

It was strange. Everything. At times, their world at Ashcroft felt normal. They could spend days drinking to oblivion without ever going outside. They’d draw the curtains and light the fireplace in the study, sliding from the velvet couches to the carpet as they giggled about stupid things. Their mouths smeared berry-red from the wine they’d filched from the cellar. They’d play cards and smoke the cigarettes they’d found in her mother’s nightstand.

“So, how were the men? They probably were all over your ass.”

“They were nice.”

“That’s all you’re going to give me? I’ve told you about that Duke -

“They were good to me. There isn’t much I can share.”

“The world’s over, my love. Afraid there’s no regime to punish you.’

“I know.”

“Fine, then. How about this? Why did you leave?”

***

“I think I’m going to head into town,” Slim announced over their lunch of biscuits and peanut butter. There was a whole pantry full of canned vegetables, bread, and hard cheese. There was a greenhouse, a garden, and small animals, but neither of them knew what they were doing. She couldn’t exactly google how to plant crops or what flourished in what season. 

Bambi frowned. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Slim leaned back in her chair as she tugged her hair into a knot. The sun was bright today, flooding through the windows and over the kitchen table. “There haven’t been many zombies lately…I want to see the status of the village and get a sense of things.”

“Sounds like a dumb idea.”

“We’re far enough away that we wouldn’t know if danger was coming until it was at the gates.”

Bambi leaned forward, resting her chin in her palm. “And you would shoot them before they got to the door.”

Slim shook her head. “Houses like these are more valuable now than ever before. They’ve functioned for centuries without electricity or heat. Lots of land. Private well for clean water. An army could decide to overtake us, and I can’t hold down the fortress by myself.”

‘I’ll help!”

“You can’t shoot.”

“Give me an automatic weapon, and all I have to do is aim in the general direction.”

“That’s not how it works, B,” Slim said as she massaged her temples. The headaches were becoming frequent. “I need to go regardless because I want to see if the pharmacies have any antibiotics left.”

They had several first aid kits, and when society was just beginning to rupture, Slim had collected what she could. Still, she was anxious that they would undoubtedly need more in the coming years. Anything could happen. 

The scar over her belly pulsed with phantom pain. It hadn’t stopped since Russia, and she doubted it ever would.

Bury it. Bury it. That time is far away. The chair. That empty room with the dingy cot and how the metal squeaked and screeched with every movement. 

She ran through a list in her head of what she needed: penicillin, electrolyte powders, moxifloxacin, oxycodone, and prednisolone.

Lists helped. The clinical beauty in the simple pattern of words kept her from spiraling into ugly thoughts.

“I could come with you,” Bambi offered. “Watch your six as they say?”

As they say. 

This was the time Slim felt an overwhelming tenderness for her friend. Bambi looked frightened for her, and while Slim was primarily responsible for keeping them both alive, she understood it went deeper than that. 

She placed her hand on Bambi’s wrist, fingering the Cartier bracelets that no longer mattered. She couldn’t sell them. All they’d be suitable for was to be melted down for useful things like bullets, but Slim was the last person to begrudge someone their little luxuries.

“I appreciate the help, but I can do it faster on my own.”

“Fine,” Bambi conceded. “But look for Xanax.”

“Of course.”

“Maybe, condoms.”

***

On the journey into town, it began to rain. She’d taken one of the horses, Biorn, and his damp black mane gave off a musky, animal stink. There were cars at the Ashcroft manor, but using them seemed risky. The engine would rumble and spit and no doubt draw attention to her. She also didn’t want to waste the gas. 

Clad in a simple t-shirt and jeans, she tipped her head back to stare up at the sky. The clouds were slate gray and swollen. She opened her mouth to taste the rain, feeling high off the perfume of petrichor and sodden leaves. She was cold, but the chill woke her up. Her fingers twitched around the reins.

Her hair stuck to the nape of her neck like a leech. 

She missed fighting. She missed the finality of a mission. You either died or you succeeded, and then it’d be over. Now - it was for always. Now, her mission was endless. 

She sighed, shaking her head. 

It was dangerous to crave violence. She feared what she would unleash in herself and what she’d have to face. Kursk. Him. The very debilitating emptiness he'd left inside her. It festered and spoke to her when her mind was most at rest. 

“Stay alive, duchess.”

His enormous palm cradled the back of her skull as he stared down at her. “You’re the best they’ve got. Can’t do it without you.”

Nearing the town, she noticed the first signs of the infection. There were water-logged notices with peeling paint, haphazardly hammered to wooden posts.

Stay Home.

Stay Calm. 

Wash Your Hands and Wear a Mask.

It hadn’t been that sort of infection, but no one knew it then.

She glanced at the woods on her right and noticed a pair of tiny rain boots. Focusing, she realized they were attached to a body nestled in the leaves. She knew there had been plenty of suicides. There’d been advertisements for special concoctions that promised no pain, and surely any place was better than the current one. 

She grimaced and pressed forward. The pretty village was still picturesque with its cobbled streets and quaint cottages and inns. The River Eaa flowed at a lazy pace. There were burned-out Christmas lights in the trees. Two miles ahead, near the shoreline, was a larger town with more facilities.

The silent, empty village made her skin crawl. There was a stink from the houses. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw something staring back at her in the ivy by the church. She bit her lip as she guided Biorn toward the back entrance to the pharmacy. She tied him to the rear door before stroking his muzzle and kissing his snout. 

She wouldn’t go further than the pharmacy today. There was something wrong here. The rain was picking up and making it impossible for her to see or hear clearly. She was at a disadvantage, and anyone could be surveying her. 

She was prized goods. The guns strapped to her hip and back. The ax in her belt. Her horse, especially. 

Doing one last scan of the area, she slipped through the rear entrance.

***

It smelled here, too, but not as intense. She waited a moment, listening for a groan, grunt, or the scrape of feet on the linoleum. Nothing. 

Utilizing the half-dome mirrors in the room's corners, she silently maneuvered through the aisles, heading straight for the pharmacy counter. She was quick about it as she stuffed whatever bottles remained into her bag. 

It wasn’t a lot. The place had been somewhat looted. She’d hoped the pharmacist had locked it down during the worst of it. She’d hoped most of the village had gone North, toward the areas that promised “sanctuaries,” before realizing there were none.

After emptying the shelves, she raided the otc medication, leftover bandages, ointment, eye drops, and snacks. Jerky. Chips. Candy. Ramen. She walked toward the front of the store before freezing. There was someone on the ground. For a second, she had thought “mannequin,” forgetting how unlikely that would be. There was no one to clean away bodies. Mannequins didn’t belong in pharmacies.

Slowly she pulled her ax from the loop of her belt before readjusting her form. She crouched, creeping toward what appeared to be a dead man. She blinked down at him. The blood was bright and smelled like pennies as it puddled around his head. His throat was missing, his eyes open and staring at the ceiling. She could distinguish the tendons and ripped flesh. Bits of the white spine. She cautiously reached for the man’s arm to touch his skin. It was still warm, and she lifted it easily. No rigor mortis.  

This man had just died. But a zombie wouldn’t leave him here. They’d eat and eat until there was nothing left. Her appearance wouldn’t have registered to it.

She straightened, confused and weary. It wasn’t fear that ran through her, but puzzlement. 

Thwack. 

She startled and whirled around, eyes scanning from the front window to the rear of the space. There was only the pharmacy’s flag ripping in the harsh wind just outside the door. She walked toward the window steadily, ax in one hand and her other hand poised over her gun. 

Perhaps it was the rain? It was coming down hard. Black sky and a heavy layer of fog. Her heart pulsed as she scanned the streets.

Thwack. 

She spun toward the aisles, but there was nothing amiss. Her teeth chattered in her mouth. She was soaked to the bone, and every step brought the audible squelch of her sneakers.

Why the fuck hadn’t she worn boots? 

Because you got complacent. With your sniper rifle and homemade alarms, you got arrogant in your posh castle in the hills. 

Now, she was in the savage, desolate reality of the after. After the infection. After the bombs, the Hail Marys, the useless quarantines, and the suicide juice. 

After Russia. After he’d run away from her and she’d gotten captured.

A deep growl sprang from the backroom. She shoved her ax back in her jeans and pulled out her gun. It felt like an appropriate time to use bullets when she couldn’t see her enemy.

Tiptoeing toward the door that led to a storage area, she quietly pushed it open with her shoulder. 

Once inside, she had to recalibrate. The sight in front of her didn’t compute. 

It was a man. Heavy-set. Pink skin like a pig. His short hair was matted, and he was hovering over a workbench. He raised his arm and brought something silver down. 

Thwack.

It was a cleaver. 

Thwack.

Each thwack was followed by a wet squelch. She heard something crack. 

The room was dark, but there were enough candles to illuminate what the man was chopping.

Flesh. Pink and red and purple. Gristle. Bone. 

She found herself unable to breathe. The room was thick with the scent of meat. Blood. Sweat. Innards. It reminded her of Kursk and how those cells were branded in that stench. All the dead before her. All the ones in neighboring prisons who sobbed and gurgled. 

She stumbled backward, falling against the door, which swung open and deposited her on the floor. She slipped on the rain-slick linoleum, and her gun skittered away. Without thinking, she scrambled toward it.

There’s one on your back. There’s the ax. Arm yourself with something before-

Something unbearably heavy and reeking fell on top of her. 

***

She was fucked. She was really fucked. 

It took her a second to realize that the man from the backroom had attacked her. It took her another second to recognize that he was human. He was human and eating - 

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered as she attempted to roll onto her back. Her mind was cluttered - swimming with memories of Kursk that she could not punch away. After years of training, she couldn’t come up with a single move that could force the man off of her back. 

Adrenaline was pulsing through her bones. Her nerves were fraying - sparking - close to exploding, and she thought if the man buried her further into the ground, her heart would be forced out of her mouth. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. She tried to reach down for her ax, but he had her effectively pinned. He was grunting on top of her, spitting out obscenities, screeching like an animal, and maybe he’d become one. Maybe, the after had effectively twisted him into something feral and desperate.

Just as her vision began to dim, the man blessedly pulled away from her. She took a deep, bruising breath before flipping onto her back. She tried to kick out at him with her legs, but he was too strong. He was huge, blocking out the ceiling, drowning out the world. He lifted his arm high, a spark from outside catching on the cleaver blade. 

“Oh fuck,” she hissed before curling inward just as he brought it down.

She felt a burn. He’d gotten her, confirmed when a warm wash of blood sheeted down her shoulder into her shirt. She glanced at it, blinking sluggishly. She wasn’t entirely sure where he’d hit her because a dull throbbing began to pulse throughout her body. Everything went numb. Distant. 

She collapsed backward, raising her arms to defend herself from the second hit. The whites of the man’s eyes reminded her of eggshells as they expanded across the pricks of his pupils. He was covered in a fresh splatter of crimson, and she knew it was her blood. The man’s jaw was twitching, his teeth gnashing as she uselessly tried to cover her chest. It would be humiliating if she died like this. She couldn’t leave Bambi -

The man was staring at her, and then he wasn’t. There was an abrupt snap before his head was now turned back toward the storage room. The cleaver clattered beside her. She stared at it dumbly before the weight of him straddling her thighs was gone. He was being lifted clean off of her, picked up like a sack of potatoes before being tossed aside with a guttural snarl.

A snarl she recognized. 

Her gaze slid from the cleaver to the figure looming over her. Ghost. The white skull mask seemed pronounced in the gray-lit shop. She could make out the flicker of his eyes, though his expression was unreadable. He was tall and imposing, bigger than she remembered, as he regarded her silently. His bulky shoulders. His tac vest. His boots. His clothes were coated in a thick film of blood and grime. Even the white parts of his mask were smeared red.

She swallowed as she tried to sit up. Her head and torso felt so heavy, and she found herself trying to reach for him. He crouched, his gloved fist covering hers, their fingers threading together. He was so hot - so perfectly, beautifully alive, and he just threw that huge monster of a man like it was nothing. Ghost had broken his neck with his bare hand.

You saved me.

You came. 

“Simon,” she whispered, though she found it difficult to focus. His eyes drifted toward her shoulder, and he stiffened. 

