#help me dear hive mind | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aka-indulgence · 1 year ago

Text

Illithid Kiss

So I caved. Immediately. Mind flayers are hot, bite me

Thanks to @llamagoddessofficial for showing me 1 (one) image of bg3 mind flayer and immediately going AWOOGA

Yes I made an ao3 link, I ‘ve been taken over help

(Mind flayer x Female!Reader

Mind flayer goes by he/him)

Vaussur took you in as his thrall for what feels like a long time ago. Despite being a mind flayer, for his kind, he had surprise you at every turn, acting unlike how you expected an illithid to act- like how the rest of the mind flayers in his hive acts. Lenient and forgiving with you, letting you roam with your mind free (for the most part), you find yourself unexpectedly getting attached to him.

What do you do, when all of a sudden your mind flayer ‘master’ asks you to tell him about human love? When he asks you to show him more directly? And most importantly…

Would you kiss a mind flayer?

Content warning: Mind control involved (consensual), suggestive themes, master/servant romantic relationship

—————

“Tell me, pet. What does it mean to love like a human?”

You’re snapped out of your musings at the voice, echoing both through the room and chambers in your mind. You look away from the window, from the alien society outside. Vaussur was looming behind you, a curious glow in his eyes that looked soft, somehow.

In the shadows of the room he looked ominous, almost spine-chilling. Illithid armour glinting in the faint light, while the rest of his body was merely a silhouette save for his glowing, golden irises. It reminded you of stories people back home used to tell you when you were young: to close and lock the doors at night and close the windows lest a monster sneak into the room. You didn’t know what a mind flayer was, back then, but seeing him now, he fits the stories perfectly.

Yet, he keeps surprising you with his curious mannerisms- his strange questions. You turn to face your ‘master’.

“Why do you ask?”

“As you might guess, it’s not something I can speak of amongst other illithids,” he says matter-of-factly, with a bit of humor in his eyes. “But its still something I’m personally interested in, nonetheless.”

You giggle. “What do you mean? Do you study humans?”

Mind flayers don’t have mouths. But from the way his tentacles moved, it almost looks like Vaussur was smiling at the sound of your giggle. But he answers seriously.

“I have been, as of late.” He gives you a meaningful glance. “Of course, illithids are the superior race and our ways of living are equally superior. … But I find myself becoming curious. We don’t have such customs in our society, and what I’m about to say is unbecoming for a mind flayer, but…”

You look at him curiously as he struggles to speak his words.

“I… envy you.” He whispers. “You have no idea how exquisite your mind tastes, my dear thrall. … How tender, the sweetness in every drop of thought in that delectable mind of yours, the warmth and comfort your memories radiate… You come from a world where a small, innocent, kind thing like yourself could flourish and bloom- thrive, even. How can such a world exist?”

The way he describes your mind in frightening and alien detail, reminds you of what he is- an illithid, a being that literally has a taste for brains. But even so, the way he described yours, though a little unsettling, almost sounds like a poem, words woven carefully just for you. Try as you might, it sounds like a compliment to you.

“W-well,” you stutter, staggered by his flowery words- coming from a being that has never seen much of life in the sun. “I think humans are more social than mind flayers. You communicate out of necessity, working together like a hivemind for the elder brain… right?”

“Right. You remembered what I told you? Smart pet, you prove me again and again why you’re my favorite thrall.”

“Um!” Being called a thrall wasn’t flattering, but still you feel your mind spin from the praise. “Thank- thank you. As I was saying, humans communicate and cooperate too, but we don’t do it just out of necessity. We find joy in the comfort of other humans- and other beings too, if they’ve formed a bond. We do it because we like it. We make bonds with people in our families and our communities, for companionship and… sometimes more. We can work alone, but most suffer from being solitary.”

You don’t know what kind of love Vaussur was asking you for, but you thought keeping it general was a good start at least. And the safest option, considering the other possibility.

“Interesting… not unlike illithids.” He comments.

“Really? How so?”

“As a non mind-flayer, you would not know this, but… it’s very unhealthy for a mind flayer to be completely alone.” You raise your eyebrows in surprise while Vaussur continues. “No elder brain, no other illithids, no thralls. Mind flayers are surrounded and connected by thoughts. To strip the familiar away from them… I’ve heard stories where they’ve gone mad.”

“Wait- mind flayers can go mad?”

“Of course. We are superior but not perfect- even I can admit that. Mind flayers can’t thrive in isolation, we must rely on another living being. It’s a disgrace for a mind flayer to accept it, let alone admit it- especially to admit they rely on thralls so heavily beyond labor.”

“I didn’t know that.” You remarked, seeing the illithids in a new light. Most of what you’ve heard from when mind flayers were merely myths and legends, and from what you’ve seen directly from their society indicates that they’re a self-sufficient, self-aggrandizing people. To know they could be attached to anything other than themselves, or at least to their elder brain… and Vaussur had so easily conceded this information to you.

“Wait, if it was a disgrace, why are you admitting this to me right now?”

“Because I’m no different. And it is no disgrace to say that I need you to stay with me.”

Your mouth hangs open at his honest confession, like it was factual. You try to ignore the little flips your stomach is doing, and whether or not it was a good feeling.

