#eventually they all become besties

[therobinswayne]

this might be a crazy idea, but what is instead of pacifica just being the northwest who owns the town at the time, pacifica switches places with fiddleford?

like, listen. after not getting into his dream school, dipper manages to get into a school that is still reputable based off his good grades. pacifica is his roommate because, hey, it's the 70s, no way he's trying to explain transgender to the admissions office. they hate each other for a while, because he thinks she's a priss who payed her way in, and she's annoyed that he fights back. but over the first year, they help each other understand themselves. she learns about his birth mark (which he keeps firmly hidden away beneath his hat at all times) and he learns about her cold and distant parents. they bond.

they live together for all of college, and it gets to the point that dipper won't deny having a crush on her, but he doesn't even think to bring it up, shrouded in his own insecurities. but she's the first real friend he's ever had that wasn't friends with mabel first. in fact, she doesn't even know mabel exists.

when she comes clean to him about feeling like a fraud because her father DID help her get into school, he convinces her to prove herself and get the degree she wants instead of just the MRS degree her father had planned for her. she turned out to be a damn good mechanical engineer.

when they graduated, her father withheld her any money for not settling down how he wanted, and she found herself a job with her degree so she could really be herself. she credits dipper with helping her get there. she promises to write. dipper heads to oregon.

she works there for a year, before getting fired. any other place she tries refuses to hire a woman in the field. she's forced to go back to her parents. her dad sets her up with an approved husband, and she gets married. she doesn't care about him at all. she has a son. he's named after her father.

then, when her son is 3 or 4, she gets a call from dipper. he asks her to come to some town in oregon and help her build something, because he needs a brilliant mechanical engineer, and she's the best one he knows. she tells her husband she's going, and he doesn't care. she hugs her son tightly, tells him to be good for the nanny, and sets off.

dipper's a little different. he's more crazed, drinks a lot more coffee, is constantly scribbling in his journals and whispering to himself. he has all these plans, and he doesn't seem to leave the house often. more often than not, she's the one who heads into town and buys groceries so they have anything to eat.

she knows something's going on with him but he won't tell her what. one day, he falls asleep next to her while working and she finds out. bill, his name is, and he's rather unfriendly. but dipper didn't tell her. she doesn't know what to do with that, so she just doesn't bring it up.

when they finish the portal, their first test, her foot is in front of the line. for just one moment, she's stuck inside. dipper brings her out, but it's too much. she can't even describe what she's seen. it's horrifying. she tells him they have to destroy it, and he refuses. she leaves.

when she gets back to her family, her husband is in bed with the nanny. she doesn't have it in her to care.

she sets to work, making something that can help her forget the horrors that haunt her dreams. she does make it, and she takes it to gravity falls in hopes of helping dipper forget all of this madness. when it doesn't work, he looks at her so damn betrayed. like she's the one doing horrible things when he wants to bring about destruction.

it's so easy, in the aftermath, to erase his face from her brain. that betrayed look in his eyes. but it still comes back and haunts her. so she makes it stronger, makes it work better, keeps testing it on herself, until there are gaps in her memories she doesn't remember there being and she doesn't remember why she even made it.

doesn't matter. she can't stop now.

by the time the stan's get there, pacifica is just. the old lady who lives in the trash yard. her hair is thin and white, she's shrunk, her posture is atrocius. she knows her name is pacifica, but that's all. she doesn't remember anyone for long, or any direct conversations. things go missing the second they happen, and no one can recall what happened to her.

eventually, her son moves to gravity falls in hopes of finding his mother. he doesn't put together who she is, since no one knows her last name. she doesn't look anything like the woman he's seen pictures of.

when dipper returns to the dimmension, after weirdmageddon, she sees him and for the first time in a long time, she remembers something. he tells her she must hate him, but she just hugs him. he works to get her memory back, bit by bit, by reworking her machine to work in reverse.

once she's got enough memory to come back to herself, one of the first things she does is kiss him.

the second thing is going and finding her son.

[starset-sarsaparilla]

fun fact: when i first went to the fort to kill caesar i completely forgot about the bunker. it was a stressful return trip

[moeblob]

"Him? Oh, you know, he's kind of a loser." - probably everyone except for his younger brother.