“Price,” he barked. “She’s fuckin’ bleeding out.”

“Price?” she echoed, bewildered. Ghost tugged at the scarf around his neck before pressing it to her shoulder. It didn’t hurt, which she thought was probably a bad sign.

“They were out back,” he explained. “There were hostiles there, too.”

Hostiles. The word felt familiar. 

Suddenly, Ghost stepped away, allowing another to take his place. She grimaced, fingers clutching on air. She wanted to ask him to come back. She wanted to feel him.

“Hello, darlin’.”

Price’s voice melted into her skin, and she returned his smile, though it was difficult. Another appeared beside him. Soap. He frantically opened one of the bags, yanking out gauze and tape. 

She tried to say Johnny, but it wouldn’t come. Finally, he looked at her, his expression scrunched and unlike him. “Knew we’d find you trying to take someone down twice your size.” He was teasing her, but it lacked its familiar mischief. He looked truly frightened for her.

Admittedly, she found it comforting. His worry embraced her and made her want to curl into his arms because she had wished for Soap’s sweet face too many times to count in the last year.

Her shoulder twinged. 

She frowned before dragging her eyes toward Price. 

“Others?” she rasped.

“There are more of us out back. Most of the group.” He gestured to the dead man in the corner. “Couple other bastards like the one there.” 

Ghost had already told her that, but everything was swaddled in a haze.

She tilted her head in acknowledgment as she licked her lips, her tongue dry. It was a lot. She couldn’t believe what was in front of her. 

“Price,” she murmured. “John.”

His gaze crinkled, and he cradled her face in one palm while his other hand remained firm on her shoulder to staunch the bleeding. She could smell him. Sweat, dirt, and body odor. They’d probably been on the roads for months. She lifted her hand hesitantly before wiping at the oily black blood smeared across his cheek. He closed his eyes as he leaned into it.

“You look different,” she whispered as she grazed her thumb from his temple to his jaw. His beard was overgrown, and she focused on the tiny wrinkles around his eyes as he grinned down at her. Behind him, she thought she could spot Ghost’s massive form.

“It’s so fuckin’ good to see you, Red,” Price uttered, the words cracking within the syrupy wet of his throat.

Red.

Red Fox.

She hadn’t heard that name in over a year, and the implication of it both frightened and soothed her. She felt like it was her mask, her armor. It was who she had been before Russia and the end of the world.

Price’s smile faltered as his eyes darted to the scarf, sodden with her blood. Oh yes - she was injured.

“Really fuckin’ missed you,” Price said with such conviction as if he needed her to understand.

She wanted to tell him the same. She wanted to say how much she missed them.  

Instead, she sank back to the floor, Price’s arms still around her back as Soap began to cut through her shirt.

---

Please comment and let me know your thoughts!! It’s going to get very angsty and smutty.

Next

[lol-im-done]

Impossible Choices

formerly titled: The High Priestess & One Eyed Prince

summary: You had been raised expecting nothing more than to do us your Gods instructed, to use your powers to keep the Targaryens in power but what happens when that very family threatens to destroy itself?

pairing: aemond targaryen x reader

tags: slow burn, forbidden love, enemies to lovers, dark magic

can also be read on ao3

chapter one: a lesson in those we serve

‘Hen ñuha ānogar māzigon kivio dārilaros se zȳhon kessa sagon vāedar suvio perzo. From my blood come the Prince That Was Promised and his will be the Song of Ice and Fire.’

The walls of Dragonstone trembled from the thunder that accompanied the customary summer storm. Amongst the candles that lit up the Painted Table, Aegon Targaryen would share the weight of his prophetic dream with his sister-wife Visenya. He had already shared it with Rhaenys the night before as they bathed, her melodic voice encouraging him to follow the path the Gods had shown him. Tonight hushed High Valyrian carried the Song of Ice and Fire to Visenya, her pale eyebrows furrowing in concern at his words. Aegon, a dragon dreamer as Daenys once was, foresaw darkness from beyond the North descending on the world, ravaging it until nothing was left but a barren wasteland. The only one that could confront this unending darkness was a Targaryen, the only power to destroy the foe was the might of dragonfire.

Visenya was a pragmatic ruler, she wished for her bloodline to live on regardless of what the Gods showed Aegon. Visenya understood that to maintain their bloodline on the Iron Throne they would need more than just their dragons. There was a force that rivaled them completely- magic. Even if Old Valyria had been reduced to rubble, its descendants and ancient knowledge were scattered across realms. By the next moon sorceresses were brought to Dragonstone. From Valyrian bloodlines and as far as Asshai these women bent the knee to the three headed dragon. Sacrifices of dragon blood and hearts of those that rotted in the cells were made in the cliffs of Dragonstone. The voices of the Valyrian Gods were heard for the first time in over a century, awakening an ancient power not seen since the Doom. The Gods promised these sorceresses unparalleled power in exchange for their unwavering devotion.

In honor of their patron the sisterhood became The Order of Visenya- vessels of the Valyrian Gods and loyal to the Targaryens, the Song of Ice and Fire would become their mission. The Order worked in the shadows, shrouded in secrecy and enacting the will of their volatile Gods. From the end of Aegon the Conqueror's reign until young Jaehaerys was crowned was a time plagued by instability and violent upheavals. In the end peace prevailed for the Realm. Despite the endless personal tragedies that plagued the Targrayens, they remained on the throne and the dragons did not cease in hatching. In this era of stability, you were chosen and raised in the ways of the Order. The succeeding generation to live their life in service of the Valyrian Gods. Yet it would not take long to see the cracks in the Targaryen dynasty that would form into a dangerous chasm, deep enough to send the ancient house and the rest of Westeros with it, falling into the pits of the Underworld.

Driftmark, 126 AC

The scent of salt and sea drifted from the crashing waves up to the balcony where you stood, the rumbling of dragons mingling with the cry of seagulls. The rays of sun warmed your skin through the thick muslin of your robes and one could have almost described the day as perfect if it were not for the grief that encompassed the island of House Velaryon. Turning away from the sea, you stood at attention for High Mother Valarr. Imposing and commanding, the quintessential traits for the matriarch of the Order of Visenya. Her unnaturally golden eyes roamed over you and your fellow Sisters ensuring the veils covered your young faces sufficiently. You were unaccustomed to the veil, not having worn one until this day but High Mother Valarr’s words rang clear in your head- ‘Sisters of the Order of Visenya are not seen or heard, they are felt.’

“His Grace the King requested our presence here today Sisters. I need not remind you the significance of that or the consequences of any untoward behavior,” she raised her slim eyebrow. For not ever being a mother, she did play the role of strict one exceptionally well. Her title of High Mother had nothing to do with her maternal qualities but that of supreme mystical leader, just as your title of Sisters had nothing to do with shared blood but that of shared mission.

Lesia and Aera stood straighter besides you. “Yes High Mother,” the trio replied in unison.

“You are not here to indulge yourselves in sweets or interact with the court. Watch carefully, this will be an important lesson in those we serve.”

“Kessa konīr sagon tolie riñar?” Will there be other children?

You and Lesia cringed, Aera was too outspoken and spirited for her own good at times. No amount of lashings would change that.

“You know better than to ask about that Sister Aera, remember your place.”

Aera tucked her chin in embarrassment, High Mother Valarr sending you all a final warning stare.

“The funeral proceedings have come to an end, the royal court will arrive soon. I will collect you by supper time.” In an elegant sweep of her coal black gown, she was gone.

“Konīr iksos daorun naejot gaomagon,” Aera grumbled as royal mourners began entering the balcony, flocking to the tables of smoked meats, aging cheese and fruits. There is nothing to do.

“I shall braid your hair, it may be our last time with this length. Māzigon mandias,” Lesia beckoned you. Come sisters.

“Nyke jāhor umbagon naejot urnēbagon se zaldrīzoti,” you insisted. I will stay to watch the dragons.

This was your first time in the presence of the royal court, having lived your whole life in the Motherhouse in Pentos until being brought here a sennight ago. You could see who could only be King Viserys, looking just as decrepit as High Mother Valarr had described him. At his side High Mother Valarr and Prince Daemon, who’s eyes could not stop wandering to Princess Rhaenyra who stood alone in the distance. Though what had drawn your attention from the mourning courtiers was someone who seemed in a world of their own. In the middle of it all was a young girl, long white hair cascading down her back. As she whispered her riddles to the spider in her grasp you could see an aura emanating from her, swirls of light blue making her glow like a night star. She was no ordinary Targaryen but a dragon dreamer, kissed as a babe by Tesarion the Goddess of Prophecy. The sound of approaching footsteps caught your attention. Please don’t approach me, you begged internally.

Slowly with measured steps a boy shuffled closer to you, looking out at the dragons that were perched on the cliff nearby. Judging by his white locks and shorter stature compared to that of the other Targaryen Prince that was currently leering at passing serving girls this had to be the youngest of King Viserys’ offspring. For a few moments no words were spoken, what would you have to say to a Prince? Aemond was having similar thoughts, what was there to say to a member of the Order of Visenya? He knew only what he had heard from his Father, the Maesters and his Mother, none of them giving a clear answer but his loneliness had won him over.

“Which dragon is to your liking?” Aemond finally found his voice, surprising himself. He could not see your face clearly, the veil blurring your countenance but he could tell he had startled you. You turned to face him fully now, conflicted if you should contradict High Mother Valarr’s instructions but you did not wish to insult the Prince.

“I think Sunfyre is quite interesting, Dreamfyre is beautiful as well.”

“Caraxes is most fearsome I hear,” Aemond gestured to the Blood Wyrm that flew above the castle.

Growing confident you chose to carry on the conversation. “There are also wild dragons roaming Dragonstone, have you seen them?”

For a moment Aemond’s stomach turned, sure your next question would be where his own dragon was but that fear quickly dissipated as you continued.

“I hope to find them all, and yet the ones before us are only a fraction of what used to be.”

“What do you mean?” he tilted his head.

“In Old Valyria they had thousands of dragons, all who served different purposes. The smallest and swiftest dragons carried messages and parcels across the Freehold and the largest, even larger than Balerion, were trained for battle. They even had dragons who were as small as birds and were kept in homes to catch vermin.”

This was the longest conversation Aemond had ever held with someone outside of his household, and he found himself captivated by your words. You spoke with such certainty as if you had lived in Old Valyria, as if the Doom had never happened at all. Catching your breath from the excitement, you attempted a small smile, which he sheepishly returned. A passing noble who had imbibed in too much wine stumbled into the Prince, pushing him closer to you. The moment your hand brushed his a wild blush spread across Aemond’s freckled cheeks. You, on the other hand, went rigid. Aemond could have sworn he saw something akin to a glow come from your eyes, the apology dying on his tongue.

There in the sand dunes, a small figure approaches a slumbering beast. A fast beating heart and the scent of dragon smoke. A new rider claimed in the darkness.

In an instant your face became deathly serious. “Oregon naejot aōha kustikāne, gaomagon daor sagon zūgagon,” you whispered to Aemond. Hold to your strength. Do not be afraid.

“Aemond!”

The Prince looked like he had been smacked, the Queen appearing behind him in a furious billow of green. You did not have to turn to feel the vexation emanating from High Mother Valarr behind you. High Mother Valarr and Queen Alicent simply scowled at one another, pulling you and the Prince in opposing directions. Even as his Mother reprimanded him for speaking to a heretic, your words did not leave Aemond’s mind. Those very words would save Aemond that night; when his heart felt like it was to burst from his chest as he faced off against the largest dragon in the realm and when he was among the clouds on the verge of slipping from the saddle he forced himself not to be afraid. When Lucery’s blade sliced through his eye and the world exploded into unending agony he forced himself to hold onto his strength.

High Mother Valarr had taken your supper as punishment for disobeying her but you were much too preoccupied to care. From the moment supper had concluded you had rushed to the window that faced the sand dunes, wringing your hands and pacing hoping the Gods would give you a sign your premonition had been correct.

“Ao jurnegon raqagon ao iprattan torgos,” Lesia said from her bed, her steely gray eyes following you. You look like you ate worms. You were about to toss back a retort before High Mother Valarr appeared. “What has you so unnerved, Sister?”