“I’ve also heard that there are different types of love. Platonic and romantic, I think they’re called.”

“Yes, yes there is, it’s-” you stop yourself, even as you quieten the excitement in your chest at the mention of the other type of love (to your puzzlement). “How do you know about that?”

“During my time on a reconnaissance mission. I was looking for possibles hosts to implant with tadpole.”

You fail to hide the distaste on your face at the mention of ceremorphosis. If Vaussur saw it, he doesn’t react.

“I heard them talking about it. I think they were discussing whether what they felt for each other was one form or the other. Their discussion about the romantic one became particularly charged.”

He refocuses on you, and eagerly asks, “What is… romantic love?”

He was trying to sound calm and analytical but you could hear it: excitement. But why would a mind flayer be so interested in romance, of all things?

“It’s… like I said earlier,” you swallowed. You don’t know why you felt so bashful about it, like you were in a group of children talking about your parents kissing like it was a scandal. “It’s when people have more… intimate relationships with another. It’s not very different from platonic love, but different nonetheless. It’s…”

How do you explain romantic love to someone who doesn’t know what it is? How is it different from platonic love? Just having to explain what love is to him proved itself quite confusing to you, as the more you tried to grasp the definition of love to you, the more it slipped away.

“It’s like…” you grasp again, “romantic love is when you meet another person, and you feel a, a… a spark. It’s more intense than platonic love, where you just feel this… attraction to the other person, where you want to be as close to them as possible, and just their presence can make you really happy. You do things with them things you wouldn’t do with any other people you have in your life, intimate things. Someone you want to share your life with.”

You feel a little helpless as you clasp your hands together, trying to convey what you think love looks like to someone who’s never experienced it. Even with your loose explanation, Vaussur is rapt with fascination, his luminous glare unblinking.

“I’m sorry if this is confusing to you…”

He shakes his head. “That’s more knowledge than any mind flayer knows. And… if it proves hard for you, pet, maybe you should show it to me.”

“I… show it?”

You were about to ask how, but as soon as you thought that, a word echoes in your mind.

With a kiss.

Your eyes widen, and unfortunately, it looks like your mind was loud enough for Vaussur to notice.

Without skipping a beat, he asks you, “Can you… show that to me? Kissing?”

Added with his forwardness, you fluster, but you try to calm yourself. Vaussur is a mind flayer. He’s never experienced any kind of love, let alone romantic. He really is just curious, he’s not trying to charm you… right?

You try to explain it to him.

“I c-could, but… kissing you would be more… romantic. One of the intimate things people do together to be romantic.” You said that twice. Your mind is tripping over itself. “You have to- no, you should do it with someone you care about deeply, the one you want to keep in your life. At least, that’s how you make it more meaningful.”

Vaussur doesn’t speak, not immediately. A strange look washes over his face, his brows furrowing. Subconsciously, he brings his hand to a tentacle, stroking it thoughtfully.

“I don’t see the problem. That describes how I feel about you perfectly.”

Everything goes quiet for you.

… “What?”

Vaussur doesn’t skip a beat.

“That’s how I’ve felt about you since I took you as my thrall. That is not a strange concept. I’m intimately familiar with that feeling.” He pauses. “Unless this is hesitation because I’m a mind flayer.”

“I- no that’s not it,” you say, the ice freezing your tongue melting. “It’s, I just- do you… love… me?”

“Perhaps. If that really what love is, then yes. But illithids don’t have ‘romance’ or ‘love’. So I need you to show me what it is.”

You shake your head, you can’t believe the situation you’re in, looking at the floor. The mind flayer that’s called you his thrall might very well love you- even be in love for you. People have described mind flayers as soulless, one of the defining characteristics they were often associated with, something you’d accepted as fact, until you were captured by one. Despite his illithid tendencies, the air of superiority, lack of care for non illithid lives, and strange fascination with brains; for what he is, Vaussur’s acted with more humanity than what you imagined a mind flayer was capable of.

You’ve noticed that most of your favorite qualities in him come out when you have his attention.

Though he’s always been imposing and quite frightening, you can’t believe that you’ve… thought what it’d be like to kiss him. At times when he seems to go against his natural instincts, like keeping you away from the feedings, how he praises you when he defends you from other mind flayers, how you were precious to him, and the way he held you protectively whenever you needed to cross their domain.

You’re amazed at yourself when you answer him with “... Alright.”

When you pick your head up from your musings, you startle from how close he was to you. You could see the patterns in his illithid armor, the intricate swirls and spirals, turning to complicated geometries as they reach the edge of the armor, extending from what looks like a mind flayer skull in the middle of the collar area. Long, dark purple robes extend from underneath, covering most of Vaussur’s skin. You withhold the urge to trace your fingers over the shapes.

You look up, way up. You were no stranger to this- even among mind flayers, Vaussur was particularly tall. He loomed over you, your head only reaching somewhere in the middle of his chest, and you’d have to crane your neck whenever he commanded you. But now, with the prospect of… kissing him, he seems all the more imposing. The closes thing you could to kissing him properly would probably be on one of tentacle.

“Um…”

Vaussur makes a strange sound, a sound that tickles your brain. A laugh…?