Germaine is based on the layer of hell (Dante's Inferno) for material wealth before self, others, and god. So basically very materialistic and possessive of his belongings. Unfortunately, his younger brother qualifies as a belonging in his mind. So he does his absolute best to keep his brother safe and sound and scratch free - which is a bit tough in a post apocalyptic setting but he mostly manages.

Also a fact I just like to mention: he is incapable of lying.

[fluffs-n-stuffs]

"Cuhut it out- you guys!" "Nu-uh, not until you're all perked up first! You don't want those gym challengers meetin' with an ol' mopey leader, do ya?" "Whitney's right, dear friend. No need to hide that beautiful smile of yours, alright?~"

What it takes to cheer up Johto's beloved ghost boy 👻💕

[argonaut--keene]

Okay fuck it, even if I don't finish it anytime soon or ever, I have 40 chapters of this fic that have been waiting to see the light of day for years and you know what, they're good, so I'm going to share them. Get ready, it's time to find Another Way

[faunabel]

Faun you can be unhinged on here too have you seen how I post just say shit no one cares

AJHDJ

listen... i care!! i get embarrassed that anyone can see my stuff!!!!!

ok right now i'm copy+pasting a bunch of uhh..... Um. extremely nsfw headcanon rambles aiudhdj into a google docs for safe keeping before everything Burns And Dies

(yes they're almost entirely abt veneziano but not the point)

that is like WOW!!!!!!! embarrassing!!!!!! i have no filter sometimes!!!!! jesus what would i do if the peoples found out how insane i can be!!!!

quotev was different cause you just follow people and they follow you back so you see each other's stuff and then the only way of finding old posts is if you scroll AAALLLLL the way down. but anyone can theoretically see my posts on here at any time and i just get shyyy.

[emily-mooon]

✨Sparks in the Club✨

[whumpitisthen]

Brazen Arrogance

Previous I Masterlist I Next

The warp tears into space in front of an audience.

Upon stepping out of the gaping void between realms, the very first thing Grim notices is the blissful lack of sulphur in the air. One gets used to the dark smoke covering Hell’s crimson skies like rain clouds, but when visiting human territory, he cannot help inhaling a deep lungful of the fresh, properly oxygenated air. The air here smells of vigorous life.

The rarity of such simple pleasures is one unfortunate side effect of the Dawn. That is the word his lord prefers to refer to Hell’s takeover with, — humans come up with all kinds of funny names for it instead. The Cataclysm, the Armageddon, Doomsday, the Collapse, the Calamity, Ruin, Torrent, the End — the day the sky tore open, the day the Sun bled, the day their beloved God abandoned them. Yes, it has certainly shaken things up, and made the Reaper's immortal undeath much more interesting, but he would be lying if he said he didn't miss the Old World sometimes. All the intricate ways and lives of humanity have been tainted by unholy power, and while they prevail as best they can, they will never be the same.

The second thing he notices is the absolute, resolute silence. As such, that is not uncommon in itself — silence has a habit of following him wherever he goes. However, he can feel dozens of souls nearby, hundreds of eyes staring at the portal snapping closed behind him and his old friend as they belatedly enter, breathless and intense. He straightens, mood already lifting. It's always such a delight to be in human territory. Unlike the slaves living in captivity, these mortals taste of hope and vibrate with the will to live. Their fear always smells the sweetest, their spirits are always the most lively. Splendid prey to chase away boredom with.

A familiar warmth finds its way behind his eyes. This is what the nostalgic grief of visiting a childhood home must be like, though gods don't really have any single house to call such. Their homes are their domains, and Death’s domain has been and will always be Earth, the home of humanity, the realm of mortals. And though he rarely ever leaves Earth, he resides in its hell-infested parts the most, so he rarely gets to see this side of the planet nowadays. His true home is the land of mortals, not the ruins of a civilisation now taken over by demonkind. Seeing free humans is like seeing cattle well taken care of — their lives end all the same, yet free-range always tastes better.

That is to say, gods have quite a twisted sense of what ‘home’ might mean.