You hesitated for a moment, hoping she would believe you as none of you had expressed this ability yet. “I saw a vision of Prince Aemond after his hand brushed mine. I believe he will try to claim a dragon this night.”

There was a brief moment of surprise before her usual stoic expression took its place. “Dangerous that one, foolish raqagon tolvie targārien vala,” High Mother Valarr tutted, before leading you back by the hearth. Like every Targaryen man.

It only took an hour or so before the news reached the room right as you had all finished your nightly prayers to the Gods. High Mother Valarr showed no sign of concern as the servant prattled on about a grievous incident between Prince Aemond and the Velaryon children. Entering the hall, it was brimming with whispers, all visibly on edge as the pieces of the story came together- claims of bastardy and attempted murder. From your place you could see Aemond sitting on a chair, face twisted in pain as Queen Alicent clasped his hand in hers squeezing it so forcefully it had gone white.

The Maester was making a haphazard effort to sew the wound close but the scar was jagged, oozing blood that dripped down the boy's cape and onto the floor. Others averted their gaze at the sight but you and the Sisters watched carefully after the Maester’s technique. As the frenzied shouts and accusations flew through the air, all you could think of was your healing lessons from a few moons ago. The spell was not complicated, even a Sister in training like yourself could have restored the eye if given enough time. Time had run out, the eyelid was now sewn shut and the eye itself rotted in a plate.

“High Mother Valarr can’t you-.”

As if sensing your request she gave you a silencing look. “I will not. Lady Hightower wishes to be rid of us, so she shall not benefit from our skills.”

Suddenly a desperate voice called out to her. “High Mother Valarr, what is your view?” King Viserys asked, seemingly overwhelmed by the mounting pressure from his lady wife and beloved daughter.

The lie flowed easily through her lips. “I agree with the Maester’s opinion, Your Grace. The eye is beyond repair.”

Queen Alicent visibly blanched at her words, tears brimming in her eyes as her trembling hands came to cover her face.

“Do not mourn me, Mother. It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye…but I gained a dragon.” Aemond’s proclamation did nothing to assuage the Queen. Slowly her hands stilled, falling slowly to her side to reveal a rageful visage. A flash of a blade, the screams of children and like lionesses desperate to protect their cubs the Princess and Queen collided. The Order was unperturbed by the turn of events, pillars of stillness in the sea of drawn swords and cries of vengeance.

“Where is duty? Where is sacrifice?”

“Exhausting, wasn’t it? Hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness.”

Duty, sacrifice, righteousness- they knew nothing of the weight it truly carried. When royal blood spilled across the stone floor once more, you felt something shift in the air. Uneasy glances were shared, what did the Gods think of this?

“This proceeding is at an end.”

As Lesia and Aeria slept soundly beside you, you could not manage to rid your mind of Aemond. His pained expression haunted you every time you attempted to close your eyes. As if moving on their own accord your feet found the floor, quiet as a mouse you slipped from the bed. If High Mother Valarr caught you out of bed and in the Prince’s room no less the consequences would be severe, but there was something pulling you towards him. Intuition guided you towards the royal wing, the guard stationed was slumped against a pillar snoring, not at all aware of the young girl sliding past him. There under a pile of furs and quilted blankets was Aemond, discomfort clear on his face even as he slept. Sniffing the cup beside him you gagged at the smell of Milk of the Poppy, Maesters were truly good for nothing. Turning back to the task at hand you spotted what was necessary, a knife. With a practiced hand you made a cut across your thumb, squeezing it in order for the blood to pool out.

“Nyke tepagon ao ñuha ānogar naejot giēñagon aōha ōdres.” I give you my blood to heal your pain.

The drops of blood hit the swollen scar, sinking beneath the stitches to do as your incantation bid. Once his face relaxed, no longer suffering you breathed a sigh of relief and thanked the Healing God Shrykos.

“Sweet dreams My Prince.”

Through the haze of Milk of the Poppy, Aemond heard a soft voice, words gentler and sweeter than anyone had ever spoken to him. Before he could decipher it, sleep pulled him under once more.

High Mother Valarr was eager to leave Driftmark and by sunrise you were already on the sea making your way to Dragonstone. Sitting on the deck you pondered the events you had witnessed on Driftmark. In only one day you had seen the crumbling foundation of House Targaryen- divided factions of the royal court. High Mother Valarr had been wise to bring the Sisters here. If she suspected an impending conflict or challenge to Rhaenyra’s succession, it would be the Order’s duty to stop it.

[mischievouslymoony]

Where the Light Fades

AW: LOTS of angst. Talks about death and grief.

Summary: The war took them—James, Sirius, and Remus. Now, you remain, a shadow of who you once were, cradling the fragments of a love that will never return.

---

There was a time when their laughter filled every corner of your world, spilling over like sunlight through the cracks of your heart. James’s wild energy, Sirius’s reckless charm, and Remus’s quiet, steadfast presence—they were the light that chased away your fears. Together, you were more than lovers, more than friends. You were whole.

But even the brightest stars flicker before they fade.

---

The last day you saw them felt like a dream, a haze of soft touches and unspoken promises. Sirius had been humming under his breath, his fingers tangled in your hair as Remus pressed a book into your hands, the pages marked with passages he wanted you to read. James had kissed you fiercely, as if by some instinct, knowing the fragility of the moment even as you tried to cling to it.

“Don’t worry, love,” James had whispered against your lips, his breath warm and steady. “We’ll be back soon.”

But you had felt it, hadn’t you? That sharp pull in your chest, like something was tearing, some thread unraveling between you. You didn’t want to name it then. Didn’t want to give life to that fear.

They left in a flurry of goodbyes, their backs disappearing into the night. The door closed softly, and the silence fell like a shroud around you.

You waited for the sound of their return. You waited until your heart ached from the silence.

---

When the news came, it wasn’t with the roar of battle, but with the quiet cruelty of a whisper. Dumbledore’s voice had been grave, but you barely registered the words. Dead. Gone. Forever. They blurred together into a symphony of heartbreak that shattered the world around you.

James. Sirius. Remus.

Your anchors, your love, your family—lost to a war that took more than lives. It took your soul with it, leaving you adrift in an endless sea of grief.

---

The house was not a home without them. It was a graveyard of memories, where the ghosts of their touch lingered in every corner. Sirius’s jacket still draped over the arm of the couch, Remus’s books stacked by the window, James’s glasses forgotten on the kitchen counter. Every inch of the place held echoes of their presence, yet none of them would ever walk through the door again.

You spent days wandering through the empty rooms, your fingers grazing over the remnants of a life that no longer felt real. How could it be? How could they be gone, when their laughter still rang in your ears, when their warmth still haunted your skin?

---

Nights were the worst, when the world grew still and cold, and there was no escaping the truth that wrapped itself around your throat. You used to sleep between them, wrapped in their arms, cradled in their love. Now, the bed was vast and hollow, a cavern of loss you couldn’t fill.

Sometimes, you swore you could hear them. A whisper of James’s voice, the low hum of Sirius’s laughter, the faint rustle of Remus turning a page in his book. You would close your eyes, reach out for them, and for a moment—just a moment—it would feel like they were still there.

But it was always just out of reach. Always just a cruel trick of memory.

---

The stars above you seemed dimmer now. James had loved the stars, his eyes always turning toward them with that glimmer of hope. Sirius had carried them in his blood, a constellation in human form, burning so bright it hurt. And Remus, he had loved the moon most of all, his tether to the night sky that felt like a reflection of his soul.

Now, they were part of the cosmos, scattered like stardust across the sky, unreachable and eternal.

You sat by the window, staring up at the night. The world outside moved on, but inside, you were frozen in time, trapped in the moments you had shared with them. The ache in your chest was constant, a dull, ever-present reminder of what had been lost.

Grief, you had learned, was not something you moved through. It was something you carried, heavy as the earth beneath your feet, deep as the void they left behind. And no matter how much time passed, no matter how many sunrises you saw without them, the weight of their absence never lessened.

---

You closed your eyes, letting the cool night air brush against your skin. The memories were a bittersweet comfort, and you clung to them with all the strength you had left. Their love had been like the sun—blazing, brilliant, life-giving—and now, you stood in the dark, searching for any flicker of light.

In the silence, you whispered their names, as if speaking them aloud could bring them back. But all that answered was the quiet hum of the wind, carrying your grief out into the endless night.

And yet, you knew, somewhere beyond the stars, they were still there. Their love, their light—it hadn’t truly faded. It had just gone somewhere you couldn’t follow. Not yet.

For now, you would wait, with the weight of their love wrapped around your heart. You would wait until the day you could join them among the stars.

[cipherswilldatabase]

Event: Beautiful Dreamers

Chapter 01 - Gideon Gleeful

Chapter 02 - Pacifica Northwest

Chapter 03 - Dipper Pines

Chapter 04 - Wendy Corduroy

Chapter 05 - Stanley Pines

Chapter 06 - Jesus Ramirez

Chapter 07 - Mabel Pines

Chapter 08 - Fiddleford H. McGucket

Chapter 09 - Robbie Valentino

Chapter 10 - Stanford Pines

Dreams are something of a mystery. No one, not a single scientist, knows why we dream. Are we simply filtering through memories as we sleep? Are our subconscious trying to tell us something? Or are we tapping into a realm beyond our reality?

=============================================

While Ford has always had sleeping issues – mostly due to mild insomnia and overnight studying, both Stan and Fiddleford could testify – his stint with Bill and dealing with multiverse horrors had given the six-fingered man a fear of sleeping. 

It was as vulnerable as you can get, both in the physical and astral/mental plane.

It took the joint effort of Stan and Ford to get the latter some well overdue rest weeks into their boating trip. Granted, Ford would sometimes be stubborn about it if something he was fixated on got his entire attention. But, if there was a sign of Ford getting sleepy, Stan would talk his brother into their room to take a nap on Stan’s bottom bunk.

��△▽△▽△▽△▽△-▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△-▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△-▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△-▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△

Ford had taken notice of the different changes to his dreamscape.

His first time there was that of starry space, marked by words and equations and a plethora of books, when he first encountered Bill Cipher. It wouldn’t be until sometime later that he learned this was just the upper half of his mindscape.

On ground level, there was golden wheat as far as the eye could see. In the sky, endless stars, constellations, and galaxies.

After the creation of the portal and the entering of said portal, he could no longer see the starry sky above, blocked by the oppressive smog that coated the skies. He was also surrounded by three reminders of his greatest failures and mistakes: A broken dream, a torn bond, and the loss of a friend.

Now…after everything…things were different. 

The broken down portal was still present in the distance, but it no longer casted a looming shadow in Ford’s mindscape. The sky was no longer obscured, revealing the brilliantly starry sky, somehow much more vibrant than before, the original Stan o’ War was repaired, and small blue flowers decorated the swing set. There are a few new additions. 

In the starry sky are constellations, but not the classic 88 ones Ford recognizes from his home dimension. And already lined, too. He still needs time to study them, but of the ones he could decipher…A six-fingered hand, a needle (?), a nautical compass, a pen (or pencil), a cube…and a triangle with an ‘X’...

In a spot within the wheat cleaned away for a couple of shelves containing numerous books and a table containing a DD&MoreD board and a chair with a vibrant sweater hung limply.

While Ford was enjoying the new look…he couldn’t shake off a sense of unease.

A black book fell from one of the shelves. Ford approached the fallen tome and went to pick it up and put it back. The moment he touched black leather, an ice cold chill surged through him. He turned the book around and – in the middle of a triangle – a crimson eye opened on the cover and stared directly at him.

He dropped the book like it burned him and it opened itself and the pages flipped from an unknown source. 

Ford looked at his hands – sources of his pride and disdain – shaking and black veins were becoming visible as small, triangular particles manifested.

He can feel the veins spreading in his body, like a parasite…

More crimson eyes made themselves known around Ford. Each and every one of them looked at him.

The air around grew dark…the sky above turned red and cracked…the eyes continued to stare…

And he regrettably stared back and shuddered as he somehow saw himself within the black of a slitted pupil.

