#and skull is an eldritch monstrosity

[galax-dragon]

hiiii who wants to hear about yet another coroika au from the person who has too many of them

so yeah extensive infodump and doodles under the cut

TW: DISTURBING IMAGES

Ok so lots of idk’s for this one, bear with me ok

So you know how a lot of Goggles’ opponents (Skull, Emp, Vintage) seem to turn stupid after Goggles defeats them? Yeah, this is based on that, but Scary

So in this Goggles is a 19481059149 years old (very ancient) eldritch monstrosity from the eternal void, he is reborn every 1000 years or so to cause destruction and stuff. He “brainwashes” (turns stupid) the other Coroika people, usually by pantsing, but people can be brainwashed without pantsing them. (Ex: Army.) He may or may not have some evil plan, idk yet

So yeah, somehow Rider finds out Goggles is a monster (idk yet, I think he sees his true monstrous form somehow?) And Rider is totally freaked out, but also curious, and tries to find out more about Goggles, and eventually finds out that he is brainwashing people.

Team Yellow-Green (Stealth, Blazer, and Bamboo) are the first Rider tells, when they see him with like his big cork board with all the strings attached to it (do you know what I’m talking about) But they don���t believe him, because Goggles? An evil eldritch monster? How absurd!

So then Rider tries to warn other people, he warns Ocho and Wireglasses because they are the current Big Bad Opponents and likely Goggles’ next victims. (Btw I headcanon that Rider and Wireglasses are cousins, and I also ship Ocho and Wireglasses.)

But Ocho and Wireglasses don’t believe Rider, either, and they get caught by Goggles!! :0

So now Rider is desperate to warn people that Goggles is dangerous. He calls up Mask and Aloha, a couple of Goggles’ victims who haven’t been brainwashed! And luckily, they actually believe Rider’s whole theory! (Btw at this point Rider hasn’t slept in like, three days)

Together Rider, Mask, and Aloha try to figure out how to defeat Goggles and stuff. Also at first Aloha is just goofing off because he’s not sure if he really believes this whole thing, but once he realizes Army has really been brainwashed, he is really on board.

Also, I bet you’ve been wondering why Rider himself isn’t brainwashed, because he is Goggles’ first opponent and has been pantsed thousands of times! Well there’s an explanation for that: Gorai! Goggles didn’t brainwash Rider because he loves him in an unhealthy and creepy way!

Idk how to explain it, Gorai in this au is basically like this picture:

Yeah 👍

So anywho then Events occur that somehow lead up to Mask and Aloha getting brainwashed and Rider having to confront Goggles’ true monster form.

(Btw in this Goggles can like, control his victims to basically be zombies that obey his mental commands? This isn’t their default form, it can be turned on and off.)

So anyway yeah that happens and there’s actually multiple outcomes I’m thinking of! So either Rider like, convinces Goggles to stop being evil somehow and everything is good, or Goggles brainwashes Rider, achieves his evil goal, and everything is Not Good.

Also I’m not sure how Team Blue ties into all of this, I think they know that Goggles is an ancient eldritch monstrosity but they’re ok with that?

Anyway, that was a lot! Here’s the doodles as promised:

Sorry for the not-great quality, I had to take these on the bus so I wouldn’t forget 🙃 (I might take some better pictures later)

[hisuianhellion]

🪐

What if she got isekai'd into Bloodborne instead?

Bloodborne - Blood and Death CW (.... it's kind of in the name to be fair)

One night couldn't last forever, could it? A period of time in a bubble that just refused to give in? It was looking for something to burst it, to let all of this eldritch horror finally disperse and fade into the daytime. To crack open a bottle of blood red wine and consider the morning arisen as the moon finally sets one last time on Yharnam.

But the night couldn't last forever. Rose spent minutes in one moment, scrounging for whatever ammunition she could find. She could spend an hour traversing a lower street, ducking and weaving to avoid riflemen hellbent on considering her the grotesque beast when she was the most human of them all. Coming face to face with a monstrosity so familiar but tugging at the primal fear of something with that many fangs and an arm that brutally malformed. The kind that could crush a human into a bloody pulp, which she soon found herself being subjected to.

But the night seemed to go on. She took the time to breathe, her awakening in the Dream so sudden it was like a gunshot had rung out. The Doll gave a light pat to her head as she sat there beside them, staring off into space with the hood upon her head the only protection from beastly attacks. And after a few minutes of resting her heart, she quietly settled a hand above a grave, returning to where she had been to bathe in blood anew.

The night stretched longer. A beast she would fell, a beast would fell her. The spine of an ogre she'd tear through its own skin, a werewolf her neck and chin would crunch in one, firm bite. It all bled together, her own blood gradually tainting as she continued onwards. A music box could stun a man into losing himself entirely, and she'd wake up with sharper fangs upon her jaws. Still herself, but changing.

The night trudged onward, longer still. The moon had risen fully by now, so she knew there was time passing. But was it truly passing in her own perspective, or was it only going forward in a way that others saw it at one speed... herself another entirely? That skull conveyed knowledge to her that she couldn't understand. She couldn't. But she did. She knew. That thing used to be a man... were her gloves always stretching at the nails that much?

The night yawned wide. She sat in front of the spider. She sat in the very moonlight she had dove into. Her jaw ached. Her body quivered with a need to continue. A drive forward to know more. An urge to push onwards despite her sight clouding and clearing in equal measure. An irresistible pull to know what was happening. Why this was calling her forward. Why she was even here. Why blood tasted and felt so good and vile and refreshing and revolting. Why her heart skipped a beat when another was halted, why her pangs of guilt for destroying that poor girl's family tugged ever harder at her mind.

The night clamped down, consuming all within it. Consuming Yharnam in blood and crimson moonlight. Swallowing the beasts into a frenzy of fear and hunger. Sending all within its grasp into a pit of mindlessness and madness... but spitting one thing back up.

It couldn't keep her down.

It couldn't warp her mind enough.

Claws as her weapon, matching the fangs along her jaws. Pistol as her arm, black fur gripping it under the blood-drenched armor still seeming to keep her feeling enshrouded in safety. Blue eyes shimmering under her hat and cowl as ears perked to both sides, centered on her prey: the gods themselves.

So many Hunters became beasts. Few retained their memories. Fewer still retained their senses of self.

One retained her mission, and she had a little girl she needed to make sure would survive this endless night of blood.

[darwindanger]

🦀

Spy didn't notice. Or maybe he did. He just wasn't quick enough. He turned to the side, and there the thing was, right next to him, and it had him. Its hand, or its not-hand, its grasping hand of nonexistent space had found its way on spy's shoulder. And then, at last. Spy felt nothing. But that feels misleading. To feel nothing implies a layer of human underneath, void of feeling, something is under there, a person, something exists. What spy felt was non-existence. For a brief moment he didn't feel, he didn't think. He didn't exist, to himself, he didn't exist. But he did exist. He was there in the room, standing, convulsing, eyes rolled back into his head as he shook violently, making no sound. Just standing there, his lifeless eyes and body moving seemingly involuntary. The human shaped pocket of non-existence didn't take him, it didn't kill him. It just stood there, with its hand on spy's shoulder, watching him suffer, perfectly still. it had no face, but you could feel it did this with no emotion, it couldn't have any emotion. It wasn't real. But it was.

Sniper watched in silent horror as the entity reached out and took Spy's shoulder. He was glad to have his vantage point, but also it meant having an exceptional view of the way the Frenchman unnaturally convulsed. He was frozen, but shook himself back to action- taking aim with his rifle.

Though the shot did not go towards the entity, but rather the spy's unprotected skull. He didn't know how to kill that thing, but he knew how to kill his fellow mercenaries- and that meant the bloke would be right back at respawn, sin eldritch monstrosity grasping at his arm.

A mercy kill, at least that was how it had been intended.

[xasha777]

In the desolate fields of old Krešimir, where the whispers of the ancient kings still rustle through the grass, a terror unbeknownst to the living world stirred under a moonless sky. The villagers spoke of a cursed land, where the shadows clung too tightly, and the night air carried the scent of decay. They would speak in hushed tones of King Peter Krešimir IV, the last of his line, whose reign was marred by tragedy and whispers of dark sorcery.

The story begins on a night much like this one, under the watchful gaze of a blood-red comet, a sign the elders claimed was an omen of great and terrible change. On this fateful evening, a figure emerged from the earth—a skeletal specter draped in the regalia of a long-forgotten monarch. His presence was an affront to life itself, an amalgamation of bone and malevolence. The ground around him was barren, the sky above roiled with unease, and the stars dared not shine.

This revenant, they said, was Peter Krešimir IV, come back to reclaim his lost glory, to enforce his will upon the realm of the living. But his return was not as the man he once was, but as a behemoth of death, his once noble features now a grotesque mask of horror, with eyes that glowed like embers of malice.