Before you could worry about what you were about to do, you feel a magic presence all around you, like someone was holding you. Your feet lift off the floor as you’re picked up by his psionic energy, bringing you face to face with him. There’s expectance in his burning gaze, something that makes you feel small and defenseless. You feel his thoughts seeping into your mind, mixing with yours: the want to be closer, of warm affection… and something possessive. You’re not sure if he’s trying to make you feel the same things for him, or if he’s simply communicating with you the way a mind flayer would with each other. It scares you a little, especially feeling his more foreign emotions- but whatever it is, you know he’s being genuine. You don’t sense a hint of malice in all the rush of feelings he’s emanating.

Despite your timidity, you can’t say those feelings were wholly unpleasant. You find you’re actually leaning into it, closing your eyes to try to feel it coursing through you. When you open them, you find the courage to brace your hands on his plated shoulders. Brilliant citrine eyes glance down at them, and you realize how small they must look to him.

Your brows furrow a little as you look for a good place to… kiss an illithid. Your fingers curl, and you try to position your head a bit to the side. You could feel him watching your every move, and you swallow.

You lean in. You could smell him, somewhat like vanilla and something else, and you’re surprised that you like it. Your lips press to the side of his face, above two of his tentacles, and kiss him. Vaussur closes his eyes and hums- you could feel him physically and mentally relax. His skin was strange, smooth and slick with a thin film of something; but you didn’t dislike it.

You pull back, parting with a little cup! as you did. Vaussur looks a little more… floaty, like he was dreaming.

“... Can you do that again?” He murmurs

You purse your lips together, hands letting go to twiddle your fingers, not quite knowing where to look.

Apparently Vaussur takes your hesitation negatively.

“I feel your nervousness, puppet. What’s the matter? … Did you not like it?”

You didn’t know mind flayers could even sound hurt, but he did, though he tried to hide it from you.

“No, no!” you stressed, “I’m just! It’s! … I’m just… shy.”

His eyes widen. You know what he must be reading from your mind right now: curiosity, interest, maybe even… fondness.

When you look at his mouth you feel a mix of emotions. Were you afraid? Were you excited…? … No you don’t want ot think of what that meant, it’s too much. You stare for his mouth a moment longer while you try to gain the courage to kiss him.

You decided to work up to it.

Your hand reaches for a tentacle tentatively.

“Can I…? Touch your..?”

The tentacle flexes. Vaussur seems clueless as to what you want to do with it, but he lets you have it.

You give it a feather light touch, tracing a finger down its length. You realize how… sensual this feels, and you wonder if mind flayers ever enjoyed the pleasures of the body…? If they could? Vaussus gasps quietly, the tentacle reacting to your touch, twitching closer to you.

You’ve found yourself imagining what it was like to stroke his tentacles, of what would happen. Vaussur closes his eyes, letting you run your hand down. It’s smooth and slick with illithid mucous, cool to the touch, almost slippery. You think you like it. The other tentacles start to curl and sway closer around you, as if looking for your attention. You feel a sudden sense of pride fill you, at the effect you had on this mind flayer, just by touching him lightly.

His tentacles start their own exploration of you; timidly at first, but they quickly gain confidence and start to lavish you with tender caresses. One prods and brushes your cheek. Another traces along your collarbone curiously. The third free tentacle slides behind your back and holds you steady. The one you’re holding- clearly enjoying what you’re doing to it, curls around your arm.

You tittered. It’s like they had minds of their own. You wondered… what would happen if you kissed him on the tentacle?

You lift it up to you and give it a gentle peck.

Apparently, they were sensitive because as soon as you did, claws closed around your back and hips and pulled you flush against Vaussur’s chest, squeaking as he did. He lets out a deep, pleasurable sigh that turns your cheeks red while he grips you tightly, wantingly. You’d always assumed that a mind flayer’s body would feel cold, but even though his skin was covered in fluid, he was warm. Very warm.

So were you.

His golden eyes were glowing brighter than ever, his tentacles caressing you and start to float and curl languidly around you. His mouth is open before you, and your breath mixes with his.

You don’t feel fear.

“Please, my human,” he implores, “teach me. Teach me how you love.”

You didn’t hesitate this time. You felt naturally drawn to him. Willingly, you lean into him, his body, his feelings. You wrap your arms around his neck and somehow, your lips found his mouth and you started to kiss him.

As you expected, kissing Vaussur was nothing like the kisses you’ve experienced with other humans, or even other humanoids. You aren’t sure how to describe it, it felt you were kissing all around you rather than on one single spot, he surrounded you. His tentacles start to wrap you more tightly- around your head and neck. Though the thought of how vulnerable you were in this position with a mind flayer- that he could eat you so easily- did cross your mind, it only did so briefly. You were worried earlier that kissing a mind flayer with their mouths that opened four ways accompanied by lamprey teeth, meant to suction and grind into skulls might feel horrible but… you’re delighted that that wasn’t the case. The sensation of having him surround you and hold you so lovingly tightly was quite pleasant.

He hums, the sound vibrating around you. He starts floating backwards with you, slowly settling into his bed, his hands wandering, feeling you. You could feel him in your mind again, but he wasn’t intruding. It felt more like he was asking for your permission. You happily let him in, and you feel yourself cradled by his thoughts: soft, warm adoration for you.

Despite what the natural order tells you, you felt safe with him.