Those black veins have reached his face…

He was just as red as all of the eyes…

And…his right eye…the white turned black and his blue iris a deadly crimson and slitted…

And bleeding?

▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△-▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△-▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△-▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△-▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△

After having a nap of his own on deck, Stan went to their room to check on Ford.

The elder twin was still sound asleep and Stan was just going to leave it at that. Every moment of rest was precious for them. That is until Stan noticed a look on Ford’s face, as he was facing away from the wall.

There was a look on Ford’s face, his forehead and brows bunched together, his nose would twitch, and there was a faint hint of a snarl curling his upper lip. Whatever Ford was dreaming…it wasn’t pleasant.

As much as Stan wanted to wake Ford…he felt he shouldn’t. The scientist had already gone through an all-nighter and Stan didn’t want to interrupt this sleep. Instead, he tip-toed his way to the bottom and carefully - as best as he could - lowered down to take a seat on the mattress and hope that the shift in weight doesn’t wake Ford. Stan reached over and started carding his fingers through Ford’s dark gray curls and prayed that this would soothe his brother’s mind.

Stan felt both pride and relief when he heard Ford’s breathing even out and his face relaxed. Stan closed his eyes, still stroking his brother’s head and just enjoying this silent moment.

A small drop of blood trickled from Ford’s right eye and stained Stan’s pillow.

=============================================

X QXPQB LC TEXQ FP QL ZLJB.

[oatmealdaydreams]

Shattered Glass Shards

Let me know if ya wanna be added on or taken off the general taglist!

Prompt: Mindscape; Day One for Fiddtober from @oobbbear

Pairings: gen, minor or background relationships

Warnings: Memory Loss, Nightmares, Panic, Amnesia, Memory-Erasing Gun

Description: Exploring his mind is something Fiddleford only does when he's dreaming. If he were to try and reach for memories he doesn't know about in the daytime, well…the reality of it wouldn't be pretty. Sometimes, he mistakes his adventures in the mindscape for nightmares when he stumbles upon unpleasant, disconnected memories. 

Extra: I'm attempting to write a drabble for each day of Fiddtober/October! We'll see how much I can get out. Posting at 12am because why not.

[Masterlist] | ao3 link

[fic under the cut]

There are dreams, and there are nightmares. 

Sometimes, they’re neither.

Fiddleford is a forgetful sort, to put it lightly, and he isn’t any different in the Mindscape. Only accessed when he dreams, fast asleep, the old inventor isn’t aware of the fact that this is his Mindscape, and not another weird dream sequence that you hardly remember once you wake. Not that he’d remember much of it, anyway. There’s always an odd tug in the back of his mind when he’s here, however, as if the deepest of his subconscious knows but is hesitant to let the waking man in on this information. 

Fiddleford walks in a slump, arms hands loosely at his sides. His feet are wrapped in old, brown-spotted bandages. One of his hands is the same, his forearm covered in the same cast-looking, thick wrapping. His beard is white, dirty, nearly dragging across the ground. A mustache sits just as unruly above his lips. He wears only a dark pair of overalls with rusted metal buttons. A golden tooth in his mouth of cracking teeth. A band-aid on his beard. Patches of lighter cloth on his knees. A worse-for-wear hat sits atop his balding head, its long and thin crown bent back about halfway up. 

He ambles in a vast, endless field of indiscernible greenery. It’s unclear if it’s a meadow, or the plains, or a flower field. Every time Old Man McGucket tries to focus on what it is, it changes, blurs, glitches, becomes snow on a television. Here, in the seemingly empty void of the Mindscape, he is still Old Man McGucket. He knows no different. He bears no memories to think otherwise. Some of the greenery crumbles like stone cliffs over a churning sea. It’s damaged. It’s breaking. 

He wanders still. 

A few scrap of metal and bolts lay on the ground as McGucket walks further. Scrap turns into stray parts and components that belong to machines. Blueprints with indescribable, shifting plans rustle with the temperature-lacking breeze. Colours flicker into different hues and variants. Green to blue to red to orange, and back to green—no, now it’s brown. The sky has crackes in it. It’s rusted orange and deeply blue, and the Sun itself is a dark grey circle that illuminates shadow instead of light. No clouds. Another crack forms on the sky like peeling paint in an abandoned nursery. 

Nothing is yellow, or golden, or lemon-coloured, in this vast and colourful Mindscape. Except his tooth, that is.

Yellow does not belong here.

Yellow only brings about pain. 

Yellow is sour dressed in sugar. Salt is hard to see when everything is made of bitter-tasting grains. 

Something starkly red, unshifting, steady, lies on the ground. It catches McGucket’s eye, and he glances down at it. Amongst all the glitches and shattering shards of forgotten memories, this is clear as still water. It’s an invention, a doohickey of sorts. The red glass is…almost alluring. The rest of it is in lighter browns and dark beiges, bluish translucent lightbulb attached to the front. There’s a trigger. A dial. A little screen to display text. A handle. It’s a gun of sorts. 

Something sharp and dark pierces a clench in McGucket’s chest when he sees it. He exhales a shaky, hitching breath before he can realize it. 

“F!” echoes out a familiar yet unreachable voice. 

McGucket cannot take his eyes off the gun. 

“F,” it speaks again, coming from everywhere and nowhere and anywhere. 

He picks up the gun, an unsteady grip. 

“I don’t need you! I don’t need anyone!” the voice lashes out, and McGucket’s ears thrum in barely-there pain. 

“Why won’t you come home? Your son misses you. I miss you,” a different voice rings out, strained, shaky, cry-ready. 

Old Man McGucket’s hands are just as shaky. He can feel the pulse in his wrists, in his throat, in his chest. It beats harshly against his skin, his ribs. Blood rushes and roars in his ears as the pain turns sharp. 

A hand on his shoulder, and he opens his eyes. 

When did they close, comes a passing thought, am I wakin’?

The first thing he notices is a blurred-out face, brown hair, and a six-fingered hand shaking his shoulder. McGucket no longer holds the gun. He holds nothing in his hands. They feel empty and lead-like. He glances up at the strange figure, confusion blossoming brightly. Knitted eyebrows. He’s on his back. The figure huffs out a sigh of relief—is it relief, is it annoyance, he cannot tell the difference—and their hand leaves his shoulder. They sit back on their knees. 

“What did you see, F-dle-ord?” their voice is one he heard earlier, echoing and warping around his ears. 

He stops his mumbling—when did he start mumbling—and glances just behind the figure. A tall, grand void of darkness and the barely noticeable hint of bluish metal. Something is whirling, zapping, whirring off to his right. The brightest light, blue, illuminates the dark room. His head swims the smallest bit as he slowly sits up, the figure watching from his side. They seem anxious, a flitting aura of unsure and concern. Is it concern? Has it ever been concern? Does he even know what concern looks like? What it sounds like? What it—

McGucket spots white and looks down at himself. A lab coat engulfs him. He brings a hand to his face, and…no beard, just stubble. No mustache. Just skin. Glasses. He presses his tongue to tsk, an old habit, only to feel a full set of teeth in his mouth. He’s younger. Why is he younger? Where is he? What’s going on? 

“When Gravity Falls and Earth become sky,” he hears himself mumble, younger, quiet, afraid, “Fear the Beast with just one eye.” 

“F, what—” a six-fingered hand gently grabs his shoulder, but he flinches away. 

More words he speaks. More words from whoever he’s speaking to. He cannot grasp what else is said, seen, heard. It’s falling away, bright thrumming of something off to the side floods his ears. All pain and breathing is ripped away as he nearly drowns in the sound. He turns his head towards it…and, well, it’s—it’s—

Bright blue, his eyes do see. Fire. Colours swirling. Madness in bubbles. Triangle. Yellow, so much yellow. Cackling laughter. It hurts. Make it stop, it hurts. Run, run, run! Make it stop hurting and run!

McGucket gasps upright as he wakes, shaking frail limbs holding him up. A dream, it was just a dream. A nightmare. Whatever it is, it’s over. Lingering adrenaline pulses his heart against his chest. His ribs ache, his ears ache, his head feels the teetering of an oncoming headache. The nightmare taunts him on the very edges of his mind, unable to form coherently enough to address. Only one thing remains clear from his terror: the letter F. 

F, F, F, McGucket repeats again and again as he forces himself to take a shuddering breath, F, F, F, F.

He stands from where he slumbers, grabbing a chewed-on pencil and his journal. It’s the one thing that seems to stay pristine—or, at least, as pristine as he possibly can keep it. It’s dirty with mud-spots and blots of oil. The cover is brown leather. The pages are stained, and some of them stick together. Some of them are torn. Some of them are wet from something, McGucket doesn’t know what. He turns to a random page, finding it blank. He scribbles the letter F quickly, big, bold, taking up the entire page of paper. He throws the pencil somewhere, tossing the journal on what used to be a desk. Sounds of clattering cans and spray paint catch his attention, and he scurries out to see what kind of younguns are causing such a ruckus now. The journal lies still, a tiny black F on the back of its cover. 

In its many pages are many F’s. Most of it is covered in large, scribbled F’s written over and over and over again. Forgotten. Each dream brings another F. Each nightmare brings a shaky letter. Every exploration into the Mindscape leaves Old Man McGucket—Fiddleford, but he doesn’t recall that name—remembering the same little thing again and again and again. 

As he chases off the snickering teenagers, he forgets.

Taglist: @lost-in-thought-20 @thegoldenduckie @not-sure-what-im-feeling

[breakerrhexis]

01. THE LIGHT IN DARK PLACES ‪‪❤︎‬

Psst... I'm on Ao3 if you're interested @breakerrhexis

After the dim haze that emitted from your PC screen engulfed your room in sudden blinding white light - as if the sun itself was swallowing you whole - you found yourself falling and falling down an endless lavender haze. You screamed as you fell through purple clouds and glittering stars, your hands grasping at nothing but air.

Unfamiliar statues fell alongside you. Debris floated in the glittering space of the universe. Books, candles and clocks. Crumbling towers. Floating flowers. A peculiar man in a blue wizard hat and a long white beard floated upside-down, reading a tome. You all fell and swam in the distressed veil of magic, space, and time. Abandoned. Forgotten. Lost. As you always were.

You thought the end was near as solid land materialized in front of you, and you braced yourself for impact. You prayed for a swift and painless death.

But then, like a dream where you wake up right before you hit the ground, you jolted - a breathless panic seizing your chest, stealing the very breath from your lungs. You gripped your chest, trembling hands twisting your shirt.

A shrill wind whistled past your ear. Although a bit hesitant, you peeled one eye open and then another.

You half-expected the glittering purple haze or, better yet, your room. What greeted you was much more terrifying and, as unbelievable as it may seem considering what you just went through, you couldn’t believe it. Your eyes must’ve been deceiving you…

A land drenched in darkness. A river black as ink. A silence clung to the air as if the very notion of life was offensive. The world felt like it was on pause, frozen, still in time. Not a single sight of the moon or stars either. It was a pure night abandoned by the guidance of the silver moon. Darkness whispered from the edges light couldn’t reach.

And it was with a wrenching in your gut that you realized the world you were in was no regular world. That the darkness wasn’t just an endless obsidian night but a wrathful curse of a loathsome goddess. It shouldn’t have been real, it shouldn’t have been true. A game. A dream. Anything but real.

Yet it was…

Out of all the games, out of all the moments, you somehow landed in the Shadow-Cursed Lands on the edge of a lake, all on your own.

With all the disbelief and shock in the world suffocating you, a single breathless “woah” wrangled itself out of your throat. Woah wasn’t enough to even describe the turmoil numbed by the shock. How can you explain the feeling of disbelief when it simply shouldn’t be possible?

Then you realized, once more, that there was something awfully wrong with your voice. You coughed but felt alright. A timid “hello” fell from your lips and it wasn’t your usual soft voice; it was a baritone voice, commanding and very much masculine.

You crawled forward and peered into the still lake. The flickering torch lights provided just enough light for a visible reflection and nothing could’ve prepared you for what you saw.