Legend had it that during his life, Krešimir sought the secrets of eternity. He delved into forbidden texts, communed with entities beyond the veil, and finally, in a desperate bid for immortality, performed a dark ritual that cost him his life—or so it was believed. His kingdom fell to ruin, his name erased from the annals of history, his legacy nothing but a shadow. But on this night, his curse had taken form.

The colossal skeleton, armored in the vestiges of his royal might, kneeled upon the cursed earth, and from his hollow chest, a second, smaller skeleton emerged, its skull bearing a blood-red crown. It was said this was the incarnation of his once-beloved son, whom he sacrificed in his dark rituals, and who now served as a harbinger of his malevolent intent.

As the villagers cowered in their homes, the ground trembled with each step of the skeletal king. He wielded a sword that thirsted for the souls of the living, its blade etched with runes that pulsed with an unholy light. With his army of the dead, he would march upon the world of the living, to cast it into an age of darkness where he would reign eternal.

Only the bravest of souls dared challenge him, a band of warriors descended from the ancient guardians of Krešimir's realm. They knew the cost of their battle, the weight of the world upon their shoulders. With weapons forged from sacred metal and hearts steeled by resolve, they confronted the skeletal monstrosity under the cover of night.

The clash was cataclysmic, the air filled with the sounds of steel against bone, and the air crackled with eldritch energy. But as dawn approached, the warriors realized that to defeat a king who had conquered death itself, they needed to bind him to the very earth he sought to dominate.

With heavy hearts and a chant that echoed through the ages, they performed a rite of sealing, using the ancient stones of Krešimir's own castle. The skeletal king was bound to the land, his son's apparition vanishing into the ether as a single tear of blood.

And so the terror of Peter Krešimir IV was quelled, but not vanquished. The villagers say that under a sky of a particular darkness, when the comet returns to watch over the earth, the king stirs once more, and the seal weakens. They know that the battle is not over, for true evil never dies—it merely waits, gathering its power for the night it can once again walk amongst the living.

[teetle-time]

i now have an entirely self-indulgent tmnt 2003 x kirby and the forgotten land xover rattling around my skull. the mental image of the teetles + bandana dee + kirby car driving down those streets in arrival point. leo and donny sitting on the hood, mikey and raph sitting on top w/bandee, with all leg-owners sitting sideways or backwards to avoid kicking each other in the head or kirby in the face. donny has the radio. mikey has the bomb ability. living by my own rules. this won't cure my depression but it will ABSOLUTELY get it to pipe down for a good long while

also the idea of the teetles willingly deciding to jump universes to help kirby after a portal mishap drops kirb and bandan in the lair. like. "oh these guys are adorable! their dimension also looks very fun-sized and cute, and they don't even have a shredder! since things are so quiet here at home, we should get to have a quick low-stress multidimensional vacation :)" while donny low-key tries to figure out if pink ball kirby is somehow artist kirby (see episode "the king") or if this isn't actually a two nickels moment

and then just. kidnapping. bodily possession. unethical science. more kidnapping. And Here We Are! eldritch monstrosity. fighting a god. cafe that doesn't serve pizza. sodjskdjsj

[castleblackthrone]

DnDSpeak

100 Demon Lords

https://www.dndspeak.com/2017/12/06/100-demon-lords/

Myronir – Demon Lord of Reflections: Myronir brings waves of doppelgangers and other shapeshifters to attack his enemies.  He uses divination magic to see through mirrors and cause people to see their reflection as horrible twisted versions of themselves.  In rare ancient texts, he is also known as the Prince of Schisms.

100 Eldritch Horrors

https://www.dndspeak.com/2018/08/28/100-eldritch-horrors/

Dalgd’r’s Aria - In an unsuspecting cave in Virginia, sealed behind an elder sign, sleeps The First of the Born, Dalgd’r. She is a massive, salamander-like monstrosity who has spent the past millennia readying her nursery for new spawn. Her avatar, a scruffy looking Scottish Terrier, lures unsuspecting locals into the cave where they join her as an embryo before being reborn into her cosmic hive mind of abominations. Throughout history, for unknown reasons, a distinct melody seems to crop up in the area around her chambers. The song has been known to cause uncontrollable fits of laughter and dancing. 

100 Evil Magic Items

https://www.dndspeak.com/2022/10/16/100-evil-magic-items/

Hellfire and Brimstone - Twin +2 daggers that deal additional Fire and Necrotic Damage, but also double or halve the effects of hemocraft (blood magic).

100 Evil Magic Items

https://www.dndspeak.com/2022/10/16/100-evil-magic-items/

Zakiir's Blade of Balance- A worn scimitar with a scratched brass pommel. A scale is etched into the pommel, and "Everything has a cost someone must pay" written on one side of the blade in Elven. The blade scores a critical hit on a roll of 18-20 and does an extra 3d6 damage on a critical hit. Every time a critical hit is scored, the same amount of damage is done to a random individual somewhere on the plane. This amount is, usually, enough to kill a normal civilian.

100 Inn Patrons

https://www.dndspeak.com/2018/04/16/100-inn-patrons/

Mina Darkmore is a cursed witch (Witch – 7th Level, LN Rakshasa – Beastbrood – Human-Feline-Thundercat in appearance).  She was transformed into a cat and can still talk and use magic.  She comes by every day for her milk served in a golden bowl with her name on it.  The milk and golden bowl are the cornerstone of her curse.

100 New Darklords and Domains in the Ravenloft Setting

https://www.dndspeak.com/2018/11/01/100-new-darklords-and-domains-in-the-ravenloft-setting/

Gulgolatha, The Skull Lord, was a supremacist elven king (eladrin) who led a genocidal campaign against all other races, seeing them as inferior and impure. His plans backfired, resulting at the destruction of his kind. Now he is a skeleton warrior with long white hair and ornate armor, sitting on his throne among the ruins of his once magnificent city, his sword which turns flesh into dust in his hands. Surrounded only by ghosts and skeletons, he is fully aware that the other races thrive while he belongs to history - but still dreaming that his time will come...

100 New Darklords and Domains in the Ravenloft Setting

https://www.dndspeak.com/2018/11/01/100-new-darklords-and-domains-in-the-ravenloft-setting/

Lilith, the Mistress of Souls. It is uncommon to see a whole domain holding a 10th old girl at such awe and fear, but it is understandable when this girl is the current reincarnation of Lilith Lathenus, the matriarch of the noble Lathenus family, who has been reincarnating through her granddaughters for hundreds of years. Ever calm, controlled and unemotional, Lilith has the power to manipulate souls; she has a collection of thousands of souls stored in bottles, dolls and other vessels, which she may instill into a living, dead or inanimate bodies, torture, sell, consume or anything else. Some whisper the ravens bring her the souls of the deceased. Though everyone fears Lilith, many come to her asking to have their beloved ones' souls instilled into new bodies, or other requests, which she might grant - for a price.

100 New Darklords and Domains in the Ravenloft Setting

https://www.dndspeak.com/2018/11/01/100-new-darklords-and-domains-in-the-ravenloft-setting/

Tor-O-Gon, The Caveman. On a world of advanced technology, Doctor Egon was a scientist who abandoned all morality in name of scientific progress. The Dark Powers made him a chief of a cavemen tribe (who mispronounce his name as Tor-O-Gon). Now is forced to lead his tribe in a dark, Paleolithic domain, teeming with prehistoric beasts and primal spirits, forever devoid of progress.

100 New Darklords and Domains in the Ravenloft Setting

https://www.dndspeak.com/2018/11/01/100-new-darklords-and-domains-in-the-ravenloft-setting/

Blind Paul, the Monk. What greater curse can befall a scholar who lied and murdered in order to get possession of a grand, ancient library, than being struck with blindness, forever unable to read the countless books surrounding him? Blind Paul is now the lord of the floating pocket domain known as the Library of the Mists, rumored to contain all kinds of arcane knowledge. He eagerly waits for visitors to capture and force them read for him, hoping to find a cure to his blindness in some book. Though blind, he is very dangerous, and may darken the library at will and use his sharp hearing and smell senses and monk's fighting skills to overcome his foes.

100 Things Found inside a Haunted House

https://www.dndspeak.com/2019/06/24/100-things-you-can-find-in-a-haunted-house/

The body of a large monstrous deformed humanoid, roughly 120” in height  is that of a formorian ogre.  Rune covered metal stakes have been driven through its skull and it sternum.  The body is inside a long wooden chest.  Is it ready for reanimation or some other foul necromancy?