Vaussur had seemed confused earlier, not knowing what to do with himself while you spoiled him with your kisses, but he’d started becoming more confident, evident from the way he holds you and the tentacles’ affectionate touches. He starts taking control, sitting up a little and folding you backwards, reciprocating your kiss with new fervor, deepening it. His claws start to dig into you possessively, and you squeak, his power overwhelming you.

A flood of satisfaction floods your brain, and it isn’t yours.

I like those sounds. Vaussur’s voice purrs in your mind. Give me more.

You gasp and mewl, squirming in his hold, which only excites the illithid more, tentacles winding around your head tighter. One hand manages to stray from the tangle of limbs, only to quickly get reclaimed by his slender fingers, entwining with yours.

Don’t be scared, sweet human. He teases diabolically, I promise I won’t eat that delicious mind of yours. You’re safe with me.

You don’t know how long he kept you like that, hungrily taking your mouth while his hands and tentacles wander. When he was finally sated, Vaussur gently pries his tendrils off your face, and lets you go. You take a gasp of air, the blood in your head slowly draining away, and you cool down. You could feel warm imprints on your face where his tentacles and mouth were. Already, you find yourself missing the closeness you shared, his warm mouth on yours.

It felt like he was sucking your face in the best ways.

… You feel scandalized by your own thoughts, and you cover your mouth bashfully.

“I felt that.”

Damn it!

Vaussur chuckles, his eyes flickering with smugness. His gaze wanders over your face, like he was admiring his ‘work’.

He looks happy, eyes crinkling at you.

“Just like I promised. Your mind is still yours, untouched, undigested. Though… there are marks on your face. I rather like it.”

You don’t know how red your face is right now, fingers scrambling on it as if you could see it better that way.

“W-what?”

He chuckles again, and your frantic thoughts stop when a finger brushes your cheek.

“Thank you. For showing me that, puppet.”

Slowly, you smile, small and demure. “Your… welcome. Thank you for keeping my mind safe. I…” you swallowed, laughing nervously, “I liked it.”

Oh. Oh, he liked that.

“I did too. Immensely. You’re… incredible.” He praises you. “I would not be opposed to it if we did it again.”

You’re suddenly intimately aware of the fact that you were on his lap, practically straddling him, his arms keeping you close. He’s just invited you to another kiss, and you… like that idea. Sheepishly, you say the same.

“I… I wouldn’t either.”

You’re hoping you’ll get to kiss him again soon. Maybe more.

He lays you down beside him, and as he presses the top of his tentacles to your head, you realize it was his attempt at giving you a peck. You smile, and you instinctively curl into him, tentacles floating around you protectively.

Rest, human. He urges. You’ve done a lot today. Sleep.

You let him mentally compel you. It was nice, being able to sleep whenever you wanted without having to toss and turn before hand. You feel sleep quickly take you and your eyes fall close.

…

Vaussur stays up a bit longer after you, admiring his pretty ‘thrall’ that he feels lucky to have found. His fingers comb through your hair and behind your ear.

You’re… extraordinary.

You smile in your sleep as response. He thinks that might be the prettiest thing he’s seen in his illithid life: you being happy while you were with him.

He doesn’t think these soft, tender feelings are natural for a mind flayer. He wonders if he inhabits a human body.

You curl a little, trying to escape the chill, and Vaussur pulls a blanket up to you, and covers you. He needs to rest soon too, to shed his armor and sink into bed with you by his side.

His small… cute… vulnerable little human.

Whatever he may be in his previous life before the ceremorphosis, one thing is clear to him now.

He loves you.

And no one else can have you.

#aka writing #mind flayer #i imagined them in an established relationship #you’ve been his ‘thrall’ for a while #but basically only in name #he pampers you and keeps you close #hehe #mind flayer hot #unfortunately i dont play a lot of dnd and my dnd knowledge is limited #But of what I do know #some information #He’s “He” because he found it easier for thralls to refer to him as such #and he speaks with his mouth because reader finds it comforting :>#mindflayer x reader

194 notes · View notes

byrdstrolls · 1 month ago

Text

As You Wish

(teehee, this features a lot of guys! tythus from @moonlit-trolls, the lady of the lake from @celestialtrolls, and finala from @roetrolls!)

(Also please be so nicey to me I haven't managed to write anything in three months)

Dear Diary,

Five perigees into my leave from the fleet, a strange calm has overtaken me. I’ve found the eye of the hurricane, or some layer of insanity that hurts less than the first. I’ve started to have lunches in the cafe down the street, on the patio. Dangerous, I know. But I am a pack animal, by nature. I could lock myself in this apartment only for so long without breaking. Sitting there, it’s like being surrounded by people while being alone. Even if I talk to no one but my waiter, it’s better than nothing. There have been close calls, inconsequential ones.

But still too many. I do not think the worker at the place suspects a thing, or would even know what to suspect, how to suspect correctly. I feel like an open wound. But enduring in my silence, none of them can tell. Of all people to have this affliction, it could kill me most surely. I do not trust my fellow troll as far as I could throw one. Now every stranger I meet holds my soul in the palm of their hand. I could die tomorrow. I could not die for sweeps. But what kind of living am I even doing anymore? I am so bored.