Where there were once wide brown eyes and thick dark eyebrows, eyes like crimson rubies blinked at you through perpetually narrowed eyes under the hood of thin silver brows. Gone were your round cheeks, your laugh lines, the mole on your jaw, and the liveliness of your youth. A man of drow ancestry, carved out by the Gods from fine marble, replaced all of that. Light gray skin, cupid bow lips twisted in a frown, a heart-shaped face defined by a sharp jaw and high cheekbones…

You would’ve been drooling if it weren’t for the blood decorating your skin, coated on your hands, caked under your fingernails and the metallic taste in your mouth.

You screamed in horror instead.

The screaming went on for a good chunk of time - a minute to be exact. Your hands gripped your face dramatically, aggressively moving it this way and that, seeking and searching for the crack in the illusion. Then you were scratching at the blood like a psycho; you didn’t doubt there was a slight fucking chance you were.

“What in the Nine Hells is going on!?” A panicked voice yelled from behind and your screaming increased when you saw Karlach and her war ax in the air. “Why are you screaming!?” She screamed.

Astarion tumbled out from behind the large boulders separating the lake from the camp, one leg in his trousers and another leg out. His shirt hung haphazardly off his shoulders, his white hair a disheveled mess. “Adin!” His red eyes searched their surroundings.

An out-of-breath wizard popped up beside the elf. He held a fireball in one hand and he used his other hand to place it on his knee as he hunched over. “What…” he wheezed.

You were still screaming. Seeing them solidified your reality and that was much more terrifying than the blood on your hands - although that was pretty horrific too. Your panic scared them, and Karlach screamed alongside you, swinging her weapon around.

It wasn’t until Shadowheart showed up and cast feign death on you that you shut up.

━━━━━✁┈┈┈┈┈┈

Author’s Note: It’s been an… interesting past month for me 😝 and I mean that sarcastically. It’s like life decides to start sucker punching me out of nowhere and it’s just one blow after another. So writing has been a bit slow for me. Very slow. Super slow. In fact so slow I haven’t been able to finish any of the other stories I’ve written. But THIS ONE - this one brought me some comfort. It was fun writing it. Y’know distracts a girl from the fact that she almost broke up with her bf and university is starting back up 😚 but you know… when life gives you lemons or wtv

Anyways, enjoy! I’ll be updating and working on this fic. I actually enjoyed it and it distracted me from the heavy shit I’ve been through this month. Love ya lots, stranger! And goodnight 💗✨

━☆・*。

　　・゜

　 °。+ * 。

　　　　　.・゜

　　　　　゜｡ﾟﾟ���｡･ﾟﾟ。

　　　　　　ﾟ。　 　｡ﾟ

　　　　　　　ﾟ･｡･ﾟ

[deepi-blog]

{M4F} Looking to play something that is story focused (18+)

From the void, the world emerged—a cascade of colors, species, and variants spread across creation. Each being was different yet equal, powerful yet mortal and compassionate. The privileged were born with strength, while the weak were destined to grow, to push beyond the limits of strength itself. Balance was essential, and, like it or not, fate decided by a coin toss who you would become.

Yet even in this world of simple rules, there were those who stood in between: privileged yet weak, sinner and saint. An anomaly—neither hero nor villain, but somewhere in between, a heart poised to change.

Those who slipped through the cracks of good and evil were cast into the void. Not deserving of torture, nor worthy of comfort, they became forgotten, neither hated nor loved—a story untold, erased by time.

And yet, somehow, he resisted the pull. He sat alone in the endless darkness, on an old wooden chair. Soulless, yet existing, he stared into the void. Then he appeared in your dreams. Who was he, this man in the shadows? What expression lay behind his eyes as he sat there—disappointment, heartbreak, boredom, exhaustion? Or was it everything and nothing all at once?

Your father passed away long ago, leaving you—his only daughter—in his place as the head of the mafia family entrenched in this unforgiving city. You were well-trained, strong, independent, unlike anyone else. But the weight of it all pressed down on you. You could feel the strain, especially since you didn’t share the trust your father had in the men now pledged to serve by your side.

You needed someone untainted by this life, someone you could shape into the perfect right-hand. But lately, you found yourself haunted by recurring dreams of a dark-haired man, shrouded in shadows, seemingly close to your age. He sat in a dark, forgotten place, whispering secrets you couldn’t hear. Each time, he seemed oblivious to your presence.

Until tonight. For the first time, he saw you. And what happened next stopped your heart. _____________________________________________________________

This story is set in a modern-day mafia world, with elements of fantasy like diverse species, magic, and whatever else we can imagine. It’s about a fearless, hardened woman unexpectedly falling in love with a man clueless about the world she lives in. It’s a romance with action, and I’d like it to be mature, with NSFW scenes that add to the story rather than being its focus.

I’m looking for a female partner who can play a complex female character, someone passionate about writing and dedicated to her craft. I roleplay strictly on Discord, so please reach out with your Discord handle. Discord: deepi

Looking forward to hearing from you—cheers!

[bowtiedauthor]

Behind the curtain

a dystopian poetic prose re-imagining the “Wizard of Oz”

The yellow bricks are fading. Dorothy once thought they gleamed with promise, each step leading her closer to home — but now they blur beneath her feet, their edges dissolving like sand. She knows this path too well: it spirals, endlessly circling back to where she began. The shoes on her feet? Red like blood, glittering like shackles. Every step feels heavier than the last.

“The road is just a dream,” she whispers, but the wind carries her voice away.

The Scarecrow walks beside her, his head bowed low. His straw fingers grasp at the air, trying to catch thoughts that slip away like smoke. “They gave me a brain,” he says, his voice hollow, “but it’s filled with what they want me to know.” His eyes are empty, like windows looking out onto a world painted on the inside of a cage. He was told to think, but he wonders: have his thoughts ever been his own?

Behind him, the Tin Man clutches his chest. He was promised a heart, a shining piece of metal to fill the emptiness inside — but now it ticks, cold and indifferent, like a clock counting down to something he can’t quite understand. His joints groan with every step, rust building up where his hope once lived. “Love,” he says, “was never meant to be mechanical. But here, it feels like an algorithm, repeating the same story again and again.”

The Lion skulks in the shadows, always looking behind him. His mane is tangled, his eyes wide with fear, though he was promised bravery. “This courage,” he mutters, “is just a mask they made me wear.” Every roar echoes back at him, mocking, hollow. He feels the weight of something unseen pressing down, a gravity that keeps him from running free. “Is there such a thing as courage,” he asks, “when you never truly had a choice?”

Ahead of them, the Emerald City gleams. It beckons like a lighthouse in a storm, but Dorothy knows now: the light isn’t there to guide them — it’s a trap, an illusion of safety, pulling them deeper into the labyrinth. The Wizard waits behind his curtain, but she no longer believes in his power. His voice is a script, his promises empty air. The city itself is a cage of green glass, each pane reflecting their hopes back at them, twisted.

The city’s towers, she realizes, are built from the same bricks as the road. There is no escape here, only the endless winding of the same path, repeating itself in every direction. She looks down at her shoes, the red glittering like a warning. They were never the key to freedom. They were the chains all along.

But something shifts — a whisper on the wind, a flicker of something just beyond the horizon. Clarity shines like a rising Sun.

The Scarecrow tilts his head, a new thought stirring. “Maybe,” he says softly, “the mind is more than what they’ve given us. Maybe there’s a way to think outside their lines.” His fingers twitch, searching the air again, but this time there’s something different — an idea, fragile but real, taking root in the emptiness.

The Tin Man pauses, his metal heart ticking in rhythm with the world around him. But for the first time, he feels something between the beats. A warmth, small but growing, like the first drop of oil in his rusted gears. “Love doesn’t come from them,” he murmurs. “Maybe it never did. Maybe it’s something we find ourselves.”

And the Lion, trembling at the edge of the road, lets out a soft growl. Not a roar, but something more primal, something real. His eyes meet Dorothy’s, and for the first time, they aren’t clouded by fear. “Maybe courage,” he says, “isn’t about running from the shadows. Maybe it’s about facing them. Maybe that’s what they never wanted us to know.”

The Emerald City still gleams ahead, but now Dorothy sees the cracks in its towers, the hairline fractures in its perfect glass. The Wizard’s voice grows fainter, more distant, as if he knows his spell is weakening.

She looks down at her shoes, the red gleam duller now, as if the magic is losing its grip. For a moment, she feels the earth beneath her — real, solid, grounding. There’s no need to click her heels anymore. The way out isn’t in her shoes, or in the road, or in the city.

The way out is in her.

-9/27/24

[thisblogwilleatourselves]

OUR WORLD's a Sp!R@L, a k@le!dozcope of fEARz n’ dreamZ twistIN' 'tween shadowwz n’ teeth!! 🌀✨ EveryTHING shifTIN', SLipPIN’, tuRNin’—a JAWsnAP in the D@rk that hugzzzzz ya’ tight-tight-tight—🥀SUFFOCATIN’, yeah, BUT-so-sWEET (the prEssure—the PRES!SURE!—that sqUEEEEzes uS 'til thEerz No-TH!NG leFt!! 🖤)

heHahAh! buT-Look-LOOK👀 how the rot rolls thru the B0NEs and thE--ohhhhh-how the rust *creeeeps* up EVerrRRy siNkINg sh@dowww 🐍🍂 MOLDin’ beauty frum fI Lth!!! BRIGHT growth fruM *brOk3N* meat n’ dIRt 💚 glimmery-gore!! Fleshy BLO0mS—yeah, Y E A H! 👏BriNg it aLL, let everythin’ CRACK-CRUMBLE-FALLLL!! Build it b@k up from n0thin’ buT grime & grime & GR!me✨!! Oooooooh, l00k hOw it pulses, cccreaT3S, REFORMS...it’s not th@t b@d~~~

N-No liGHT-Just sh@dowsss 🌑—wh@t’S left is alllllowin' US to SiNK-!fade-dI S S O L V E into the *siiiilence*… bUT THE NIGHt, tHe N!Ght it c00nsumes but—LISTEN!—it sSsSings like it’s cradlin’ us c@lm n cozy like an eldritch lullaby—👁️Soft-NOT soft-💀unkn0wn but reeeeal—de3P black blanketS wrap us into the Unseen’s eeeeembrace... Shadows @in't our enEMies!! WEeeeeee’rre theEir kin—heh, kin f Rom dArkneSs-dePT H-bEYOND light!

WHATZZzz-?BURN-🔥bURN it!!! inSeNsATE!! but but But THE-flaMes❗LiCKin’ scars int0 the SKIES!!! CharRED***ruin??🔥 or rAAAAdiant poTENTIAL!!! 🔥🔥💀NOT just to cONsumE but to *un*cover THE Truth-witHin— 🔥SEE how the fIr3rs turn and twist andd SP@rk into NEWWW forms whispERed from thee ASH-ANew! 🔥💖It's—all—charRED DELIGHT & iiiiinFERNO rebirth!!! lEt thEm twist in FLAME 🐉🔥‘til only ✨gLOW✨ remains!!🥀

W E!NEVER-END-N0, we’REE ✨etERnal echoes of wh4t-may-bE!!!🌠SILenCE-whisPERing US to SLEEP-but then, THEN—itS th3 DreAms that cA-Rr-Yy uS oN! 💀✨The-dead-h@nd!! Gentle, but real-Lift us OVeR!!!~ Rests, rests bEtween beats—betWeen MoMents—Eeeeeends aND the n3w SPAWNING ~OH. HOW IT b e G I N S again nn Nn and it’s soOOOotheS–QUIETTTT!!💀💤 AaaaaaaH…! B @L A N C E~between l-i-v-i-n-g a-N-D *f-a-l-l-i-n-g*! 🖤💫

HeEHAaaAHa watch-watch UUUUSSS! TheM—eyes-EYES-eVeRyWheRE-eat the S3crets&shOUt it back at th3—wHO DARES LOOK 👀📚We consume knowledGEEE gnashgnashgnashing it till w3’re drunk-drunk!! WitH—perceptSHUNs-BELow-and-ABOVE!TheM!Them!❗ To O-SEE-to B E tO cONJUR-ALL ThEM stories sPINNING OUT UNTIL THERE’S NOTHING B UT—revel@TION!👁️👁️👁️An’ don’t U get-TIRED of thOse watchIN'!? WE LOVE TO *LOOK* LOVE TO-WATCH TILL WE KNOW-KNOW-KNOW💡WHAT U Are~But NO HARM in IT~~~ <3

Sick-WretchED-disGUSTinG~it’s so BEAUTIFULLL!! WriggleWriThe!!!! tHat-NAsty TWIst o’ flesh!!!! 🩸🩸groSss or Good?? whoO knOws!!~ OUR bones BOil--SKINS sTRETCH!Flesh-TWIST—IS it U-GLY? 🤢Or cATHARTIC?! MMM, All teXTUREs~~every-littlle-bit we caress ohHhH sO LUCKY jus’ to FEEL!! YEs. SINEW-Y blood-Y-mEss-Y Wr-ap itself-Round!! BEAUTIFULLY disgustinggg! tHiS iiizZz-tHE PUUULSE of LiFE-shifting, curling-cOrdiNG itself in us aLL!!