100 Treasured Items of the Deceased

https://www.dndspeak.com/2023/01/10/100-treasured-items-of-the-deceased/

Silver Holy Symbol: Appease the gods.  When infused by the owner’s spirit: for the god of healing

[tryckthebardarchive]

Tryck had just been waking up in the mere morning hours, climbing out of the bed of the latest noble in the city that'd he convinced was the only person he'd ever cared for. A simple con, enough to get him a free meal, a free bed, and a good romp in the sheets for a few nights, perhaps a few weeks. This con had run it's course, and Tryck had woken up before the noble to sneak out of their villa, climbing out the balcony window to make his escape.

That was when his whole entire world suddenly changed, as he'd been whisked away by some tentacle smacking the Hells out of him, transporting him to... somewhere. Turns out it was a nautiloid, some biomechanical machine he'd only read about in stories. It was all a blur of tentacles and blades and fire, but somehow he'd managed to make it off the ship when it crash landed.

Only to find himself cornered by a pack of goblins, angry that he was denying their Goddess... something called the Absolute.

Oh, and he'd had a mindflayer tadpole inserted into his eye, which was now swimming along inside his head, doing all manner of whatever it was mindflayer tadpoles did.

But imagine his surprised when he watched one of the goblins get blasted away by what he recognized to be an eldritch blast. Normally he was not a fighter, and he wasn't shy with his weapons but there had been a few too many for one disoriented half-elf bard to take care of on his own. So the added help of a warlock was much appreciated. It gave him the ability to grab hold of his own weapon and between the two of them, they'd made quick work of the goblins together.

Of course, Tryck knew who the brave stranger was almost immediately. There was hardly a bard on the Coast who didn't know about the up-and-coming hero known as the Blade of Frontiers, making a splash with his heroics for the past few years. Now they were making camp for the night, something the bard wasn't exactly used to. He was a city boy, sleeping in the wilderness had never been his forte. But with the company he had, perhaps it wouldn't be so bad.

"I know who you are." Tryck said with a sly bit of a grin. "I wouldn't dare call myself a Baldurian if I didn't know who the Blade was. But it is an honor to finally put a face to the enigmatic hero." The bard's smile was Cheshire in its charm, a perfectly practice smile that he'd developed over the years of conning. "I'm Tryck, and it is a pleasure to meet you, Wy--"

His words were cut short when a piercing pain pulsed through his skull, and he felt that little worm squirming behind his eye. Then there was a flash of a sword, and a fiery devil woman swinging a large axe towards his face and then--

The vision was over as fast as it came on, and he looked at the warlock with a bit of stunned silence. Oh, the things that Wyll had probably scene, a joining of his own naked blue flesh and the pale skin of the noble he'd bedded just the night before. Nothing he'd be ashamed about normal, but what would the Blade think?

"Ah ha... seems that you've got a nasty bugger taking up residence in your skull as well? I suppose that may answer your question." Tryck said with a half-hearted chuckle, trying to pretend he didn't know what visions of his own memory had passed on to Wyll. "I was taken by those squid-faced monstrosities and crash landed here, same as yourself, I'd imagine. There was a... githyanki woman on board, said something about her people being able to take the thing out. You didn't happen to come across her before you so luckily intervened with the goblins trying to take of my head, did you?"

"i wanted to thank you for protecting me back there." - @tryckthebard (sideblog) to Wyll

A hero to the people, this is the belief Wyll had of himself that he had to be. Before, when he was still under his father’s rule, he held that belief under the assumption that it all tied back to his father. The failures of the son reflected badly on the father, after, especially if your father happened to be the Grand Duke Ulder Ravenguard. It was expected that he be his father’s successor, and to do that, he had to be his copy. Wyll was all to glad to oblige. However, all that had come back to haunt him, as on that fateful day, against the cult of Tiamat, it had all come undone.

It couldn’t be denied that being removed his home, and having his identity stripped from him, broke him entirely. Everything he had been, everything he strived for had been erased. It was only through Mizora’s support, that he was able to be stitched back together out of scattered pieces, and make him whole. It was because of her, that he was able to become the true hero, the Blade of frontiers. Most importantly, he got here, in spite of father now, and even more a hero to the people than his father would ever be.

It was his actions as the blade of frontiers that had led him to saving the high half-elf bard. A group of goblin's had cornered him and taken advantage of a lone bard. It was fitting, then that Wyll had a hunt here in addition to a particular hatred of anything goblin. The warlock brushed a hand over his stone eye, the lack of eye lid a painful reminder of what he had been through all that time ago as they sat in their make shift camp.

"Of course, I wouldn't be the famed Blade of Frontiers if I let some piece of shit goblins kill someone innocent." Wyll said and smiled at the bard. "I've had my fair share of run-ins with them, the cruel bastards that they are. Tell me, what was someone like you doing there alone anyway?" Of course the warlock had to be careful, careful not to get to close, lest Mizora take care of anywho dared get close.. "My name is Wyll, by the way."

[llamagoddessofficial]

Okay okay, this idea's been haunting me with all the siren asks, so I gotta throw it out here. Do you know the Subnautica game's premise, where you crash land on an ocean planet? Imagine MC, the lone survivor of a terrible crash on an alien ocean world, struggling to survive and find resources... and on their ventures into the deep attract the attention of some dangerous, intelligent skelly leviathans that take a liking to this cute little creature. Decide to show the morsel some mercy, since it's clearly struggling to do even basic things such as hunting or defending its self. And MC just going "???" when these big scary skeletal predators appear to be helping them rather than hunting them Even if you're not familiar with Subnautica, I thought this might be a fun fit with the skelly siren theme! :)

I

Fucking

LOVE SUBNAUTICA

I hope you're happy anon I've been thinking about your ask obsessively for the past two days. Welcome to sansnautica bitches

Mc crash lands in the beautiful blue alien waste... she has no defence but her sharp mind, no offence but a small knife, and most importantly no way out. She has to learn to survive before this planet learns to kill her.

Sans: Sans shares the blotched black and white colouring style of his Earth counterpart, but not much else. His most notable trait is his four eyesockets. Everything on this new planet is bioluminescent, and Sans is no exception; the black parts of his body can become freckled with a blue glow, blending him into the landscape. He can also move the lights- 'rippling' the glow to very convincingly mimic sunshine casting across the sea floor.

As per tradition, he meets Mc first. Where she crashed is juuust inside his territory... so he’s the first to check out her escape-pod-turned-refuge. He visits at night, when he’s most active, and at first he’s a menace... tapping and scratching on the walls, his ominous dark shape circling her home, so long as the sun is down she’s trapped indoors with no help and no escape. Lots of very, very long nights huddled in her pod while various terrifying, otherwordly sounds filter through the walls.

... But after a few days, she starts finding dead animals in the morning, outside her pod. Usually unceremoniously dumped on the only part of the shelter that’s above water. Is it a threat?

(... It's Sans seeing how terrible she is at catching fish, and deciding he needs to intervene. He can't just let her starve...)

Red: Also has four sockets. He resembles a shark, but borrows the reaper's colour scheme and mandible-like mouthpieces he can use to grab at prey. Like everything in his world he can light up his body beautifully and intricately but he mostly uses large, wide, bright bioluminescent patches dotted across his body that resemble the glowing fruit of the giant seaweed in his home territory. He occupies the looming kelp forests, where the towering plants and murky water disguise his massive form; where all he needs is one burst of immense speed to catch any prey stupid enough to wander in. Like, for instance... a cute little creature he’s never seen before, who seems to be desperately searching for metal.

... He really likes metal. He’s pretty possessive of it. He scavenged his gold tooth himself- he likes to decorate himself and his nest with the flashiest shards. But what he really likes is pretty things. And, heh, a sweet treat like her? Wandering completely unknowingly into his territory, so small, so easy to see, so easy to stalk?

Well... now, he's got something else he wants to add to his collection.

Skull: He, at first, seems like the most 'normal' looking of all the apex predators. A skeleton with two sockets, the lower half of a giant squid, no suckers, the underside of all his tentacles always glowing a beautiful hypnotising rainbow of pastels that's difficult to look away from. In fact... the only strange part about Skull seems to be his immense size, and the small vertical line on his chin running from the bottom of his mouth all the way over his mandible.

... He has two mouths. The one on his face is for smaller food, for communicating, singing and breathing- the small line is because it splits open into thirds to allow him to spit clouds of glowing corrosive acid. His ribcage isn't just a ribcage; it's actually his second mouth, reserved for larger prey.

He normally stalks the dark far edges of the reef, but after the main ship crash he's started coming further and further into the shallows, encroaching slowly on Sans' territory, picking off the escape pods full of survivors that don't require him to encroach TOO far and get in a fight. He's the only thing Sans and Red fear. Mc meets him when she follows a distress signal out to the rim of the shallows... for him, spotting her swimming through the serene emptiness, it's love at first sight- and she only escapes his 'love' by wedging herself into the furthest end of a cave and waiting for him to get frustrated and leave.