He stands to the side to let His Majesty take the lead. Grim is meant to act as protection, following from behind like a second shadow. It's what he does best, after all. A tall, menacing figure with an intimidating weapon and an even more intimidating mask, cloaked in shadows and leering menacingly. A presence that commands caution. He stalks just a few strides behind, walking at a more languid pace than His Majesty; a beguiling demon wearing an innocent man’s face as he sews terror into the hearts of everyone present. If the eager expression on his face is anything to go by, he is clearly itching to get started.

Unfortunately, awful distaste settles on his lord’s tongue upon entering.

His eyes set on a large, see-through wall. Thick, certainly made of a material considered strong to humans. It divides the dusty warehouse into two halves; one half for the cowardly mortal leaders, the other for the two deities.

They are in the middle of nowhere, on no man's land, perhaps a field Hell's armies have scorched to ashes in the past. An impromptu, flimsy building was raised here from sheets of metal, cobbled together just enough to stay standing. There is no doubt in His Majesty's mind that behind every unstable metal wall is another wall of soldiers and weaponry, just waiting for a signal to swarm the two of them, flooding every breath’s worth of space with their crude bullets without hesitation. Why else would they have built something so temporary, if not to save time on something that will be destroyed in the end?

Past the glass wall, trembling politicians sit in a row at a long table, sweating bullets in their quiet anticipation. Another row of people stand right behind them; the interpreters most likely. Large industrial flood lights give vision; — they blare from above, illuminating every imperfection on every face and magnifying it tenfold. No escort, no welcoming expressions and pleasantries, no offerings or sacrifices. No decency. Just a big, empty room reeking of cowardice and disrespect.

Worst of all, all his subjects have provided him with were a single table and chair, sitting in the middle of the floor right under a hot ray of artificial light. There is not even as much as a glass of water on the surface of the scuffed up thing.

A shameful presentation if he has ever seen one. Only humans could invite their benevolent god and welcome him in a metal shed in the middle of nowhere, begging for help disdainfully from behind an ugly, flimsy shield. Truly shameless.

From the opposite side of the glass, a tall woman emerges, followed by a couple others not unlike her. They wear religious cloaks that cover their bodies almost completely. Walking up to the glass wall with their eyes to the floor, they kneel beside each other, bowing deep in worship, their hooded foreheads touching the ground.

They wear his colours, they wear his symbols, they act in accordance with what they think he may appreciate as worship. They are his followers, clearly, surely brought here to welcome him properly.  — “In the name of all government officials taking part in this diplomatic meeting today, I, as your humble High Priestess, welcome you, our most merciful Lord. We are forever thankful for your benevolence. May your kindness persist and your mercy reach us, so we may forever provide you with our tireless service and sinful flesh in return. We offer our bodies to use as you see fit. We are here to serve only you.”

Her words are clear and enunciated, void of nearly all emotion apart from the slightest vibrato of nerves impossible to hide in the face of such honour. She talks with the utmost respect, with the reverence of a zealot finally allowed to look upon her one true god. Despite all that, His Majesty’s expression remains emotionless and uncaring. Slightly disappointed.

Once her monologue ends, he simply ignores all eyes on him, remaining quiet as he walks up to the shoddy, pathetic chair meant for him and lays a hand on the back of it. Gripping it with any force snaps a piece of the material off — its metal legs creak, and the piece in his hand crumbles to sawdust. It isn't even made out of proper lumber, but of wood waste and chemicals. It wouldn't surprise him if they duct taped the thing together the same way they did with this building. His frown deepens. Grim giggles to himself behind him, wandering the length of the room back and forth lazily, just waiting to be allowed to pounce. His laughter chills the air, yet his Lord’s blood only warms.

No emotion paints his face, but the intensity with which the demon aims his expectant glance at his kneeling servants just behind the glass is powerful enough to send a violent shiver of displeasure down each of their backs.

“Angela,” — he calls with a smile to the one in the middle, who jumps at hearing her true name flow from the mouth of her god with such nonchalance; unexpected, unprovoked, — “tell me. Do you think this is acceptable?”