The terror has become second nature to me. I learn quickly around fear. I touch a burning stove, I pull back my hand. My only guiding light, relief, is my research. It would be so easy to fail. But I would try a hundred thousand times on the off chance I could have back my life. Even so things move…

��torturously slow. I need to understand what happened to know how to fix it. But I don’t even know where to start. I have wiled away so many hours reading, finding books to read in the bibliographies of other books. But I don’t know what I’m looking for. I don’t know how to discern esoterica from nonsense, skill from parlor tricks, grifters from sages.

The uniform does not help. One can hardly poke around the city dressed like a fleet officer asking around for magic trolls before those very people start climbing out the back window! It’s too hot for it anyways, even in the cold season. Curse this thing. I will wear it to my funeral. But as I said at the beginning of this entry. Things are just as bad as they have ever been, but it doesn’t bother me anymore. I woke up early yesterday, and watched the sun set from the window, sky dancing in fragments through this tiny place. And I felt a certain stillness, and a strange gratitude, that no matter how humbly I lived now, how much I missed other people and my hive and ship and privileges, things could have been worse. I made it nearly half a sweep.

I have been very lucky.

I just need a little more luck now.

Midway through their lunch break, Leftie peaks over the desk of their stand at a figure who has fixed themselves at the front of the alleyway. At first they thought they were exceptionally huge, but on a second glance, they are just significantly huge, and have on an absolute monster of a coat. Probably fleet. They glance at their own signs, the sandwich in their hand, and then pointedly scot over their chair to face the opposite direction.

“Excuse me-” The cerulean says, taking a step forward.

“Excuse me” Leftie retorts. “What does this say?” They say, pointing at the sign on their stand.

“It says closed, back in thirty minutes, but-”

“Exactly” The purple replies. “Leave me alone” They order.

“Nonononono” Viscos mutters under their breath, immediately turning away, walking down the street, they throw up their hands in frustration.

“G-dammit” They mutter, pulling out their journal and crossing Lefties name off a list. All that poking around, and they had failed so quickly, decisively, and immediately.

I shouldn’t have come here, Viscos thinks, but the same protestation entered their mind in a variety of places, from gas stations to libraries to restaurants. So it’s a little more difficult to take it seriously now, even with its precedent. An entire church sect is something more dramatic than some small time magic user. But maybe it was time to be more dramatic, it’s nearly been a half sweep after all, maybe they are this desperate. They can always leave, until they can’t.

“I understand you are not willing to share the details of your affliction with me.” The hulking mass of the purpleblood says, his plague doctor’s mask tilted ever so slightly downward to stare at the fleet troll.

“But is there anything you could deluge… anything at all? How does it affect the body? What organs? How did it begin?” Tythus asks.

Viscos stares up at him for some time.

“No,” They say. “I can’t tell you that.”

“As… impossible a task as you have proposed” The man pauses. “To cure a curse without being told what it is, I would try for you.” He says, templing his hands, then pointing them downward. “All I would ask is you stay some time on our commune, working, to repay your debt to me”

“...here” Viscos mutters vaguely, glancing out the apothecaries window. With all these other trolls?

“Could I serve my time after I’ve been cured?” The cerulean proposes.

“I… need some kind of assurance you would not run off and take advantage of my kindness. Besides, to figure out your, interesting little puzzle, it’s best for the two of us to get to know each other, right?”

Viscos stares into the dark black eye holes of the mask, thinking. They had made it this far, farther than they had with other witches. Maybe it was the time to throw caution to the wind. But the reasonable, paranoid voice in their mind that clutches caution so close to their chest their knuckles whiten, calls it here.

“Then” They say. “I do not think we can work together.” They say, taking one last inhale of their cigarette holder, and leaving the room.

The next visit is also frustratingly short, or, as it was with Leftie, never really starts in the first place. They are trying to find the domain of the lady of the lake. They can see the peaking lights of hives in the distance, hidden near the water through the flurry of snow, but everytime they try to walk towards them they lose their way, and find themselves back where they started. Ever the pragmatist, they had tried to map the area, on a notepad. With leather gloves and shaking fingers, they marked down monuments and turns as they could, but even the most astute of their markings made no sense. It was as if the landscape itself was changing every time Viscos turned their back. Eventually, it became too cold even for them, and their mother of all coats, to endure, and they went back to the apartment, defeated. . . .

. .

When they found a witch who was travelling, they thought meticulously on where to meet her. The apartment was out of the question, obviously. They did not want to easily be found again if things went horribly wrong. They could meet at a cafe, but they didn’t want to be overheard. Somewhere public enough to instill a safety that came with being out in the open, but private enough to dissuade curious listeners. They toiled over this for nights before resolving to reserve a study room at the public library.

They’re sitting there now, foot tapping at the floor with a restless impatience. Their coat propped up on the chair. Every one of these meetings feels like russian roulette. The woman's first words upon entering feel like the sound of a bullet clicking into the chamber.

Finala opens the door to the room gently, offering a friendly wave and smile, but it’s not long after she steps into the room that she pauses, a brief concern welling up in her eyes.

“Oh…” She exhales. “I see. You’re cursed.”

Viscos stands up immediately, having prepared to dance around the subject of their affliction, and unsettled by how quickly and seamlessly Finala had noticed.