Before, he was only entering Sans' territory for small periods of time, and not going that far in... but now? He's searching for her. He's on the hunt. And if he sees her again, he's not going to stop.

[spearxwind]

oh yeah possum teeth are very cool!!! tiny and sharp and theres a lot of them (they screm!!)

also god i just really love canine teeth as generic edgy as it sounds... theyre just very good!! Honestly though moreso than canine teeth i just love verying degrees and sizes of SHARP mouth knives as opposed to shark teeth where its just the same one over and over? 

leopard seals have sharp teeth that look KID OF canine but not quite!! theyre wayyy too sharp (and triple pronged holy shit)

and  surprisingly moles have cool skulls ?? hell yeah

look at this fucker!! thats totally gotta be an alien  my least fave kind of (sharp) teeth are the deep sea fish ones tho. everyone loves em but theyre not chunky enough to be windy brand™ 

but yeah going back to faves, have you ever seen painted dog teeth? theyre super cool and super sharp!!

these kiddos are basically my art style made into an animal like cmon

[froggy-fizz]

The wild look of mischief in Fizz’s eyes made perfect sense once Angel had graciously accepted the floral welcome gift — as the bouquet, true to his clown-ish intent, sprayed a small squirt of water into Angel’s face. “m’ sorry, Angie, I couldn’t help myself - it’s such a classic gag~” the jester managed to apologise between laughs, wiping away a tear that threatened to fall from the corner of his eye. Such an old but gold piece of comedy. It never failed to make Fizz laugh. Fizz was sure that Angel would have no issue in getting him back at some point~

There was a genuine warmth and brightness to Fizz’ face as he playfull batted away the compliment with a swat of his mechanical hand, “Oh please. Stop~ you’ll make me blush…” Fizz loved spending time with Angel — so you best believe that when he was offered the opportunity to collaborate with the spider he leapt at it. If anything, it would just be a nice excuse to hang around for a while.

The bells on the jester’s cap jingled softly as he moved his head to take in the full extent of the hotel foyer. His lips pursed lightly as he mentally assessed the room, “Mhm, the stained glass is cute…it’s a real classy twist on a church motif…fitting for the house of redemption~” he hummed out his thoughts before gazing back up toward Angel, “What the fuck is that though?” There was a soft mechanical whir towards the bar area. “Not the kitty,” he clarified, unnecessarily, that he wasn’t talking about Husk, “I’m talking about the giant fucking, eldritch-ass, skull monstrosity bullshit…” Presumably a decorative decision, the collection of skulls sat atop the bar, seemed to stare down at whoever was seated before the bartender. “…is it supposed to put you off drinking? because that’s kind of fucked up…”

Fizz opened his mouth to confirm that he’d happily be taken to his room; however, Angel enthusiastically continued talking instead. A bright grin grew on Fizz’s features, Angel’s own excitement infecting him with a bubbling energy — the small imp clapped his hands together a little in excitement, “I have SO many ideas,” the words tumbled from his lips, “I was thinking a collaboration where we teach each other skills~” A performance that involved the best of both of their skills, maybe some juggling, pole dancing, cream pies (not the sex kind!), balloons. “Mammon wants me to learn to be sexier…but, not too sexy, he doesn’t want to alienates my other fans…I mean, the non-pervert fans…” A weird balance to have to walk, but Fizz was sure he could do it. Fizz snorted in amusement, “Juggling balls and cream pies? Who knew our jobs had so much in common~” The jester arched an eyebrow a little, “Okay, well, I certainly won’t be watching it now.” Valentino really did seem to have a diverse range of kinks that he was willing to explore — or, rather, he supposed that the man was attempting to ensure he had pornographic material that would appeal to every sick fucker in hell. Fizz supposed it was working. Angel was a mega star.

@angie-long-legs

Every demon, from the lowliest imp to the horniest succubus, had heard about the ‘Hazbin hotel.’ After all, it was the passion project of their illusive king’s darling daughter. It was an insane scheme, downright audacious, probably doomed to fail in the most spectacular ways possible. Fizz loved it~ Fuck the angels, am I right?~ If he were a sinner and not a hell born demon then he might just join their motley crew for the sheer chance to stick it to the holier than thou hypocrites. What surprised the jester was the fact that Angel had decided to make home there. In their meetings over the years, Angel never struck Fizz as the redemption type. You could never tell though. People were complex and Fizz loved being surprised.

The building itself, stood proudly atop a hill that was a bitch to climb, was not what Fizz had expected. From the outside, it looked like a weird mishmash of different peculiarities. Was that a radio broadcasting station tagged onto the side of the building? Freaky. The sound of the front door being kicked up wildly, followed by the jingling of bells, announced the clowns arrival. A wide grin stretched all the way from ear to ear as he lugged his suitcase in through the front door: in honesty, it was mostly filled with juggling balls, sparkly ribbons and glitter. In response to the exertion of hauling his suitcase around, Fizz grabbed an ever-extending handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead, “Whew! So this is the legendary Hazbin Hotel, huh? I’ve gotta say, it’s got... character! A little run-down, a little haunted, but hey, who doesn’t love a fixer-upper?~” Ain’t that what the place was all about, after all?

The jesters eyes lit up when they saw the spider lounging across a sofa in the hotel communal space. They’d met a handful of times over the years: mostly due to Asmodeus’ reluctant deals with Angel’s shady boss. Ozzie claimed there was ‘something off’ about the moth, even if he was always polite and respectful. “Well, well, well~” There was a subtle whirring of his mechanical limbs as he took a few, abnormally long, strides towards the famous pornstar. “If it isn’t Hell’s most lusted after sinner. Lookin’ fabulous as always, Angel-cakes~” Wasting no time, he pulled out a bouquet of flowers, offering them out to the spider with only a mildly mischevious mania glimmer in his eyes.

[twst-drabbles]

Antas 1

Summary: Antas performs play after play to an ever listening, ever awake and grinning audience. He is the only actor, but these scripts he's written were made for you.

(hehehehe I love writing about my OC's. Thank you for being interested in this mess of a man!)

When had Antas become a pawn to his own creations?

They look at him with two eyes, three, dozens bulging against a pulsating skull. Their skin jitter, ready to shed and leave behind their bones, but their grins and claps reassure Antas they will keep to their places.

That's what his pen has promised him.

An act to capture your audience.

And neither has he. There is only a fog in Antas's mind of ever taking a break. Of leaving. He simply walks off stage, to the left before returning from the right, in a new outfit, in a new dress while his hand clutches at his pen, words nearly tearing the paper apart as a new play, a new masterpiece was granted to him.

A tragic monster. A person born with two face, two brains. A dream gained sentience. All of them, stand alone acts.

Beautiful pieces, with not a beautiful actor to be seen.

The audience claps for his every sentence, they cheer and yell but all Antas hears is a recording put on repeat. He was given as promised, but nothing more.

But who was he to complain? His frustrations lay heavy and yet he moves nonetheless. Passion must never be allowed to burn out, to be taken from him.

He has already given up on too much as is. His words was all he had to call his own.

The pen stayed true, it would siphon his mind out, let it bleed onto the pages. He would never experience a less than stellar script.

But Antas would be its only actor.

He does not recognize a single face in the crowd. Every glance at the filled seats, the clothes always change. Every minute, every second, without pause. But the voices cheering for him never got quieter. They filled the stage, replaced the music, replaced the lights. And eventually, the audience replaced his voice.

They cheer, but it was never for him, but for the muse he pretends to be. For the being who was made to play out these roles.

Everyone here, even Antas himself, wished for nothing more than for you to become the sole actor of these shows. To bring the pieces to life with the presence unique to you.

How can he ever hope to match the grace and ease of which you wear your skin? How can Antas even assume he'd be able to replicate the duality of your nature, existing in a dream like harmony that breaks and remakes fragile minds and even more delicate egos?

You do not hate yourself. You do not wish to dig your fingers deep and rip out the parts that have cursed you. You do not carry the burden of a legacy simply because you were born looking a certain way. You do not bow to the strings tied to you. You do not hear jeering voice of a parent mocking you for your passion.

In your monstrosity, Antas only sees beauty. He sees a potential friend, a budding kinship ready to be nursed as you both close the gap between your differences.

These plays, he dedicates to you. He will act in your stead, for all eternity if he must, if only to reach a fraction of your peace.

But his feet slow, his words drunk, and the audience... When has the audience gotten closer?

Why do they grin as they reach out to him?

...

An Eldritch Muse enters the stage.

[haberdashing]

What A Tangled Web We Weave (16/?)