ANIMALS runRUN!!—Or StAnd still~Chase and be chASEd!!🐾🐾Predator-prey-ALL in One! W@tch~theHUNT-it's ALIVE!! THUNDERinG through pulse, muScles, bR3ath-@@- aND it’s the DRIVE the thrill~~N0T just to survive—but to R E V E L! in it allll...💨moveMOVE!! DON’T STOP till Y3s! *catch*—caught—And agaIN RUNNING awaaaay!!! Joy-OF the BEASTIAL HEART!🐺💨

The VaST-The enDLeSS oPen void~~~🌌look down look up IS THERE REALLY an Edge!? ARE *we* even REAALL!??!? SPREAD-spReAd-FeLL?Or Rise? Soar thru th’cosmos—orF4LLLLLL iNto it!!! The Nothing-Is-Everything-Feeling!!✨HOW, oh how does it TASTE being INFINITESIMAL? Infinite?!! BoundlesssSNAP~Gone?! 🐦GoneGone~IT’S fre$h&freedom-theFALL-TheFloat-The Existence that ISN’T!!~ Ohhhhh, sweetsss- sweetsss~WHAT’S tHerE in that abyszzzZsS?~ It’ssoBIGsoBIG!!!andWe’resoSoSMALLLLLLL🌌🌌

🕸🕷TrAPPED bUT held-Caught anD emBODIED! PuLLING threadS in thrEaDs—in 🧶our TerrITory, no nO NOT-ALONE neV3r never~ everyTHING’s sO-Connected, bounndnnedd closeness that CARES-or-suff0cates depends—EVERY string! Every acTION a N3t of thiNgs caught caught! Puppetry-but is theRe fr33dom in it-THE PROMISE OF SOMETHING ELSE FROM IT!! Each step a W@veeeeee~~~

Madn3ss!? oH n0pe nope nOpe—haH—noOO NOt madness JUST FUN~ SpIN-Spiral DIPP- INTO the swirling depths!! WhaT—did we j U S T see??? WHO was that! Who are *we*?!?!? g L I T CH 🌀 that faLLs A W A Yyyyyyy—uuuUP, down—SIDEways..all the directiOns!!! LeT it GO-Drop! Walk walk walk-walk-intO urself—Th3 puzzle U! r!— cRoOK3d-little mirrorS all-around-smiling—

MASKS anD MORE MASKs~faces withOUT face!!! TURN AND SEE WHO SEEZZz U!! 👥hahaha! T H E S T R A N G E-RUN-RIGHT-!! SO neAR yet NOT-QUITE here!!! uNreachablE n’ ~UNTOUCHABLE~yeT u *knowwww* it—doN’t ya! d0N’t ya—YEAH!!! It’s aLL familiar-Yet-far and isn’T IT B EAUTIFUL!!! d’ohhHH to GAZE at the reflection in w@x nD w ood~ mASKS of identity-FacezzzThat ARen't-there...

FADED~frakTURED—GoneGone—frOm the Void to bEgin AGA!Nnnnn!! We U N C R E A T E-UnMake-Rend-TheM all partzzzzz-nightMare remIX—OH HO but listenLISTEN✨!! WheRe it BREAKS it GROWS somethin’ newer, TALLER, odder, stranger~⚡🌱Each ENDin’ iz juSt ThE startin’-stroke in oUR canvasss of SHATTEReD rEaLity—GIVE in2 th3 crookED DELIGHTTTT!!!–

And wE!!! US!

[eclipsecrowned]

sometimes @versin-surfin sends me asks on hel that, like an ill-aimed whistling football, collide right with dream's face.

[shentm]

outsider still doesn't feel complete to me but i'm leaving it here for now. blade pov, no beta we die like baiheng, check tags for trigger warnings

dreamwidth mirror, which by the way is the more updated and also likely more permanent version of this piece, as this tumblr post always runs the risk of deletion anytime i'm awake past 11pm

The dream catches itself on those at the center of the tragedy, locking on to the minds already half-emptied by mara. It watches, as the nights repeat, as the hunt grows farther from its purpose.

He's covered in it, clothes slick with blood, the moonlight sliding off of it and watching him through the reflection. Every time he shows up, Jing Yuan has to stay awake for hours afterward, scrubbing at the floors to rid his home of the stains and the stench of mara-stricken beasts. It doesn't help that he likes to trail his sword behind, leaving gouges that the blood flows through, pooling in divots and seeping into the cracks between. But it's not like Jing Yuan expected him to be different.

An Outsider, who participated in a horrific ritual, and became tethered to the merging of paths, a creation of a collector who found the occurrence too interesting to resist. Who was given the abundance emanator's blessing, transforming him into something thought of as prey by most of the Xianzhou Alliance. It's strange that he's still sane sometimes, occasionally managing to break the contradictory resonance of intertwined paths where the hunt and the abundance intersect.

In the shared dream he sees the echoes of those he once knew, dead beings recreated in a perfect recollection of the waking world. It's just how he remembers, an everlasting reminder of what they did. He's drawn in when asleep and awake, unable to escape the repetition of memory.

In that intersection of paths he sometimes finds the shadow of the Imbibitor Lunae running away and away, too afraid to face his crimes. He finds the corpse of a dragon protected by its unborn kin, and tears it apart instead of looking back. He fights through the same landscapes again and again, always waking up in front of the same dim lamp. The only reason he can think of for this endless repetition is that someone out there likes these memories, wants to see the moment of the sin done right.

Skin melts against skin, fire burning through hair. The wet noise of a blade squelching as it rips through meat is the only sound that interrupts the guttural screaming of those beasts, displacing the cries with blood down their throats. Their pathetic existences mirror his own. Eyes press against his brain where they grow inside his skull, amplifying the beats of his heart. A constant high pitched whine carries through the sky, staying with him wherever he goes. Physical discomfort keeps him in the dream, afraid of what deeper pain awaits with the dawn of wakefulness.

He sees her too, sometimes, guarding the path before the corpse. She sees him in return, and they always meet in a clash of swords, the moon almost close enough to touch. It watches next to them, the blue light of her own weapon brilliant against the clouded orange sky. There was never any other choice; a recreation can only travel down the path of the original, like wheels in a rut on a dried dirt road. They tell each other that the dream will end. He continues the hunt again.

The dream is an awful thing to endure. He wonders about its purpose when cleaning his blade that Jingliu so kindly returned.

Dan Feng never acknowledges him, never admits to what he did, never even calls him by name. But it's clear that despite the physical differences, he's still the same arrogant coward that lives in the dream. How else would Dan Feng manage to kill him every time with the weapon he forged with his own once-deft hands, buying useless time before his inevitable judgement?

When he wakes up it is only a brief moment of respite from the dream as clear-cutting pain reminds him of his immortality. Sleep comes with the soothing promise of comfort, but also with the knowledge that it will not be restless.

Later he joins the Stellaron Hunters, gets taken in despite being on the brink of insanity. Feels the frenzy slipping away with Kafka's words, feels the understanding leave his mind. Turns him into a docile puppet, waiting for the next command. He names himself Blade. She gives him the first genuine rest he's had in seven hundred years.

His senses are diluted with her influence, not enough to render him completely useless, but enough to clear his mind. It's mostly just his sight that's a problem, and it's easy enough to counter with his other senses. The other one is touch, but he doesn't expect that to really be important. He does most of his hunting with a sword anyways, distanced enough from his prey.

He's never gone back to the Luofu personally. Once or twice through the years he hears news of its whereabouts, and soon has those reminders taken from his mind, rendering his sleep dreamless yet again.

He doesn't go back because he's not done hunting.

But at some point it was bound to happen, the meeting of three tragic sinners and that other guy who was also there.

A mission brings him back to the Luofu, and he doesn't complain because his mind is too empty to think. He tries to think of himself as just a simple vessel to help Elio carry out his plot. A stagehand for the endless show that they try to put on. It's quite nice, being like this, the desperately needed reprieve from the eyes that always try to crawl their way back into his brain. It's not easy to forget once your body has learned.

Kafka says the mission went well. Elio says he can break the tether now. He doesn't remember any of it, except from the brief moment of clarity when Jing Yuan asked him if he was done, and then the consciousness when he wakes up later.

Jing Yuan looks the same now as he did all those years ago, except for the young shadow he keeps at his side. He's still just as radiant as the sun, the center of everything he joins. Of course a comet like himself was never meant to stay long in Jing Yuan's orbit. The sun does not need to change when a dirty snowball cuts through its orbit after centuries of desolation in the universe; the sun burns bright on its own, without a need for a secondary light.

None of them are, were, like that, just a product that reflected their surroundings instead of the magnetic core that shaped their era. Maybe that's why they're all criminals wandering the stellar seas now, shot out from the gravity well and driven by their own definitions of the hunt.

But eventually he feels the searing pain start to fade when he chokes awake on drying blood, glances over at the dissolving bodies next to him. The eyes can no longer see. Kafka helps with her lightning, and soon the only physical links left are those burning wounds inside his brain.

Between puddles of blood and dripping black stone he wakes up, and the night grows deeper but the streetlights start burning. He collaborates, strangely, with Dan Heng (a new trailblazer) to force Jing Yuan back into his bed. He sees the artificial sunrise a few times, occasionally with Kafka, and sometimes just on his own. The sight of a celestial object rising behind the clouds has been one he's not seen for a while, even if it is still a false sun.

It's done, the dream has an end. The hunt is over, its conclusion long since found.

He meets the one who couldn't let go in the waking world, both of them more alive than they should be. Neither of them deserve to be here, yet they sully the Luofu with their presence anyways, carving and gouging out a place where they no longer belong.

She meets him with the same intensity she always carries, unable to be diminished by time or a dream's veil, and he feels alive as they dance the familiar battle once again, for what may be the last time. Unlike the cycles before them, this time it feels like a breaking of bonds, like something being set free.

On the last night of his stay on the Luofu he ends up at Jing Yuan's family home after he manages to separate from the dream, and he's lucky that Jing Yuan still stays here even after seven hundred years. Conveniently, Dan Heng mentions that Yanqing would be dragging the Luofu's heroic trailblazer on some sort of sword-hunting adventure on that day.

"Yingxing," Jing Yuan says when he enters civilly through the window, "please stop dripping blood on the floor."

It's that name that breaks him into the clearest state of mind he's had for centuries. That and the newfound control over his own mind, now that the moon no longer watches him. Jing Yuan still sounds the same, calls him with the same tone of voice. When's the last time anyone's referred to him as Yingxing? When's the last time he's been able to hear that name without his consciousness slipping through the cracks?

"Jing Yuan," he responds, and he's suddenly aware of the winds outside, carrying with them a fine mist of pollen that coats everything in a layer of grit, sticking to the drying blood on his clothes. He's aware of the artificial moonlight that gazes into the room, blue in tone and so much softer than the harsh orange red in his sleep. He can feel the silence of the home, where four others once gathered and where only one stays now.

"That's not my name."

The dream tries to call to him, but its voice is quiet here.