“How did you know that?” They say, guarded.

“I have a sense for such things.” She says, raising her arms in surrender. “If it eases you, I don’t know the specifics, but I might be able to help you were you to fill me in”

Viscos stares into her eyes, unsure what they’re searching for. Their paranoia battling with their desperation, and the paranoia wins out in the end. The cerulean picks up their coat, scrambling for the door.

“Please don’t leave” She says gently, not even knowing what she’s just done. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

And just like that, they stiffen, rooted to the spot, cursing their luck and their foolishness, turning back to glare at the woman as if she had just done something horrible to them.

Finala traces the look in their eyes for a moment, thinking.

“I see. It’s something to do with speech then.” She deduces. “Then I won’t speak until you tell me how to avoid it. If you’d rather simply take your leave, feel free. But know that I will not say another word to you without your permission.”

If only it were that simple, for them to be released with a ‘feel free’. Viscos once again wills their feet forward, but their body doesn’t listen to them. They stand there, time dragging on. Trying to think their way out. It’s only after the first minute or so they begin to realize Finala is serious about not speaking. She’s still standing across the room, mouth shut, waiting. Was there some way to tell her without telling her? Viscos eventually sighs, walking over and sitting back down in the chair.

“I can’t… be given orders” The cerulean says, gesturing vaguely. But it’s enough to piece the puzzle together regardless. The realization hits Finala all at once, and works its way backwards through the conversation that preceded it. They had not had a change of heart, she realizes. They had literally been unable to leave from the moment she told them not too. She stares at the cerulean, eyebrow raising as if asking if this was permission to speak.

“You can speak,” They say. “If you don’t tell me to do things.” They add, as a condition.

“Poor thing… I can only imagine the strife this has brought you” She says, taking a step closer. She pauses, thinking for a moment, and begins to speak slowly. “I’ll consider my words carefully- wouldn’t want to trigger the effect.” She turns to the side.

“If… I told you to rest assured that I have no desire to abuse your curse, would that force your hand?”

“Yes” They answer.

“Well. Then if you so please, you may choose to rest assured that is the case. Is me telling you not to leave, still in effect?”

They’re in this deep, Viscos thinks. If they’re fucked, they are already fucked. Might as well not mince words.

“Yes,” They say. “It can only be cancelled out by another, contradictory direct order.”

“Then, I order you to leave when you see fit.” She says.

Viscos pauses. Surely, something like all this had been what they wanted to hear, yes? Was this not the best way this could have gone? They had not made it this far with any of the other witches. But there is no relief in it, all they continue to feel is frustrated with their own vulnerability. They stare at the ground for a long moment, before sighing, rolling up the sleeve of their uniform, to reveal a sigil, that almost looks tattooed onto the skin, a symbol of four wings, a crown, and esoteric scribbling, that had appeared, immovable, on their forearm since the moment they were touched by magic.

“Do you know how to fix it?” They say, fighting to keep the waver from their voice.

Finala pauses, delicately taking the arm in her hands, stepping closer to look at the sigil.

“I’m not entirely familiar with this.” She says. “But… this mark is… it seems like someone worked hard to tie this spell specifically to its caster. You’d likely need that witch to remove it” She admits, knowing that’s likely not what they want to hear.

Viscos gives a long sigh. Why’d they pick a meeting place where they couldn’t smoke? Their fists open and close around a lack of cigarettes.

“I hoped you wouldn’t say that.” They exhale.

“I’m sorry. I assume you and who made it are still on uneven terms?”

“Worse” Viscos sighs. “She’s dead.”

#tw paranoia #tw witchcraft #viscos writing #my writing #fantroll #fantroll rp #homestuck #homestuck oc #homestuck rp

14 notes · View notes

eveningspirit · 16 hours ago

Note

I really dislike the black and white approach I see a lot of people taking when it comes to the Langdon storyline. People seem to be writing him off as simply a no good thief who set out to harm patients, with no wiggle room to even entertain the idea that addiction is a disease and him stealing is a symptom of that. What he did is not acceptable and we know that but it’s also not as simple as “His career is over, he’s done for, good riddance”

I started writing this post yesterday, then I thought I wouldn't post it, because it's silly. It's naive to still believe that "maybe Langdon didn't", "maybe it's something else". But this morning I saw the post that somehow directly argued my point (that I haven't posted yet! fandom Hive-Mind?) So. I guess I have to post it now.

It's a bit of a problem, because I'm scared of conflict. Terrified. I don't really want to tell anyone how they should feel about a character. If you don't like Langdon, if you feel that he crossed the line into the never-a-redemption, fine. That's your prerogative. I'm just stating here what I think. And support it with facts that we were shown on-screen.

This is the text as I was writing it yesterday.

This is a loaded ask, but thank you very much for it, Nonnie. (I would, kind of, like to know if I'm getting those asks from one Nonnie, or more Nonnies, but nvrmnd). It's a few things that I would like to address here--per what you are saying. One is--how much did he steal? Another is addiction as a disease. And one more are the consequences that he may be facing.

Let's start from the first one--and I will look at it as a finicky lawyer from the many lawyer tv shows I watched. What is the evidence and what is circumstantial my dear Pitt Fam? The only evidence we have are pills in Langdon's locker. However, when asked whether they were Louie's pills, Langdon didn's answer. I will ignore that little detail, because that would be a stretch.