In the following pause, the carefully kept professional admiration flickers in her eyes. She hesitates to answer, a breath caught in her throat at being named and called upon so directly. — “I-I do not understand, my Lord. Forgive me.”

“Rise.”

Without hesitance, but a great deal of terror, she clambers to her feet, nailing her gaze to the toes of her shoes. The row of mortals behind her shuffle uncomfortably, looking to each other in confusion. He can taste their unease on the tip of his pointed tongue. He finds some joy in derailing their little plans, whatever they may be. Humans always have a plan, always go by rules and instructions and orders. They were truly only ever meant to be servants.

“I-If I have displeased you, My Lord, I only ask —”

He lifts one finger and her mouth snaps shut like a snare around one’s throat.

“I am aware you must not be in charge of operations that do not pertain to you, child. So I am merely curious.” — He walks behind the broken chair, laying both hands on its rigid edges. — “You expect me to sit on this rotted, uncomfortable thing...”

The chair crumbles from an unexpected wave of force, splintering apart and falling to the floor noisily at once. Angela's hands become shaking fists. The audience, with the exception of Grim, gasps in unison. A hushed chatter bubbles up in the crowd. Grim leans back against a wall to watch the show from behind, sufficiently scaring the human guard he is closest to, who now cannot concentrate on anything but the Reaper lounging around right next to them like it's normal.

“Lay my divine body against this fragile, dusty, old bench…”

His fist explodes the unbalanced table next, splitting it apart in the middle with a loud bang to better enunciate the cold, unfeeling, yet incredulous almost-anger in his voice. The bang is muffled through the glass, but loud as a gunshot.

“...and worst of all, Angela;”

He approaches the ugly imitation of a crystal wall, regarding every human on the other side with less respect than worms under his feet. His coat flows after him elegantly, the swaying of its deep blue fabric audible in the pause between his words.

“You offer your mind, body and soul to me, your one true God, who is present in the flesh, answering your prayers personally — from the other side of a barrier aimed against him. Kneeling before the pitiful insects in paper crowns lining up behind you. You plead belonging to me while bowing behind false protection; instead of kissing my feet and letting your blood in true, beautiful reverence.”

He can tell his words are knives burrowing into her soul. Her shaking worsens as she listens, the air around her alight in guilt. Her shoulders tense to hide her slender neck. Being reprimanded by the one she spent her whole life working to please and worship is an almost soul shattering experience.

“Do you understand, Angela?” — he concludes, letting his words envelop every thought in her head, weaving her mind a cocoon of persuasion deeper than reverence alone could ever sink her, — “you offer yourself, but words are just words. There is no greater gift than becoming mine; a willing lamb to delight me — but how am I meant to grant my High Priestess this honour when she cannot even face me properly?”

A tear escapes through her composure, pure as Heaven's waters. She does not dare open her mouth however — she does not know what she could even say in her defence. A glint of something akin to joy shines in His Majesty's eyes. A gullible, yet powerful woman, a leader of his subjects who wants nothing but his favour. He could mould her into something extraordinary.

He lifts a hand, fingertips touching the cool surface of the offending material. The glass burns to the touch. So it is blessed. Interesting. Useless, however. Slowly but surely, these mortals have been learning more and more spells, blessings and curses alike, yet they still have a long way to go before they can conjure up something he could find truly bothersome. Humans are ingenious, crafty creatures, forced to learn and teach faster than immortals because they do not have the time to fully understand any concept in one lifetime. He wonders how long until they fully switch their guns out for blessed blades. He cannot wait to see what it will be like to truly be at war with humanity. Their rebellions and acts of desperation will only become more entertaining once they finally figure out how to stand their ground against his creations.

His claws grow to scratch a screeching line down the length of the glass. He carves it like rivers carve the earth. The sound is horrid; it doesn't seem to end. With every second it lasts, each mortal heart beats a little faster. He tilts his head, lifting his chin, no longer aiming his rumbling accusations at his beloved followers, but the wide-eyed suits behind them.

“You must see how I find all this… insulting.”