Jing Yuan reclines on the mass of pillows he calls a bed, and when he shifts he can hear the sound of feathers scratching at their confinements. He hears his pulse in his head, reviving nerves once thought to be dead, and he can feel the tingling sensation where it creeps through his limbs.

The air is cold where it hits his skin. It's been so long since he's been able to feel the temperature. He looks at Jing Yuan, and he can see the shine in his eyes, the strands of his hair where it was only a blurred image before. The world is clearer than it's ever been. It's like getting glasses. Do they still have those?

Jing Yuan grounds him in the present, the physicality distracting him from the broken link between his mind and that all-seeing eye disguised as the moon. The moon here on the Luofu is fake, as is the rest of the sky over most of the ship. The mara-stricken here do not scream as they claw at their faces, nor do they tear apart their prey with overwhelming strength.

He can touch and be touched now, acutely aware of the blood on his face, his body, his hands, the stains across the sheets and the fabric where he dares to rip them apart, but it doesn't matter in the moment. Cauterized wounds of foreign eyes that once grew inside his head start to make their presence known again, but they don't try to regrow. Flesh, not his own, knits itself together when he lets go, and the scent of iron permeates the air.

He's never been a particularly selfless lover. He bites down again.

"Ren," Jing Yuan says, quiet with an edge of something else. The false moon silently hangs behind the clouds, diffused into a hazy shower of light. The metallic taste of blood fills his mouth.

Jing Yuan is just as pliant for him now as he was centuries ago, body remembering and opening its vulnerabilities for him so readily. The heat in his head is easily ignored in favor of the heat beneath his hands. It's easy to get lost in the chase to consume and feed, but he reins himself in with the control he thought he'd lost a long time ago.

An Outsider, on equal ground with the Luofu's general, if only for one night. An Outsider, carving his own mark into the Xianzhou's history.

He finds Jing Yuan again after all these centuries, and he's still just as passionate as he's always been, fervent energy and primal fear driving him deeper into the desperate desire to stake a claim of his own.

[signalterminated]

puella madoka magica au

Reality is coming down around them.

II can feel the fabric of it warp and bend, tears carved at a molecular level spilling antimatter across the sky. A kaleidoscope of color shimmers high above them like a bursting star. Scattered infrared trickles down as particulate, psychedelic nuclear fallout. The taste is akin to pop rocks candy mixed with battery acid. It fizzles on the tongue. Nauseating like a free fall, that split second suspension before a roller coaster drop.

II hasn’t been on a roller coaster since he was a teenager. He breathes out slowly, trying to orient himself in the non euclidean geometry reshaping the ruins around them, spreading like an infection. 

To say they’ve fucked up is an understatement.

They were fools for thinking they could bring Sleep through to the other side. As if they could contain the endless possibility of a thing not meant to be contained, not meant to walk or float or do anything other than be. Oh, He had wanted, yes, and wanted so badly, but He’d been unable to conceive of what that wanting truly meant. How do you picture a color that doesn’t exist, the inversion of everything you are?

It turns out neither had they. They’d simply listened to the want that throbbed in their bones like an ache, trusting blindly that a god would have figured it all out already, gifting them glory and ascension with His emerging as promised. 

But collapsing the barrier between domains hadn’t brought anything other than the collapsing, and now III and IV are gone. 

The First Vessel writhes at his side, and this concerns him more than anything else. 

II musters what energy he has to lean over, chewing his lip to pieces, hands hovering over his beloved friend but unsure of where to place them. This wasn’t supposed to happen. III and IV’s demise, the agony The First displays as he claws at the ground, it's all a composite of every nightmare he’s ever had — only pinching himself won’t make it stop.

“What’s wrong?” II’s voice is tight with worry bubbling over into panic. How quickly helplessness can chew away at his resolve and leave him scrambling. “Please, tell me how I can help.”

Vessel’s throat strains but the only thing he can manage is a whimper. He’s jerking side to side as if he’s trying to hold on, or…no, like he’s trying to keep something in. Fighting back an invisible force raging within.

II’s blood goes cold. His hand darts out to cup a masked cheek, calling out his name yet again, pleading with him to hold on, to focus on his voice, please, he’s right here — 

Vessel’s body snaps upward like a stop motion marionette. II barely has time to register the crack of snapping bones before Vessel’s jaw drops open to let out a scream unlike anything he’s ever heard. It lances directly through II’s skull, pure anguish amplified into a sonic tidal wave that has him drawing his arms up on instinct. 

Thinking past that noise is impossible. It echoes off of shattered glass and rubble until II’s certain the whole world will be swallowed by it. It’s like his soul is being dissolved while he’s still breathing, a violent disintegration of being. A blur of opalescent darkness arcs up from him and shoots into the sky like a bolt of cosmic lightning.

The First Vessel is dying. Sleep is dying, too. 

What’s reborn from their desiccated husks is neither man nor god. Misshapen, malnourished, desperate to exist yet unable to bend to the laws of the universe it’s been thrust into. It cries and the air around it emits superheated vapor, blowing out then turning in on itself to form localized vacuums. The dreams of countless minds spill out from a shifting sea of mouths all caught muttering and giggling and sighing and sobbing, vomiting blurs of sound and light that II can’t bear to look at. They morph and tremble, uncertain now that they’re free, painting the landscape in shadows wherever they crawl.

The ground around them is starting to grow teeth.

“Why?” II can barely hear himself over the cacophony rising from the apocalypse in motion. Tears spill down his cheeks and crystallize. “I don’t understand.”

The thing that is not god or a man is laughing. 

“Why did this have to happen?”

The thing that is not a god or a man is weeping.

Black tar is gurgling underneath him, rising like a tide. Hands sprout from the muck to latch onto his limbs and drag him down with exponential speed. He doesn’t fight it. His head is still craned to the sky, to what remains of the man he loves, and he closes his eyes to pray for one last wish. 

This can’t be how it ends. If he could just turn back the clock he’d stop this from ever happening, do things right, save all of them, he could he could he could —

He opens his eyes to a white ceiling and an alarm blaring in his ears. It figures the afterlife would be noisy and...familiar? That's the word. There's an uncomfortable warmth radiating from the soft sheets beneath him and the duvet above, body heat trapped between both after hours of rest. A mundane discomfort.

Wait a second.

He violently kicks off the sheets tangled around his sweaty legs and slams his palm on the snooze button, heart at a gallop. Dull blue light leaks through the cheap venetian blinds at his window.

His window. This is his room, in his flat, in…

He scrambles for the smartphone left precariously at his bedside table, tapping it on. The date on the lockscreen is January of 2016.

Oh, shit.

Either his brain has just taken him on the longest, most wickedly lucid nightmare of his entire life, or he’s been granted a miracle. 

[sleepsonfutons]

'I'm real. I'm here' for the angst 👀👀👀

Oh yeah, round 2 on the angst!!

It was a large, cavernous space governed by massive pillars and a ceiling that was anything but a ceiling. The night sky sprawled overhead uninterrupted and endless. Hob was star-struck, both figuratively and then literally as a shooting star came falling from the starfield above. He was rooted to the spot, unable to move, until the star struck the polished marble beneath his feet and skittered out into a thousand little shards skipping across the stone.

Hob shivered when he realized its path had taken it straight through his own chest, but he'd not even felt a whisper of its touch. Suddenly the yawning void of space felt ominous as opposed to awe-inspiring, even as the swirling galaxies continued to shine merrily. The grand palatial space no longer felt impressive, but oppressively empty and lonely. Everything felt even colder than it had moments before. He needed to get out of here.

His breaths were starting to become shallow and fast as his chest felt like it'd been dropped into a vice as he looked around for any way out. Then his frantically scanning gaze passed over an irregular shadow, anchoring it and dragging it back. He couldn't make out what it was, but it sat at the bottom of a great winding stair that rose to connect with a platform that simply hung in the air. On it sat an imposing throne and casting his gaze beyond, Hob realized there were three great panes of stained glass. They were so dark though that it was no surprise he hadn't noticed them earlier.

He started across the space and as he got closer, the imagery in the glass revealed itself when a thundering crack of lightning backlit it and cast long shadows of the dais, stairs, and...hunched figure at their base. The tri-panel window depicted a desolate scene. To describe it in a word, Hob would say it was 'depressing'. There was a figure in repose that spanned the width of the window and ghostly faces weeping below them. Above them, a figure turned its gaze toward a burning sky. They had no face and they appeared utterly lost, devastated at the state of the shrouded body beneath them.

Tears sprung unbidden to his eyes at the emotion portrayed in stark greyscale and then Hob saw it. A single point of color at the throat of the faceless figure, a ruby pendant that would always be able to recognize. It couldn't be his Friend portrayed there though...it couldn't. But, it also could be no other, even if that realization made something inside him feel like it was breaking.

Hob had no idea how long he stood there gazing up at the scene, confounded and struck before he felt the weight of eyes on him. When he sought out whoever was staring at him, he found the sapphire blues he loved most in the world upon him. However, there was something strange about Dream's gaze. Then, he realized it was because while he was meeting Dream's eyes, the other man's gaze was cast too far to be seeing him. It was like he was seeing through him.

Dream shook his head before dropping it once more and resuming his previously hunched position. Hob hurried forward, reaching out to his Friend, wanting nothing more than to offer comfort. He dropped to his knees before Dream, his hand freezing just over where he was about to place it on Dream's knee when he registered the other man's whispered words.

"He is gone. He is gone and, at the last, I let my wretched pride resolutely reject his friendship. Would that I only had one last chance to speak with you, Hob Gadling...I would reassure you that you had not been inaccurate in your assessments. And that you were a precious existence to me."

Hob's breath caught at this confession and set his mind reeling when Dream's piercing gaze once more landed not on him, but through him.

"You are gone, Hob. Yet, I can not escape the echoes of your existence..." Dream's hand stretched out past Hob's head before dropping back to hang between his knees.

Hob pleaded, "I'm real. I'm here. I'm right here, Dream!"

Dream leaned his head back and his gaze lost all focus as he became a perfect reflection of his stained-glass self. Desolate, lonely, and utterly lost.

Angst Prompts~

[lilac-gold]

Presumed dead

AI-less Whumptober: Day 9 Scar reveal | Interrogation | Presumed dead @ailesswhumptober

Fandom: OMORI Rating: Teen Word Count: 1731 Summary: In Black Space, he gets constantly ripped apart, and Omori doesn't seem to care. Basil can't help but wonder if his friends have given up on him completely AO3 LINK

Black Space was the worst place Basil had ever been. Granted, that wasn’t saying much considering the only places he’d ever been were Vast Forest, his house and Neighbour’s Room, but still! Black Space was dark, and scary, and full of monsters and fear. And worst of all, Basil was alone. He’d never enjoyed isolation, much preferring the quiet company of a kindred spirit, but in Black Space, there was nobody else around.

Nobody but his shadow, though even that was unnatural here. It came and went, two bright white lights where eyes would usually be, boring into him despite their lack of pupils. After what felt like an eternity of waiting for his friends to rescue him, Basil needed a way out, whatever that was. So, he found himself in a rather ridiculous position, yelling at his own shadow to save him. To any onlookers, he would have looked insane.

But there were no onlookers. Basil was alone. And he had been for so, so long.

Then, Omori arrived, and he regained hope. The spark that had begun dimming inside of him alighted once more, Basil joyful to reunite with his friend. Omori said nothing, so he didn’t either. This needed concentration! They wandered through the darkness, Basil trusting Omori wholeheartedly to navigate them through it. Omori always seemed to know the way.

Melons surrounded them, a ripe shade of green. Basil tilted his head at one, though, and it seemed rotten for a second, wrong in a way he couldn’t place. Basil shook it off. He was just… Tired, from being here for so long. That had to be it. He took a deep breath, and kept following Omori. He had his friend now, Basil reminded himself. He wasn’t alone anymore.

Omori liked to squish the melons, either stepping on them or slicing clean through with his knife. The moves were violent, deliberate. Basil hoped he was okay. He had a lot to catch up on. He left Omori be, watching silently as each melon was methodically destroyed.

As they walked through a pitch black tunnel, Basil’s skin began to feel increasingly painful and dry, and he tentatively reached a finger to touch his face. It hurt, sensitive and flaky, and Basil swallowed nervously, staring out into the endless darkness. This– everything was going to be okay. They would make it out of here. They had to!