TMA AU diverging from canon at the end of episode 92. Jon is forced into an arranged marriage by Elias; Martin does what he can to help.

on AO3

As Martin looked up at Annabelle Cane, perched atop his ceiling in a position that seemed to defy gravity, he kept thinking that by all rights, that ceiling should be caving in. Surely it couldn’t hold a human’s full body mass without getting damaged in the process... but then again, Annabelle Cane wasn’t exactly human, was she?

Not that Martin was one to talk now, he supposed...

“Why are you here?” Martin blurted out.

Annabelle’s voice was cool and collected despite the situation. “Helping you prepare for your wedding day, of course.”

“My... my wedding day? That’s weeks away still, what-”

“Not anymore it isn’t. Enjoy it while it lasts.” Annabelle slid down a strand of spider silk until she was perched not on Martin’s ceiling but on the far corner of his bed, which didn’t actually make her presence any less disconcerting, especially since the closer vantage point just made it that much easier to see how her skull was literally filled with cobwebs.

“What d’you mean? That was the deal, that we’d get married in a month-”

“I am altering the deal.” Annabelle’s grin was just wide enough to send shivers down Martin’s spine.

“...pray you don’t alter it any further?” Martin’s response was soft, tentative almost, but he couldn’t help but finish the reference once it had been started.

Annabelle laughed at that. Martin had expected her laugh to be eerie, otherworldly, perhaps distorted and aching and wrong like Michael’s, but instead it was just... a laugh, a normal human-sounding laugh, loud and raucous. “Oh, I like you.”

Martin decided to keep his immediate thought that the feeling was very much not mutual to himself for the time being.

A moment passed before Annabelle spoke up again. “As I was saying, circumstances now require that things move a little faster than initially planned.”

“And you didn’t think to share this information with me until what it sounds like is the day of?”

Annabelle put her hands on her hips. “Perhaps I thought you’d do something unwise with the information if given more time to digest it.”

Martin mimicked Annabelle’s gesture, narrowing his eyes as he put his own hands on his hips. “Perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think you do, then.”

“Perhaps.” Annabelle’s arms returned to her sides, and a hint of a smile appeared on her face.

“A-and Jon, everybody else, they-”

“Aren’t my priority.” Annabelle finished, her voice still surprisingly calm. “There’s a suit out in the hallway for you, if you want to try it on. Should fit better than that old thing in the back of your closet.”

“Not a high bar, that.” Martin retorted before he could think better of it.

“That old thing” had been Martin’s father’s, once upon a time, and it fit him horribly, really, much too short in the sleeves and too wide in the shoulders, but he’d kept it around all these years because he needed at least one nice outfit on hand and buying a new one had never been high on his list of priorities. Martin hadn’t really thought ahead far enough to think of what he’d be wearing to his wedding, but he was glad that it wouldn’t be his father’s old suit, at least.

The suit in the hallway, on the other hand... even before putting it on, Martin could tell that it was new, tailored better than anything he’d ever owned before, and when he brushed his hand against the fabric, it was soft and cool and just yielding enough.

(Martin tried to ignore the niggling voice in the back of his head that said that fine, soft fabric might well be spider’s silk.)

“I’m going in the bathroom to try this on, I assume you’ll manage without me for a solid two seconds so I can get a bit of privacy.” Annabelle opened her mouth, and Martin did his best to head off the impending protest by adding, “Or some semblance of privacy, anyway.”

Annabelle Cane closed her mouth, and Martin closed the bathroom door behind him.

The suit’s fit was as perfect as the fabric it was made out of; Martin was so accustomed to poorly-fitting clothing, to having to tuck some fabric in and do his best to stretch other bits out, that wearing something that actually fit without any alterations (on his end, at least; there did appear to be a few stray stitches, though what hands made them Martin didn’t know) came as a bit of a shock.

“This fits perfectly, how did you-”

And then Martin cut off his question, because he realized that there were only really two ways that Annabelle Cane could know his size that well.

First was her consulting Elias, because apparently they were close now--not that Elias had any business knowing Martin’s clothes size either, of course, but Elias seemed to have a way of just knowing that sort of thing, of knowing whatever might be useful to him in his own smarmy way. But the idea of Annabelle Cane and Elias Bouchard making conversation about getting Martin a suit was a mental picture Martin would much rather not have in his head, thanks.

But then the other option that came to mind was that she’d gotten Martin’s measurements a little more... directly. She evidently hadn’t had any trouble gaining access to his flat, after all (even though he’d made sure to lock the door, had grown very careful about that ever since the Prentiss incident), and while Annabelle herself doing such dirty work might be noticeable, might be enough to wake him up even in the middle of those deep sleeps he’d been having lately, her spiders...

No, that wasn’t a mental picture Martin much relished, either.

And asking Annabelle Cane how she’d gotten his measurements just meant that one of those two disconcerting possibilities would be confirmed, would be that much harder to push to the back of his mind.

“...nope, never mind, I don’t want to know.”

“Good.” Was that a hint of smugness Martin heard in Annabelle’s voice just now?

Martin opened the bathroom door. “So what now? What other ‘preparations’ are on your to-do list?”

“Mostly just making sure you arrive at the church still intact.” Annabelle Cane stood up and headed for the front door. “I’ll drive you there. Car’s waiting out front.”

Martin didn’t know how Annabelle Cane had gotten a car, whether she’d stolen it or borrowed it or somehow outright bought one from some unsuspecting salesperson who didn’t know they were dealing with an eldritch monstrosity in the flesh... but again, he figured he was probably better off not knowing.

“Fine. Whatever. Lead the way, I suppose.”

Annabelle’s car was black and clean and had tinted windows and no license plates, and Martin really wished he had it in him to be surprised.

As he entered the car, though he knew that Annabelle would be bringing him to the site of his wedding, Martin couldn’t help but think that it felt more like he was heading towards his own funeral.

[its-warm-in-here]

This is an early draft of an Astarion x Ofc thing that might continue. Buuuuut it may not go that direction. Im not sure! I haven't written for a fun in a while and hopefully I can actually see this though. Nothing explicit! hardly anything but a start

In all honesty, she had smelled fantastic. And in his defense, he was very, very hungry. It was hardly an uncommon habit at this point. Astarion knew his companions were aware that sipping her blood has become almost a nightly ritual here in the underdark. Still, as Wyll fired a blast of eldritch energy into the bulette, his gaze was firmly locked to the vampire’s teeth affixed to the inside of her wrist. Her wrist! It was hardly the most scandalous place he could have bitten her. Nizana hardly seemed to mind the nip. He had caught her arm on the way to nock an arrow and she didn’t even hesitate to extend it to him. Astarion released her, quickly pecking a quick kiss to her warm skin. She fired her shot without a second thought and the shaft impaled itself into one of the beast’s eyes.

 Yet, he could feel the warlock’s eyes glaring cinders into his skull. Astarion swiped his open palm against the hard scales of the bulette, leaving a greenish line of necrosis as he did. Inwardly, Astarion groaned at the thought of having to put up with another one of the lad’s righteous anecdotes which he knew would soon follow.

The thing leapt. This time outwardly, he groaned again. He supposed it could be called graceful. For the large monstrosity that it was. It always seemed to know just where to fling itself and send at least two of them flying. In this case he and Shadowheart. Astarion barely had time to register the stab of pain in the back of his skull when the bulette’s jaws snapped hungrily above him. With little grace, the elf threw himself in a half tumble away, somehow managing to make it to his feet in the process, rapier at the ready. Astarion flashed the bulette a dark smirk before plunging his blade into its thigh. The thing’s cry was piercing and suddenly Asatrion was reminded how unstable this cavern was. The floor swayed and the very air rumbled. From above, the sound of stone crumbling and rocks falling could be heard. Unconsciously, he hunkered a bit lower to the ground. 

Then came a crunch and a squelch. Another piercing cry was cut short as Lae’zel’s warhammer burst through it’s skull. With a heave, she brought the weapon down a second time, the beast letting out one last whimper before collapsing to the hollow ground. Lae’zel brought the hammer above her head a third and final time; she took in a deep breath and let out an echoing victory cry. 

Astarion sliced his bloodied rapier through the air before him, then delicately swiped the blade between his gloved fingers. “Excellent show, my dear, but do be careful to not bring the ceiling down on us, won’t you?”  He gave the sword one last flick befor replacing it at his hip. 

The gith hopped from her position on her kill’s head. “Chkt. Would you rather that thing slither off and come after us again? I would not,” she scoffed. 

“You bashed it’s brains in, I doubt its slithing anywhere,” he put plainly. She waved him away with another scoff, no longer interested in his opinions. 

It wasn’t long before they were back on the path. The bulette held nothing of interest and they had little reason to hang around this territory any longer. And of course Wyll was side eyeing him. Astarion’s lip twitched, threatening to turn into a smug smile. The warlock wasn’t even subtle about the disapproval. Still, Astarion composed himself, keeping his expression blank as possible. “Is something bothering you, Wyll?” he asked, biting back as much malice as he could muster. 