The entire wall shatters at once, thunder following its lightning, raining sparkling blades from the sky. Cries echo in unison, panic rises; their terror is almost delicious enough to make up for the sour taste of brazen mortal arrogance left in his mouth. The demon lord licks his lips, taking a moment to enjoy this treat, feeding on the horror of a hundred mortals coalescing at once. Oh, how he loves reminding them of their helplessness. They tend to forget their subordinacy with time in situations like this.

Every parley he attends comes with new faces. Leaders change, humans die, people forget. Humanity is on the brink of extinction, kept right at the precipice of all lack of order and guidance by their one ruler, their one Lord. One would think human arrogance would die down with their numbers, and yet they surprise him each time. They are a spoiled kind. They weren't made to live under true order and consequences. They were made to be free, but weak. Weak enough to be harmless to their maker. Pathetic creatures.

Ah, but that is why they are so special. Their free will allows them to do incredible things — and he of all should know best how free will is as much a curse as it is a blessing. He has been witness to the best and the worst it offers. This one simple thing separates humans from animals, yet it's only sweeter to treat them as nothing but when they have the comprehension to understand their helpless, miserable place just as well as any non-human of the greater world would. Their agony is so extraordinary because they were made to suffer. Because they understand well that the source of their pain will never cease, no matter what. They cannot escape it, this fate. The only one capable of saving them abandoned them the same way it had abandoned him. Now he is their god, and he was never one to abandon his subjects.

His momentary musing elation dissipates much too quickly as the noise of the crowd fades in, overwhelming the flavour of their fear. He has no trouble understanding what they all babble about. One man yells in surprise, another curses in shock, yet another prays to a god that will never answer. Most of them scramble to get out of their chairs and look to hide somewhere, childishly expecting him to attack, and foolishly believing a chair could even serve as an obstacle if he decided to do so. Some of them call for help from the humans in armour surely hiding just out of sight.

Surprisingly enough, no one comes running in to aid. In fact, the few guards out in the open that line up by each wall do not even move. An interesting occurrence. He knows they heard the cry for help loud and clear; they saw the wall exploding across the floor. Yet, not a single footstep, not a single gunshot. Maybe they aren't here to protect, opting to remain hidden or as distraction and bank on catching him off-guard. Maybe inviting Grim to come along threw more than just a wrench into their expectations of only being faced with one god as opposed to two, and now they aren't sure what to do. Maybe they have finally learned that nothing will protect them from their ruler. Or, maybe there isn't anything to protect at all. Mortal leaders tend to send impostors in their own place, after all. Perhaps these humans are dispensable meat and nothing more.

“Your humble servant begs for your forgiveness, My Lord. Your humble servant begs for your forgiveness, My Lord. Your humble servant begs for your forgiveness — “ — Angela repeats, now praying reverently in Latin having fallen to her knees again in terror and devotion as the wall had exploded onto her. Her black gown is blanketed with shards of glass, torn to shreds. Her sanguine blood paints her four-fingered hands, the only skin visible, which had taken the brunt of the sharp fragments flying her direction. He can hear one of her fellow novices weeping as they remain bowed low to the ground, choking on terrified sobs. To their credit, none of them even try to flee, staying perfectly still, only begging for his forgiveness. He expects no less from his resolute followers.

Letting his hand fall, he intertwines it with his other hand at the small of his back. He joins the mortals on their side of the building, passing by his frightened, yet awestruck disciples, paying no mind to the chaos he has caused. Looking at the row of humans now congregated into a messy horde, he could laugh. The scene reminds him of a flock of pigeons. Just one mildly threatening gesture and woosh, they all fly off in a storm of feathers, only to return shortly after like they own the place.

All exits are locked, it appears, judging from their frantic jerking of the door handles.

“If you come any closer, you'll regret it, you damned son of a bitch!” — a withered human yells at him, his french cracking with age. His languid walk towards the podium doesn't slow down for his demands.

“What in Hell is going on? What are we supposed to do?” — a woman asks her interpreter, who just shakes their head at her with the same fear and confusion, soon getting shoved aside by another translator clambering back farther away from the demon lord's advancement.