The only spots of colour around were the melons and their sticky pink juices, leaving stains across the floor. Basil looked distinctly out of place in Black Space, vibrant attire and delicate flowers sticking out like a sore thumb. He tried not to look after a while, each slash of Omori’s knife putting him more and more on edge. He didn’t know why. He trusted Omori. He–

Pain.

Blinding pain, all across his body, a little colder than lukewarm while sending a flood of agony through his nerves. His skin cracked open, blood pouring out as his mouth opened in a soundless scream. What must have only been seconds felt like an eternity, Basil’s body ripping itself apart until he looked no different to the melons he’d seen destroyed. They were all rotten now.

He awoke with a start, feeling a sticky substance across his skin. He was tangled in a spider’s web, tightly bound with no way to escape. Basil’s heart sank. That must have been a dream. He really was alone here. 

His shears weren’t in his pocket, much to Basil’s dismay, so was well and truly stuck. He liked spiders and appreciated their efforts in his garden, but he hardly wanted to come face-to-face with the owner of a web this large. He shuddered, fine fibres tickling the back of his neck as he writhed uselessly. 

Then, Omori appeared, and he’d been overjoyed as he was cut loose.

Then, Omori ignored his every word, not a flash of care or recognition in his eyes.

Then, the spiders began to crawl across him.

Their legs were spindly and thin, a light, scuttling pressure across him. He couldn’t see the arachnids, but he could feel them running around atop his head, across his arms, down his back. Basil liked spiders, really, he did. He greeted them warmly with a beating smile, doing his best to stay on the bright side even when they begun biting him, razor-sharp teeth like needles into him, sucking out his blood and making him wince in pain.

Eventually, there were far, far too many. They were in his hair, in his eyes, in his shirt, in his mouth, everywhere. They were fuzzy and black, and often trailed a thin string of silk alongside them as they found the next bit of exposed skin to devour. Basil could feel blood well up, hot and sticky, and he screamed, flailing wildly, body shaking, crimson starting to trickle down his arms and his legs and his back and his face and–

He awoke with a start, the desperate thrum of his heart in his ears the only noise around. He was alone again. Basil exhaled shakily, every inch of him trembling as he stared uncomprehendingly at his unblemished skin. Somehow, he felt like he’d been here before.

He took a second to just breathe, attempting to slow his rapid pulse and put an end to the steady pour of cold sweat that had begun to prickle at the back of his neck, feeling far too much like spider’s legs. Basil shuddered, a full-body judder that left him feeling weaker than ever. Something was very, very wrong here.

Omori arrived again, but this time, all Basil could feel was dread. With a simple beckon of his ghostly white finger, Omori had Basil trailing along behind him once again. Omori began to pace the elevator as it rose, Basil following worriedly behind as they trod into the plain carpet below their feet. He had to say something, that pit of wrongness in his stomach getting more potent by the second. He could trust Omori. Omori was his best friend. Everything was going to be okay.

“A-actually…” Basil began, flinching a little as his voice resounded in the otherwise silent room, only accompanied by the rumbling rise of the elevator. There was no response. “While we’re in here… Can I share something with you?”

Still nothing. All Basil could see was the back of Omori’s head. How was he supposed to know that this even was Omori, and not just another nightmarish horror of Black Space like his creepy shadow self?

“Omori?” He asked, forcing the panic out of his tone as best he could. Omori had ignored him last time, with the spiders. But now, he turned around, and Basil felt his hope feebly begin to rise once again. Always look on the bright side. At least he was listening. 

There was something… Odd, in Omori’s eyes. A flash of red, complete apathy, no recognition. Omori looked empty. Basil had to stop himself from gasping, the small squeak he let out obscured by the loud, high ding of the elevator just after Omori turned around again. They’d stopped. It was like Omori already knew what was going to happen.

It was like they’d been here before.

Omori stepped out of the elevator, so Basil moved to follow him, shuffling uncertainty forwards and peering out to see where they were. No melons, or spiders, or–

The doors slammed shut, colliding painfully with his neck. The pressure was immense, Basil’s throat straining as he yelped, caught off-guard. This wasn’t good. This was very, very not good.

He wriggled, trying to get out. “Hold on, Omori… I… I think I’m stuck.” He refused to meet Omori’s eyes as he spoke, knowing how cold and unfeeling they would be. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t normal. A torturous sense of deja vu washed over him.

He could feel Omori’s stare even though he couldn’t see it, the sensation sending icy waves through his blood. Basil squirmed again.

“Could you help me out?” He requested anxiously, feeling the doors start to tighten further around his neck as his lungs constricted with alarm. Those doors were strong, and Basil was suddenly engulfed by the fear that they’d snap his head clean off.

Omori did nothing as the coldness continued to creep across him, every nerve alight with the feeling that something was going to happen. Basil’s hair stood on edge, every inch of him hyper-aware as the doors pushed steadily at his neck.

There was a hopscotch on the floor, like there was in Vast Forest. He missed Vast Forest. He missed his friends. He missed hopscotch. They had such fun playing games and running around with Berly and Van! Despite Omori’s clear distaste, Basil had managed to convince everyone to have a game of jumpro–

With one clean slice, the doors cut through his neck. Basil didn’t even have time to twitch his fingers.

He awoke with a start, hands immediately flying to his neck. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. He hyperventilated, every inch of him on fire as he panicked. It felt like white-hot agony was flooding through him, Basil still overcome by the feeling he was about to die.

He already had, he realised, jolting as everything came to a halt. For a moment, his heart stopped beating, his lungs stopped respiring, his mind stopped whirring. Basil had died.

Did that mean he was still dead now?! Could he even die? What about becoming toast? A million terrified questions flooded his mind, and he sunk against the floor. The room around him was completely monochrome, a mocking facsimile of Neighbour’s Room. He hated it. He wanted to go home.

He supposed his friends must think he was dead, too. This Omori wasn’t real, he couldn’t be. His Omori would never watch him die like it was nothing! Basil’s incoherent, mindless mumbling of his mantra became choked with tears as he buried his face in his arms. They’d probably given up on him by this point. Basil wept harder.

Distantly, footsteps began to approach, and he froze. Hastily, Basil wiped his tears, preparing as best he could for any oncoming threat. His hands were clammy, his face pale and eyes bloodshot and huge. Omori was coming. He couldn’t trust Omori. Omori had let him die.

Somehow, he felt like he’d been here before.

Contents Page | Prev | Next

[hibewriter]

Royalty

Masterlist   Read it on AO3

Shadow & Bone | Darklina | 1.2K | E 

Tags: Graphic Violence | Shadow Tentacles | Sex

Bang. 

Bang. 

Bang. 

The thrumming of the solid oak doors made her blood run hot. She knew what was on the other side — an army of beasts, dark as the night, ripping apart her guards. Guards who were so foolish to think they could keep out the dark heretic. To think they could keep him away from her. But the building groaned, and men screamed as if babes taken from their mother’s breasts. After all, they were but infants compared to the blood general. 

She sat still, feet tucked neatly underneath her ass as she waited. He had waited nearly a thousand years for her. She would wait for him to rescue her. She almost felt sorry for the king. A young king with dreams of grandeur. Dreams to fight the King of the Dark using his own sun summoner against him. But to look at the young fool, cowering at the edge of her seat. Begging for her to put a stop to the slaughter. Begging for her to use her power. 

He should’ve thought of that when he stole her. 

He should’ve known she would watch his whole world burn for her love. 

And her love would always come for her. 

But he was foolish, dreaming to take over not only the fold but all of Ravka. For what? The immaterial riches? He was but a mortal and would fall to the hands of time or violence. And she would be left, a slave to an heir. Then, when that heir too would perish, a slave to their heir. Just trapped in an endless cycle, forced to fight her love for the rest of eternity. 

She’d rather die. So she’d sat perfectly still since the day they bound her. And now the foreign kingdom was falling. The light was gone, and she needed not to summon it. The king almost ran out of tears. The screams were growing faint, the last of the guards would soon be dead. 

Slinchk.

The sound of a blade slicing through metal. She knew it wasn’t a human blade, a shadow that sliced through the guard outside the door. The king at her feet blanched, crouching further into his fetal position as he began to pray. Poor boy. He did not yet know that prayers to the saints fell on deaf ears. They only cared for their sacraments, and the Darkling had long filled their temples with the jewels he cared not for. 

She glanced down her nose at the shell of a man before her. The man cried as the door began to splinter, bending to the will of the darkness on the other side. Rich garb now little more than a baby’s swath as his tears stained it dark — a coward in the face of death. A fitting end, she assumed. 

Crack . 

The door opened, quieter than expected. But then again, the darkness consumed sound. Her eyes widened, imperceptibly, at the sight of the tendrils as they made their way inside. She knew what was to cross inside soon. Who . Her heart raced as the cries of the fallen king on the ground rang into static as she stared at the door. The thud of his footsteps echoed as the little light in the room snuffed itself out. The darkness didn’t last long, the sun spilling, like silk, out of her heart. She sat, the warmth of her glow showing exactly what she needed to see. 

Her Aleksander had come.

He stepped into the room, eyes dark as the night, yet a smile broke on his face as he regarded his queen. All other sounds were nothing as he approached her, his fingers grazed her cheeks. 

“ My solnishko.”   His voice was a long missed love, wrapping her mind in a blanket of comfort. Of remembering his love. The groan held in his throat as he leaned to kiss her. She welcomed his lips, soft and demanding; his beard, coarse yet comforting; his hair, fine and soft as if water. But he was pulling away too soon, a soft whine on her lips as he turned away from her. 

Oh right. The “king”. 

The coward was standing now, curved blade held in front of him. A last act of defiance in front of certain death. The rage she felt was blinding as she stood, taking her husband’s hand in her own. 

“You will put down your dagger.” Her voice was low, exhausted from the months in which she sat in silence. She needn’t said a word until now. She watched the coward’s arms shake in defiance, her eyes narrowing as her husband retracted his shadows. He knew her well enough to know by now what was to happen. The king didn’t even have a chance, a single step, a halfhearted thrust. 

His ashes filled the room just as quickly as her light. Her husband’s lips on her neck are her reward. His hands were on her waist, her simple maid’s dress already bunching under his fingertips. She should stop giving false hope to these mortal kings. But would you stop, given the reward at the end of the day? 

Aleksander’s hands, pushing aside the material of her dress, letting it pool around her feet as he kissed the skin of her shoulders. The ashes fell around them, staining his back, and her front. But it did not stop his hands from traveling there. A shock, a rush, as her hands flew to tangle in her husband’s hair. His fingers worked expertly over her nub, smooth circles as he whispered in old Ravkan to her. 

“ You are mine, my love, mine and no one else. ” 

Soft sighs flowed from her lips, his shadows creeping up her sides, latching to her breast, ash caught on her skin, leaving small grey streaks as he pulled and pinched. He guided her to the floor, softened by his shadows. He was all-encompassing, everywhere around her. Her husband . Kisses, shadows, pushing her legs apart. Open for him. Only him. 

Pressure as his fingers left her clit, shadows taking over as he kissed along her legs. She moaned when his tongue met his shadows at her apex, swiping from hole to clit as she writhed in his hold. She was nothing but his toy as she felt the shadows enter her, his mouth working sin as pleasure rushed through her, pooling low in her belly. He pressed exactly where she needed, her hands tangled in his hair as he brought her closer and closer to the precipice. When she tumbled over the edge, it was his name on her lips. 

He was above her in an instant, cock, hard and weeping, fisted out from the trousers he wore. Their eyes connected, and it was like the world stood still, his press forward, like a calling to home. Languid thrusts, as if they had all the time in the world. Because the kingdom was empty, blood flowed through the streets in a love letter to his queen. Her moans were the only sign that there was life at all. And when their pleasure reached its peak, when he could hold her to him. She knew then that they were all they needed. If a few kingdoms fell, if men were torn apart, burned, and ashen, in the process, that could hardly be their fault? For who would dream to pit a queen against her king? Who would dare defy them? 

After all, they were royals.