I rewatched episode one, and I can confirm that Langdon had twice the three (on-screen) minutes of time where he's unaccounted for, before Louie leaves.

First is while Minu (the Nepali lady) was taken to CT. Which was probably longer than three minutes, because no way CT takes that little time. It was at least fifteen minutes, if not half an hour real time. We see him coming in from a computer station between the two trauma rooms when Minu is being wheeled back into Trauma 2 by Garcia and Santos.

The second time is after Minu treatment, and before the "Arrival of the Living Dead". However in this instance he's standing at the Central talking on the phone, while Robby talks to Dana.

Nevertheless, evidence suggests that he had a plenty of time to get Louie's medication from the pharmacy / medicine cabinet, take half of the prescribed meds out, hide them and give Louie the other half.

No more argument about that from me.

As for the Lorazepam vials, all we know is that Santos noticed a vial was tampered with. And--we may now agree that it's a fact. It was tampered with.

Let's take a look at Langdon's reaction in those two scenes, though, because to me it is vastly different.

In the scene with Mr. Marino, Langdon is completely focused on the patient and on getting him the meds. When Santos can't open the vial he wants to help, doesn't appear phased in the slightest, no hesitation, no double-takes. Only when Robby enters and Santos says that she wants to do her thing and "Dr. Langdon disagrees", does he perk up. Let's not forget that it's the third time Santos 'steps on his toes' this way. The first was the woman with a headache, then the BiPap, and then this.

His argument is, "Sometimes the patient needs a little more, you'll learn that with time." What needs to be pointed out, is that Robby pretty much supports that approach. Sometimes what happens in real-time in real circumstances IS different than what the textbooks say. Now, why that happens, that is another story. Maybe it's the patient's body mass? Like, a tall person vs. a petite one? That might account for a difference. Or maybe... there has always been someone at PTMC ED, who was stealing medication. Maybe someone is doing it now. Maybe it's Langdon. Maybe it's not. Langdon's behavior in this scene does not suggest he's aware of the tampering.

Not how he acts in the scene where Louie comes back and 10 of his Librium is missing. As Santos is counting the pills, he gives her a fleeting look. Then he makes some awkward joke. Then, as she still doesn't let go, about a potential overdose and the such, he keeps joking and smiling, but he's also watching her. He knows that she knows. This is the moment his attitude toward Santos shifts.

Before that, he was upset with her actions around patients. After that he sees her as a threat. He's upset with her. And he lashes out at her.

Back from yesterday. If I wrote an essay about how omg Langdon is a precious miau-miau who never did anything wrong ever, well... sue me. I liked his character for reasons different than him being an averagely handsome cis white guy. I won't go into those reasons. People who know me--know.

This post got long, so I will tackle two other questions in another posts, and link them here:

Addiction as a disease

Consequences that Langdom may / should be facing

#frank langdon #the pitt #the pitt meta #es metas #tw: addiction #tw: drug stealing

8 notes · View notes

fridgemissionmaster · 8 days ago

Text

Belphegor x Reader: March Prompt/Day 9 Bees

Prompt list/available prompt requests here, making a fic everyday of march

How was it you ended up in this position? Nearly drowning in a river, terrified out of your mind, desperately holding your breath waiting for that buzzing mass to move on, demon clinging to you for dear life?

“What’s something Beel’s never had before?”

“Uh… of the two of us I feel you’d be more qualified to answer this one Belphie.” When the youngest practically dragged you away from the conversation you were having with Mammon and Satan, of all things you were not expecting… that. You thought he just decided to be particularly bratty that day and skip the puppy dog eyes step when demanding to nap together.

“No, you are.” With an unceremonious flop he fell backwards onto the attic bed, making the blankets and pillows on the mattress hop slightly from the force. “We’ve lived here and the Celestial Realm for a looooooooonnnng time, but not the Human World, so… what’s something you have only there? Something Beel would love for our birthday.”

Their birthday was coming up pretty soon, no wonder the urgency. And luckily for him, and as it turns out, unluckily for you, you had already finished your preparations for the day so you had all the time to help.

Yay

Something only from the Human World. That was a difficult question to answer what with the Devildom seeming to have exclusively human food with some demon-esque word slapped in front of it.

Sweets seemed to be the most common one, so finding a unique treat would be neat.

You sat beside him, absent mindedly running a hand through his hair. You could feel him melting under your touch, rolling over so he could loosely hug your waist and nuzzle into you.

Ideally it would also be something simple to make, since this would be a present for Beel, it’d only be right that there be plenty for him.

What’s simple that you hadn’t already seen here?

…

“… Baklava?”

“hmm?”

“Hey, Belphie-”

“misning….”

“No, you’re falling asleep.”

He groaned hugging you tighter. “s ur fault.”

“Come on.” Lightly patting his cheek got him to rouse making himself sit up.

“What is it?”

“Baklava’s like this… it’s like a sweet lasagna? There’s a layer of ground up pistachios-”

“Those are?”

“… They’re like bat peas? But with this tough shell and oval shaped- anyway, it’s a layer of that, honey and really thin crispy dough bit, over and over again.”