He slows to a stop a few metres in front of them. Their yelling only grows louder with each step, not even giving him a chance to speak. While a terribly entertaining show, this isn't very productive. If he wanted to watch humans scramble and scream in horror, he would have accepted Grim’s invitation to that Flesh Harvest instead. He turns around then, eyes landing on the Grim Reaper crouching over Angela and her novices, chatting away with them like nothing is wrong, whispering about him to his followers. Somehow that is the least annoying part of all this.

This is giving him a headache.

“If we could return to civility for just a moment…” — he asks half-heartedly, barely heard over the ruckus of panicking mortals. Seriously, a broken window is all it takes for these esteemed humans to lose their minds? How do any of them lead a country?

“I don't know what to do!”

“He just tore it down like it was nothing, Rajiv!”

“Just calm the fuck down!”

“I never should have agreed to come.”

“Open the damn door!”

“I don't want to die, I don't want to die…”

He takes a deep breath. Pinches his nose below his furrowed brows. Closes his eyes for a moment. The cavalcade of languages tire him.

Enough of this circus.

He lifts one hand. The snap of his  fingers echoes off every wall. It all becomes silent at once.

“And they say I'm dramatic…” — sighs Grim, surveying his abnormal surroundings with mild amusement. His long white locks seem to float easier than before.

His Lord hums a displeased note, — “you are.”

“Mm, well,” — the Reaper muses, — “plucking us out of the flow of time seems a bit more than just theatrics, I suppose.”

Time seems to have stopped all around the two of them. The endless silence is deafening. The blaring lights are less piercing, the colours less saturated. The dust settles in place like stars in the night sky. The air moves like honey. Every body stands stiller than dead. Their shouts do not even echo before they are snuffed out.

His Majesty observes the mortals frozen in place, thinking of a solution to this absolute lack of order and professionalism. There are a million ideas running through his head, a million possible ways he could make the unruly lot behave. Unfortunately, every thought that leads to severing the morons’ heads from their bodies cannot be brought to fruition, lest this contract they wished to entertain him with never comes to be. It's the whole reason he is here, after all, and it would be such a waste to give it up now. He could always just threaten to leave, he supposes. He doubts they'd let him go so easily.

“So,” — Grim’s haunting voice prods as he wanders up to his Lord, his canine mask appearing in his peripheral vision, then leaning into focus, — “what next? What nefarious plan is knocking about in that wise old head of yours, Your Majesty? I am just dying to know.”

“Stop whining. I am thinking.”

“Oh, it's a conundrum is it?” — Grim teases.

His Majesty does not care for it at all. — “Hush.”

The Reaper hums in laughter, but says nothing more. Quickly growing bored of the silence, he busies himself with the frozen humans at the end of the room. They are in all kinds of humorous poses, it's difficult not to laugh. He carefully slides one finger along the underside of a forearm, fascinated by the warm flesh that lacks a pulse. He wonders how it would feel to feed upon someone frozen in time. He will have to inquire his lord about it one day.

His Majesty watches him passively, fingers lifting and landing on his cane rhythmically. Other than the bothersome behaviour of mortals and the lack of focus, another issue interests him. One that he cannot take his mind off of.

“Isn't it strange how few of them there are?” — he asks the other suddenly.

Grim’s sharp-toothed grin widens before he turns to him, singing, — “it is, isn't it?”

So Grim has noticed it too. Every human ruler sitting down with the Lord of Hell for a diplomatic meeting? Such an important event would be crawling with soldiers, an entire army and defences; and yet they haven't seen a single bit of real protection yet. — “You sound like you know something I don't.”

“Know something you don't?” — Grim repeats incredulously. His eyes fail to meet his lord’s, too focused on a woman’s red hair floating through the air as he combs through it with his silver claws. — “How preposterous. I'm merely an observer. Politics are your expertise.”

His Lord remains quiet, watching the Reaper mess around with the helpless mortals with dark eyes. He waits, expecting Grim to give in and slyly share what important information he is withholding from him, but he only continues to hum to himself as he hops around the room undisturbed.

The proud demon lord can guess what Grim wants to hear.