“Hm?” Wyll looked him dead in the face, the resentment suddenly hidden, but not gone, “Nothing. Well, I was wondering why you would think draining us in a fight would be a good idea.” 

Astarion opened his mouth to respond, venomed words at the ready. 

“We already discussed it,” Nizana cut him off. “There’s not much he can hunt down here and I don’t mind.” 

“Really.”

A lie. Astarion quirked a brow at her backside, the smirk he’d been trying to hide breaking into full over his features. “Yes, we want me at my best, especially down here,” he quickly agreed. 

“Look, we don’t need our archer light headed because you needed a pick me up,” Wyll said. He wasn’t hostile. “Nizana, we need you at your best too.” 

She rolled her shoulders and turned back from her position to look them up and down. “It’ll be easier on me if he doesn't drain me dry all in one sitting. I can make my shots.” Wyll gave her a conflicted frown which made Astarion’s eye’s roll. With a sigh, she added, “If it becomes a problem, we,” Nizana gestured between her and Astarion, “will address it. It is my blood, you know.” 

Wyll’s frown deepened, but he let out a defeated sigh, “You’re right, it’s none of my business. Just, don’t let it become my business, alright?” He flashed a good hearted smile.

“Believe me, we will not,” Astarion added flatly. 

-

It wasn’t long before they stopped to rest. Camping in the underdark was different from the surface, that was certain. There was too much light for one thing. Too many of the plants would glow. Even the cavern ceiling and walls were luminescent in places. Disappearing away into the night was much more difficult when all times of the day were equally well lit. Still, slipping away after dinner wasn’t too hard. He found Nizana a few levels down, atop an outcropping of giant mushrooms. The drow greeted him with a half smile. 

Astarion took a seat next to her on the orange fungus. “Here I was, impressed that you would lie to a stranger without my ask. But our companions?” he let a hand trail up her back, all the way up her spine to her back of her neck. “And I thought you counted Wyll as a friend." 

Nizana shivered at his cool touch, "It's not like he couldn't find out if he wanted to." She taped her ring and middle finger to her temple. The worm in his head shifted in response. 

"So lying for me, and taking advantage of our resident monster hunter's good nature," he notes with a touch of pride. 

"It's like I said; I don't mind," again Nizana brushed her short hair away from her jugular. The puncture wounds at her throat had become an ever present adornment ever since arriving here. Astarions thumb left the nape of her neck, and instead gently teased over the bite. She was bruised, that much was certain. Her dark grey skin was nearly purple around the abrasion. It bloomed rather nicely near her collar bone, Astarion decided. Like lavender, or maybe a lilac. Either way, it suited her.  

He let out a hum as she fell back onto the spongey surface, "You know,I think you might enjoy this as much as I do."

[abracaxfuckxyou]

It didn't take long for Gideon to start slowing down again. This time it was simply exhaustion from the fight and he'd already used his second wind to ease some of the blows. Once more he has to take a knee from the exertion, the whistle dying out completely, his fiery aura extinguished.

Then, as if on cue, a goblin riding on an owlbear came charging out of the trees. "Git 'em, Hootsie!" the druid howled as he launched himself off her back, his body shifting into a two headed hound monstrosity and joining her in tearing the hobgoblins apart. Quickly following behind were a large tiger tabaxi hurling orbs of energy and one very angry lizardfolk covered in shadows with neon markings of his skeleton all over his body firing Eldritch blasts from the skull atop his cane. And lastly was a disproportionately tall and lanky bugbear with large jars of a strange magenta liquid fixed to his back. Long horrifying claws raked through enemies like they were nothing.

dreamsofalife​:

abracaxfuckxyou​:

Gideon could feel the warmth wash over him as she cast her spell. His hand came up and yanked the bolt out of his chest, the wound closing over quickly. With a few ragged breaths he got to his feet. The fire in him hadn’t died out just yet. His heat gauge had fallen back to first gear, but he was still in this fight.

As he went back into the fray, he noticed something. The hobgoblins were looking behind them, shouting about an attack from behind. A dark shadowy blast knocked down on, two bright balls of energy knocked out two more, and a large spectral frogemoth came crashing through the trees and lashing at more with its tongue.

There was a relief in Gideon’s expression. His rage turned to hope and confidence as he grinned and gave a low chuckle. “I shoulda had more faith in ‘em.”

“Holy shit.” Shy stared agape at the giant frog-beast that shot through the horde. It was…well, not an expected sight to be sure, but she was impressed. A low whistle of appreciation escaped her mouth in spite of her not doing so consciously. “Whoa. Your friends came in clutch!”

With a manic grin, she aimed her crossbow once again. Even if she wasn’t able to keep the hobgoblins at bay with it, she hoped to keep them away from Gideon until the froghemoth made its way towards them. With no spell slots left, all she could really do was provide cover for him for now, and hopefully keep the little buggers away as much as possible.

Gideon cracked his neck and smiled a devilish smile. If his friends were alive, well, and fighting, then they would be just fine. They’d all make it though the fight.

One of the hobgoblins rushed at them with a spear. Gideon’s large hand grabbed it by its ugly face and hoisted it up before slamming it down into the ground with a sickening crack. The train whistle sounded again as he began punching and burning his way through more enemies.

“Please don’t be alarmed miss. My name is Morning Frost,” came a voice from inside Shy’s head. “We’re trying to make our way to you and our friend. Just hold on a bit longer. He’ll keep you safe until we can return the favor.”

[crazyclouds5281]

Unnamed Bloodborne Fic

Basically NG+, except the Hoonter is super confused.

This… Transformation, was not what he had expected. He’d been hoping for the Dream to end, to see the sun rise upon the gothic city of Yharnam. Instead, he became the very thing he swore to destroy.

“Are you cold?”

The Plain Doll approached, picking up his odd, worm-like body. She held him gently in her grasp, cradling him like a child- which, he supposed, he now was. An infant Great One, he knew instinctively. The arcane power of the Cosmos lay just beneath his skin. Out of reach, for the moment, but its very existence was telling. The consumption of the umbilical cords, grotesque as it was, had irrevocably changed him. For better or worse, only time would tell.

“Oh, Good Hunter,” the Doll crooned, her soft voice calming to the newborn Great One. Some rest would not be amiss, he decided. The fight with the Moon Presence had taken the last of his energy. Releasing his tenuous hold on consciousness, the Good Hunter drifted off to sleep, the hummed lullaby of the Plain Doll soothing something deep within his soul.

It’s been a long night.

----

He awoke to the ramblings of a wheelchair-bound man, who wore a large-brimmed hat that covered the top half of his face, while a greasy beard covered the bottom half.

“Oh, yes… Paleblood. Well, you’ve come to the right place. Yharnam is the home of blood ministration. You need only unravel its mystery. But… Where’s an outsider like you to begin? Easy; with a bit of Yharnam blood of your own.” The man tilted his head up, allowing a view of his eyes. Except, there were no eyes under the hat- merely a mass of scarred flesh. It would have been repulsive, if he wasn’t used to much more grisly sights. It triggered something, though. A sense of deja-vu, as if he’d seen this before…

“But first, you’ll need a contract.”

----

“Good. All signed and sealed.”

Awareness came back slowly. He didn’t remember falling asleep once more. Had he blacked out? He couldn’t remember signing anything, so what was this man talking about?

“Now, let’s begin the transfusion. Oh, don’t you worry. Whatever happens, you may think it all merely a bad dream.” The elderly man began laughing, and his vision blurred. Darkness took over.

----

He woke slowly, groggily. His head was spinning, and he allowed it to flop to the left. It was dark, but even with the lack of light, he could see the crimson pooling on the floor, a puddle of blood that was gradually growing. The wolf-like visage of a Scourge Beast stared at him, eyes glowing in the blackness as it emerged from the ichor. It took two steps forward, gnarled feet splashing loudly, and slowly reaching over with a clawed hand. Then, moments before its serrated digit could tear out his throat, it was suddenly set on fire.

Flailing wildly, the Scourge Beast roared in agony, before falling to the ground, dead. Its corpse disappeared right before his eyes- whether it turned to ash, or returned to whatever hellish pit it came from, he did not know. His attention was stolen by the tiny, deformed, humanoid creatures that pulled themselves over the side of his gurney. First one, on the left, and a second on the right, then a third at his feet. They crawled along his body, pulling themselves toward his head, which was once more getting foggy. He allowed his head to fall back, gaze on the ceiling, and found more of the little creatures hovering over his face. What were the Messengers doing here? His eyelids slid shut, and moments before he once more surrendered to unconsciousness, he heard a voice. A very familiar voice, which sent a thrill of serenity through his perplexed mind.

“Ahh, you’ve found yourself a Hunter.”