“…Please?”  — he asks, flat and stoic. His pride is too great to be hurt from something like this. He only sees it as another transaction. He isn't giving in or being affected by Grim at all. He only wants to move forward. Nothing more.

Grim purrs, pausing, — “close. Try again.”

His Majesty's eye twitches.

“As it happens,” — he says, suddenly having made up his mind about their predicament, lifting his cane in preparation of performing a powerful spell, — “I no longer care.”

Then, the world itself turns upside down. It morphs and stretches out into infinity, disappears entirely into oblivion. No sound, no air, no existence. The nauseating spectacle only lasts a moment, but feels like an eternity. Then, from darkness a single flicker of light appears, glowing brighter and brighter until it lights up enough to bring matter into existence once more.

He creates a floor of cold, pristine tiles. The walls are next, tall and far, lit by torches burning blue. The ceiling is made of shadow, the pillars holding it reaching into nonexistence and disappearing into nothing. A long, hand-carved dinner table stands on a deep midnight carpet running from one end of the space to the other. Guarding the table are countless chairs, tall-backed and padded with the softest spider silk. A massive chandelier floats above, unattached, made of bones dripping blood from candles burning away onto the spotless satin table cover under them. Large colourful windows stretch from ground to ceiling, framed with glistening, soft azure curtains, looking out into further darkness. Water droplets can be heard pattering on the glass, though the scope of this current reality isn't wide enough to allow for rain clouds.

Each human wakes in a comfortable seat. They are speechless, disoriented, and above all, lost. They are frightened in the way a new pet is frightened of every corner and every sound of its new home, not knowing anything about where they are and what dangers await them. It almost feels dreamlike, this new landscape, a heavy and inescapable nightmare. The air feels akin to the inside of an ancient church; cold and sharp and soundless, a divine, all-encompassing sense of power larger than they can comprehend that puts the urge to worship into even nonbelievers’ hearts taking hold of their souls. They look at each other in hopes for answers, yet none of them have any to spare. They remember being with the Lord and Death just a second ago, surrounded by metal, some form of safety. They remember when they were in a world that worked by rules they knew and understood. Then an explosion, panic, a blink — and now they are Nowhere.

“Now. This is much better.”

His voice comes from no singular direction. It echoes between their ears no matter how wildly they look for its source. Slowly, they realise something bone-chilling — that they cannot do as they please. They cannot stand, they cannot speak. Their god does not allow it.

“Allow me.”

The table spawns plates and glasses, fills them up with all matter of feasts, — but something is off. It smells delicious, it feels real. The wine is thick, the meat is rare, and the roast is missing a pinky on each hand. Those who consider taking a bite do not get far enough to succeed.

“Feel free to sample any dish you may hunger for as we talk. We are in no hurry.”

“Of course…” — he pauses forebodingly, letting the mortals stew in their anticipation for just a moment longer.

Then, out of the shadows steps Death, the white bone of his mask glimmering blue with the fire of the candles lighting up the gruesome feast, his blade swinging behind him threateningly. His vermilion eyes become two red pinpricks in the darkness, glimmering with menace as they survey each and every person staring at him in primal fear. In a millisecond, the Reaper is gone. The eyes on him are led by his blood-freezing laughter, landing on the chandelier, upon which he perches with a glass of blood in hand, looking down on everyone from up high akin to a vulture circling in the air above an injured calf, waiting for it to fall over dead so it may begin its feast.

“We are here to do business. So I must ask you to please; behave. This is your only warning. I am certain you understand.”

“Now, with all that being said.” — The earth cracks at the closest end of the table, birthing a row of steps leading up to a podium. On the elevated ground a throne appears, large and intimidating, made of gold and stone and flesh and bones. His Majesty's throne. He walks into the light from behind it, rounding it casually. Once comfortable, he crosses his legs, smiling politely, in control, at his subjects.

His teeth have grown sharp, his eyes pitch black and oozing. His horns appear, multiple pairs of black knives circling his head in a crown-like fashion. His limbs have lengthened, bending in strange, inhuman ways, but thin and graceful all the same. A long tail swishes lazily, so long it reaches the floor and then some. His claws have come out fully, holding his chin as he leans back in his rightful seat calmly. Hearing that pleasant, human voice from such a monstrous, demonic being is almost disorienting.

The pressure lifts from the humans’ bodies, slowly allowing their sleeping muscles to wake. His hold on them evaporates. Now, a real conversation may begin.

“Let us begin then, shall we?”

~

Mastelist | Ko-fi

Taglist: @whumpsday @whump-me-all-night-long @whumpifi

[onstoryladders]

if max had been tasked to design this thing

[astro-b-o-y-d]

I need to write Hitomi and Bill's friendship soon or I will die

[faradaykay]

so to me kaede and rantaro are very close friends. and bc of this tenko and rantaro have this totally one-sided beef. bc she'll be like "WHAT'S YOUR DEAL. WHY are you so close to kaede. what's your angle." and he's like "...i enjoy her friendship?" but tenko doesn't like or believe that answer even tho it's the truth. he did nothing wrong, tenko's just like this. it takes her months to finally accept that she has no real reason to hate him

[bistaxx]

k!Luzu is both the most tragic little man who gives me constant pain and grief but also a total loser who I want to bully /lovingly

[murcielagatito]

barbara and gerald are so queerplatonic like just look at them they love eachother so much and have kids together and live together and eat cute lil lunches together that is a gay husband and his lesbian wife and they love eachother so much. like ugh <3

[yakkety-yak-art]

Trying more of a new style out w more of my clone OCs, Cast and Fluke! My eyes aren’t great at registering colors when I’m drawing, so unfortunately Fluke’s turned out a bit more NEON RED than I had intended. Whoops! (Also, a friend pointed out it looks like there’s blood on Fluke’s face—there’s not, it’s supposed to be a scar, but again, my eyeballs suck, and I sadly lost the file for this so I can’t do anything about it :P)

Also also mini infodump in the tags about their personalities

[cathnospam]

Your best friend Bakugo kisses you in your sleep..

It’s weird, yeah, but he doesn’t seem to want to stop himself.

All, because of ONE kiss you both shared after graduation. Your lips were soft and sweet as cotton candy, so plush and pillowy he almost caught himself getting mad when you pulled back.

It was a simple action, you both agreed it was just something that was the heat of the moment since you both never had a first kiss, it really didn’t mean much

Or so Bakugo thought.

He nearly became secretly obsessed with your lips, the lip combos you wore he paid more attention, sometimes buying you new glosses to try and leaving them on your desk, the way they curve when you smile, he doesn’t even do eye contact that much with you anymore he just steals glances at your pretty little mouth. He hated it.

He hated how much he wanted another kiss. It was like an irking craving he was conflicted to satisfy.

He would always sleep in your dorm on weekends, wanting to relax even though some may argue he is just your little Velcro bestie. You fell asleep on his shoulder during a movie and while reaching over to grab a blanket his lips brushed against yours.

Bakugo’s movements stilled. Your lips were just as soft as they were 2 months ago. He was still obsessed, it was as if he got a taste of Heaven, and your kisses was from an angel.

So he dipped his head again with caution. Nearly holding his breath as his lips landed on yours. You didn’t wake up.

Bakugo rubbed his soft warm hand on your cheek while his became hot, mumbling on how stupid he is to do such a thing without you knowing. He had a mind to kiss you harder, maybe you’ll wake up and catch him. Slap him back into some sense because he wasn’t making any.

And he did, but you still didn’t budge.

Eventually it became a routine, he’d come over, you dose off before he does and he steals small pecks here and there while you slept beside him, he wasn’t the best kisser so he practiced. Some nights he would wake up just to kiss you again.

Pecking his lips on your cheek down to your lips and kissing you, it helped him become softer with his touches towards you as well. He liked doing it.

Eventually he will tell you, he doesn’t want to keep up this routine especially if your both aren’t in a relationship, he usually holds you tightly against him, admiring your face before he leans in.

Many mornings you wake up on his chest or buried in his neck. Grinning, kissing his cheek as he was a deep sleeper himself.

You liked all the kisses he gave you while you slept too.

[sk3l3t0n1n]

i hate my body so much :)