----

He woke again. This time, there was nothing waiting for him; no demented man in a wheelchair, no Beasts, no Messengers. Just a dark room, one he remembered quite well. After all, it was the very place where the Nightmare began.

Iosefka’s Clinic.

What was he doing here, though? He should have been in the Dream, under the care of the Plain Doll as he grew into his eldritch powers as a Great One. Unless… Did the Hunter’s Dream collapse? It wouldn’t be very surprising, considering he killed both the caretaker and the progenitor of the little subspace.

He forced himself into a sitting position, swinging his legs over the side of his bed. He took a moment to just breathe, as blood rushed to his head, making him dizzy for a moment. He pushed on, standing up and swaying on his feet for a moment, then walked over to one of the two doors. He attempted to push it open, but it would not budge. Odd. He thought he’d opened all the doors in the Clinic.

Ignoring the oddity, he walked over to the other door, which was easily pushed open. A quick trip down the flight of stairs, and he was in a fairly empty room. A slam changed his course, and he went back the way he came, only to find that the door he came through was now locked. He grabbed the handles, rattling the hinges, but to no avail. Then, a voice on the other side of the barrier began to speak.

“Are you… Out on the Hunt?” She sounded familiar. “Then, I’m very sorry, but… I cannot open this door.” The feeling of deja-vu was getting stronger. “I am Iosefka.” His eyes widened, and he ignored the rest of her words. This was not possible.

Iosefka was dead.

An impostor? No, that didn’t sound right. Besides, what were the odds of there being another? He’d already killed the first poser, who’d been responsible for the death of the actual Iosefka. So, who was this woman that claimed to be the nurse?

“This is all I can offer you.” A vial was slipped through a hole in the glass. It carried a yellow-tinged liquid, and he knew instantly what it was; one of Iosefka’s refined blood vials. He gingerly took the glass in his gloved hand. This was all the proof he needed, that this was the real Iosefka. The impostor had never been able to reproduce the quality of blood required. Hadn’t even bothered, since she was too busy turning patients into monstrosities. And yet, if this was truly Iosefka…

How?

As far as he knew, she was not a Hunter of the Dream. Death was the end for the nurse, not another torturous beginning. Beyond confused, he stumbled back down the stairs, and then down another flight, staring at the yellow liquid the entire time.

How?

It was only the reflexes beaten into him by dozens of lifetimes in the Hunt that allowed him to avoid getting his head torn off. Instinct forced him to throw himself backwards, narrowly dodging the razor-sharp claws of a Scourge Beast. With a deft hand, he pocketed the vial, then grabbed the Rakuyo strapped to his hip. With a violent heave, he ripped the blade from its sheath, decapitating the lunging Beast in one swift move, before sliding it back in its scabbard. He released the breath he was holding, relaxing his muscles. The exchange hadn’t taken more than a few seconds, but the concentration required was immense. Every time he used this weapon, he was reminded how his victory over Lady Maria definitely had nothing to do with skill. Luck had carried him surprisingly far, its usefulness only surpassed by his refusal to stay dead (or inability, but he tried not to dwell on that too much, for the sake of his waning sanity).

With a sigh, he exited the bloody room, walked up a flight of stairs, and stepped out into the Clinic’s courtyard. A quick glance confirmed that the gate to the graveyard was locked, despite the trouble he’d gone through to open it. Almost as if something had reset all his progress…

It was a thought for another time, when he was back in the Dream.

Pushing open the larger gate, he walked out onto the cobbled streets of Yharnam. Up a slight incline, he turned left, quickly sidestepping the addled Huntsman hiding behind a carriage, who slammed an axe into the stone at his feet. His Rakuyo flashed, and the man’s hat slid off his head, revealing the inside of his skull. Flicking the blood off his blade, he sheathed it, then hurried over to a lever. Pulling it, a metal ladder dropped down, and he quickly ascended. There, in front of him, was his goal: a lamp. Clicking his fingers, the lamp ignited with an eerie glow, and Messengers sprouted from the ground, waving their hands lethargically. He paid them no mind, instead kneeling and focusing on the Hunter’s Mark, engraved within his mind. Mist encroached upon his vision, and he entered the Dreamlands.

----

A blink. That was all the time it took for him to cross between dimensions, and he was now standing in the place he viewed as a home. Or as a safe place to rest, at the very least. The house was no longer up in flames, and the mist was not oppressively heavy, weighing down on his very soul. The Plain Doll sat upon her perch, head bobbing up and down as she dozed. Seeing the subtle movement calmed some of his inner turmoil. He wasn’t sure he would be able to handle it if she, the one who supported him through the entirety of his hellish journey, was no longer around. Perhaps it was a bit strange to be so attached to a mere doll, but he could feel it, deep within his veins; she was much more than a construct of wood. More than what Gehrman made her.

Speaking of which...

He stalked up the steps, steeling himself. However, even his incredible strength of will, forged through countless experiences with the unholy Great Ones, could not stop the shock that jolted through him. Sitting there in his wheelchair, looking as nonchalant as ever, was the First Hunter.

“Ah-hah… You must be the new Hunter. Welcome, to the Hunter’s Dream. Or should I say, welcome back?”

[sleepawaywriting]

Deep Into That Darkness Peering

Chapter 1 (of 4): The Siren

[Piers x Reader, SFW]

Warnings: Alcohol Mention, Caves, Monsters, Existential Horror, Near-Death Experiences

What do you do when you discover that your best friend is an eldritch monstrosity that has inspired countless myths and ancient folklore, who could easily tear you limb from limb or consume your entire existence whole? You double down, obviously.

(An AU where everything is the same except Piers is the monster mash and you’re down to graveyard smash.)

[Told ya I was gonna do it. Don’t worry, we’ll soon get back to your regularly-scheduled requests and smuttery, I just had to get this ball rolling and out of my system.]

The first time you saw him, it was an accident.

You were tired. Your days seemed to become busier and busier, and recently, you slept very little, finding that with every waking morning, the bags under your eyes grew deeper and more pronounced. Your nerves were fraying, and your patience was wearing thin. Finally, at the precipice of burning out, something inside of you snapped. You decided to take a holiday, retreating to the seaside town of Spikemuth, where you would hopefully find solace among the neon-laden streets. Most people would raise their eyebrows at the prospect of spending a holiday in Spikemuth. After all, the town was somewhat run-down, notoriously underfunded and forgotten by the region’s more affluent citizens. However, beneath the massive structure overhanging the forgotten hamlet, was a treasure trove of beauty and inspiration, not only in its many historical structures, dilapidated as they were, but in the people that lived there. Spikemuth was a town that thrived on artistry, home to an impressive number of painters, sculptors, photographers, and, of course, musicians. This was the aspect of the coastal town that drew you under its spell. You fully planned to spend the majority of your time looking at art, attending concerts, drinking heavily, and crashing on your best friend’s couch. And luckily, said best friend was none other than Piers, the town’s local celebrity, and resident expert in all things Spikemuth.

One night, a few hours after passing out on Piers’ couch for the umpteenth time, you found yourself wide awake and painfully sober. After tossing and turning for another hour or two, you decided to give up on a full night’s sleep altogether, begrudgingly dragging yourself out from under your pile of blankets and retreating to the bathroom, where you proceeded to slide on a pair of well-worn sweatpants, and a hoodie with Piers’ band’s logo on the back (an outdated one, which the singer insisted on replacing for you at some point), topping it all off with a messy bun. Tip-toeing to the front door, you put on your sneakers, grabbed your phone and keys, and exited the flat, pulling on your hood when you realized just how cold it had gotten—and it would only get colder, where you were going. Walking along the main street, you breathed in the crisp seaside air, adjusting your eyes to the pulsating neon and trudging your way past a few bars and clubs where the town’s nightlife was still raging strong. You smiled as you noticed a few Sableye skitter around a corner into a nearby alley, clearly looking to cause some mischief to any overly-drunk party goers.

The town’s energy waned as you approached the east exit, the one leading to the sheer, black cliffs that descended to the rocky shoreline far below. You loved exploring them, especially at night, despite the potential dangers that lurked there. Luckily, you arrived when the tide was low, so there was no immediate risk of being swept out to sea or thrashed against the jagged rocks. You carefully made your way down one of the many damp, creaky wooden staircases to the main beach, the misty wind nipping at your skin, cold enough to bite, but not enough to cause a shiver. It invigorated your senses as you leaped down the remaining steps and onto the shore, almost stumbling in the process. The beaches of Spikemuth were not exactly the type you would want to picnic on—on top of being rather cold and windy, the floor was comprised entirely of uneven pebbles. However, it was still beautiful, in its own way, and in the past, you had spent countless hours watching the waves, collecting sea glass, and occasionally exploring the array of mysterious caves and tunnels that bore deep into the cliffside. They were only visible at low tide, and never failed to capture your imagination, particularly Mourner’s Cave, which was by far the largest of the bunch—you had yet to find its end, if it had one, in your own amateur spelunking. As with all the darkest, deepest, most unknown parts of nature, there were many folktales surrounding Mourner’s Cave. For centuries, locals regaled tourists with the harrowing tale of a siren, who would lure victims into the depths of the seaside cavern during low tide, in order to feast upon them. Of course, it was likely just a story parents would tell their children in order to keep them from straying too far beneath the cliffs, potentially getting lost, trapped, or worse.

Standing at the very edge of the water, just inches from where the waves ebbed and flowed across the craggy shore, you stuffed your hands into your pockets, relaxing your gaze, allowing yourself to fully space out. The sky was mostly clear from where you stood, a large, full moon illuminating the icy waters, its luster reflecting off the thousand tiny, shimmering pebbles beneath your feet. In the distance, you could see a heavy fog rolling in, and there were no boats, as far as you could tell, so the horizon line was completely obscured by an inky, infinite haze. You stared, allowing your mind to wander, breathing in the briny scent and relishing in the isolation, when you heard something. It was faint—so faint that you barely noticed it above the crashing waves and the wind whistling through the jagged grottoes. At first, it sounded like a low humming, which you assumed was just your loss of hearing from the eardrum-shattering concerts you’d been attending. As you wandered further down the beach, in the direction of Mourner’s Cave, the humming grew louder, and you reached up to plug your left ear, then your right, seeing if you could isolate the damage. It wasn’t until after bending over, turning either ear towards the ground, and shaking your head up and down like you were trying to empty a piggybank, that you realized it was neither hearing damage nor vertigo.

Your curiosity getting the best of you, you decided to follow the sound, fully expecting to come across some sort of wild Pokemon, or even nothing at all. The beach’s rocky structures had a tendency to “wail” in turbulent weather, creating an eerie, otherworldly effect and spooking hapless beachgoers who were unfamiliar with the area’s geology. Continuing your trek, you were led away from the tumbling waters and towards the sheer, ashen cliffside containing the entrance to Mourner’s Cave. As you drew closer, so did the sound, and you realized that it wasn’t humming at all, but singing—a strange, mournful, sort of singing, that made you stop in your tracks. It was unlike anything you had ever heard before—a swirling, ethereal sound with no discernible melody. It seemed human, uncannily so, but there was a sort of… wrongness about it, like it was almost synthetic—and there was a warbling to it, as if it was not one, but multiple voices, all stacked on top of each other, but clearly belonging to the same owner. You inched closer to the mouth of the cave, wanting to turn back, wanting to sprint back across the beach, up the wooden stairs, back to town, but your shoulders tensed, your stomach knotting in worry. What if this person, or Pokemon, or whatever it was, needed help? It almost sounded pained, or at the very least downright miserable, and something else—something that bothered you more—a sense of… familiarity. A unnerving, nostalgic sort of feeling that forced you to carry on, despite yourself.

Just as you decided to retreat, to call it a night, to run and hide under the covers and try to forget this ever happened, you passed through the mouth of Mourner’s Cave. Something in the air shifted, as if you broke an invisible barrier, and suddenly, there were no waves. There was no wind. Not even the sound of your footsteps, once shifting and trembling through the gravel, now plodding across solid, damp stone. There was only the singing. It filled your head, to the top your skull, pouring out of your ears—overshadowing any thoughts of fear, worry, or self-preservation, stripping you of any desire to leave, of returning to the world you once knew. Your eyes glazed over, shoulders relaxed, arms hanging at your sides as your legs moved of their own volition, though sluggish, as if moving against the tide. You no longer felt the cold, salty air against your flesh, instead feeling something heavy, oppressive, suffocating, weighing down on your shoulders. The air around you crackled with an unseen energy, prickling at your skin, making each hair on the back of your neck stand on end. The darkness ahead smelled like dry ice and ozone, but you didn’t care. You never cared. You could not remember caring about anything but the singing, of finding it, claiming it, lying in it, succumbing to it.

The moonlight had long since abandoned you, as you journeyed further and further into the depths, where it could not follow. The encroaching darkness only served to heighten the sound as it bounced around the cavern walls, infinitely echoing in a beautiful, dreadful cacophony. A streak of warmth slid down your cheeks, though your eyes were unblinking, as you mindlessly accepted the fact that you were going to die. You did not feel afraid, so much as indifferent, and somewhat peaceful, like the darkness was an old friend, and you were always meant to become a part of it.

The singing stopped.

Blinking rapidly, your eyes stinging, you reached up to rub them, surprised to find that that they, along with your cheeks, were wet. Were you crying? Wait, where were you, anyway? You whipped your head around, squinting against the darkness. Why was is so dark, all of a sudden? You turned on your heels far too quickly, panic welling up in your chest as you slipped on something. You yelped, falling forward, managing to catch yourself before splitting your face open on the clammy stone floor. Wait, stone? Were you in a cave? Ignoring the fresh scrapes on your palms, you fumbled with your pockets before finally retrieving your phone, turning on its flashlight. You blinked against the harsh, cold light now illuminating the yawning chamber, seeing that, in your panic, you managed to slip on a slimy, stubborn patch of algae. Standing up on shaky knees, you tried to ignore the trembling in your hands and the thumping in your chest once you realized you had no clue which way you came in. If you weren’t careful, you would end up wandering deeper into the cliffs, and wouldn’t be able to escape before the tide rolled in. You tried not to think about what would happen then, deciding to stick to the path opposite of where you were facing when you snapped out of your stupor. As you walked, you got an idea, and looked down to your phone, unlocking it and turning on the camera to record some footage. You figured that if you didn’t manage to make it out in time, you could at least leave behind some evidence of your final moments, as morbid as that was. That, and, as you walked, you thought about the stories you’d heard of people losing time, of being in one place and suddenly waking up in another, often citing alien abduction as the cause. Maybe if you were recording your predicament, there would be a chance that someone could find out what really happened here, in the deepest, darkest depths of Mourner’s Cave. Maybe they would make a late night TV special about you. The thought made you laugh, though it was more of a sad, frantic giggle, and you were thankful nobody was around to hear it—or so you thought.

Something shifted behind you, above you, dragging along the cave ceiling and knocking loose a few rogue stones, which tumbled down the rounded walls and skidded across the floor before bouncing off the back of your shoes. You spun around, bringing your flashlight with you, fully expecting to come face-to-face with a ravenous, wild Pokemon—inwardly cursing yourself for forgetting to bring any of your own. Instead, you were met with… darkness, but not the darkness you had come to expect from within a cave in the dead of night. No, that darkness was malleable, it had depth, it could be permeated. This darkness looked… solid... quite literally the definition of pitch black, like someone had cut out a section of deep space and draped it across the cavern wall like some impossible curtain. Frankly, you had no idea what you were looking at, and a confused, fearful noise bubbled up in your chest and slipped past your lips.

Suddenly, the darkness jolted towards you, surrounding you completely and snuffing out your only source of light. You yelled, dropping your phone and throwing out your arms in a feeble attempt to defend yourself. Your body made contact with nothing, however, as the air grew thick around you, caking the inside of your lungs. The oppressive static returned, jogging your memory and overwhelming every one of your senses, your nerves screaming as your fingers and toes twitched. You felt yourself seizing, a deep weight in your chest forcing you backwards, and after stumbling, swearing, and babbling incoherently, you tripped over yourself, your tailbone slamming hard against the stone floor. Before you could register the pain, you suddenly realized that you could now see your legs stretched out in front of you, as well as the rest of your body. Though faint, there was undoubtably some sort of light coming somewhere from above, and after looking up, you realized you much preferred the darkness.

Hanging above you were eyes—so many eyes—staring accusingly down at your pitiful form, each of them glowing an electric magenta that made your retinas burn and your forehead pound. Next, you noticed the teeth—an obscene amount of teeth—razor sharp and emitting the same unnatural hue, stark against the pitch backdrop. Behind the sickening aura, you saw the faint outline of something sharp and skeletal, forcing you to look away, and thanks to your new, terrifying light source, you could now discern that the solid darkness enveloping your senses was, in fact, hundreds of black, amorphous tendrils, covering every inch of the cave, floor to ceiling, effectively trapping you. You had no chance of escape, entirely helpless, completely at the mercy of whatever creature made up this hellish cage. You were going to die.

You wanted to scream, but felt as if your lungs were being squeezed inside your ribcage, so all you could do was sob—a pathetic, choked noise escaping your throat. You fell, your consciousness descending deep into an abyss from which you never expected to awake.

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[Eldritch Piers' look in this story is HEAVILY inspired by @lulzyrobot's version of him, so go give them some love!]