“Hmm… sounds easy enough. Barbatos could help us with the dough.”

“I think I know of a way to get plenty of pistachios, but enough raw honey to satisfy Beel?” The thought left you dizzy. “That’ll cost more than Mammon’s debt.”

Was there even a way to get that much? Of anyone Barbatos would be the most likely to know. But this was supposed to be Belphegor’s gift so having Barbatos help with most of it felt kind of odd.

“Satan said he heard some buzzing by the forest, maybe it’s bees.”

…

“Wait.” You looked to him realizing he was dead serious. “You want to go to the woods, and look for a beehive that may or may not even be there, and harvest honey from it?”

“It won’t be enough but better than working and being too tired to stay up on our birthday.”

Thinking back on it Belphie made this sound so simple, so easy, since this was his idea you assumed he had packed a smoker or something, or that he knew some magic spell, you didn’t expect him to go POKING THE FIRST HIVE HE SAW WITH A STICK!

“What are you doing!?”

“Getting someone out. I got Solomon to make me a potion that would make bees like me so we can take the hive easier.”

“You’re taking the whole hive!?”

“Yeah.” He stated it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Look sure, you didn’t know how he was going to get the honey, but you were certainly not expecting taking the whole FREAKING hive of wild bees!

And as it turns out, NEITHER of you know that Devildom bee hives look like as it was WASPS that decided to start chasing after you! And in your running that was when Belphie tackled you into the river!

YEAH, THAT WAS HOW!

You couldn’t, Youcouldn’tyoucouldn’youcoulndstayundernaylonger

You choked on your breath, arm getting pulled as you were suddenly dragged and tossed onto shore. Barely able to keep yourself propped up with your arms you kept coughing and hacking up water, lungs and throat burning, body trembling with panic.

You didn’t respond to any of Belphegor’s calls, so he sat beside you rubbing and patting your back hoping to somehow get any leftover water out.

“MC, MC, what do you need?” Slowly, it wasn’t just noise, you could understand his words. You laid down, Belphie lied down with you, wincing at how raspy your breaths were.

“You… are an… idiot.”

“I-I’m sorry.”

…

Damn it, you couldn’t be mad. It was rarer to see such genuine alertness and worry on the youngest’s face. Privileges of being the baby you supposed.

He ran a hand over your scalp, moving aside any hair, leaves, or other debris from falling onto your face.

“Are you okay?”

“… fine, just… gimmie a minuet.”

He nodded.

…

Hesitantly he placed one of his hands over one of your own. You made no move, rather liking the warmth of his palm actually.

You both stayed there for a while. The forest is a delightfully noisy place, in your case only if you ignored the droning buzzing in the distance. The babbling of the brook, wind rustling the trees and grass, bird calls and animal squeaks, more buzZING DAMN IT!

Immediately the pair of you bolted upright, desperately looking around for the source but… it was gone.

“Oh.” Quickly you followed his gaze finding some more of those flowers that were scattered about this place. A bee had landed on some of those petals.

With a great sigh you stood up. “Alright, break time’s over.”

“Huh?” Belphie looked up to you dumbfounded.

“C’mon, we’re not napping now. We have a bee to follow, don’t we.” He stared at your outstretched hand, slowly he reached out but paused.

“Thanks.” Belphie knew you always did so much for him and his brothers, but really it was too much. You deserved an ACTUAL break, and he’d make sure you’d get just that on your birthday.

Funny, less sheep and more a busy little worker bee.

#obey me #obey me x reader #obey me belphegor #obey me belphegor x reader #obey me belphie #obey me belphie x reader #obey me x mc #obey me belphegor x mc #obey me belphie x mc #obey me fanfic #obey me fic #obey me imagines #obey me ficlet #obey me prompts #march prompts

12 notes · View notes

catoz0 · 9 months ago

Text

Hello! So the following paragraphs of rambling text are from an alternate au of sorts that I am currently working on, certain bits and ideas are sticking to the inside of my head like cotton so Ive decided to write some of them out in the hopes that it helps me in developing this universe further. For a quick and simple ( but not super accurate honestly) explanation Evan, Williams youngest son survives the incident with Fredbear and Michael does not, so he takes the place of his brother in this series and he is currently aiding Henry in his final plan when, ignoring Henrys protests he drops into the tunnels to fix one of the lures when he encounters a certain someone, I hope to be able to show more of this Au soon as its very dear to me, Enjoy!

A Hug From Dad

“Hello” Evan says for want of anything better.

The hallway is long and undecorated, a narrow expanse of unlit tunnels many feet underground.

Something built for function rather than aesthetic

It does make the situation more creepy especially given the other occupant of the hallway.

It was tall which coming from Evan didn't mean much granted but still. Once golden fur had decayed and rotted to a sickly green colour, made even more garish by the harsh light of Evans torch. Teeth bore in a permanent smile gleaming in the low light. Crooked and mismatched ears swayed as it tilted its head, its eyes despite not being submerged in the ray of light gleamed in the darkness anyway.

The rabbit did not respond to Evans call

Evan is clutching the radio in his hand so hard it he can feel the plastic creaking in protest. Ignoring the desperate rabbiting of his own heartbeat Evan speaks again.

“Sorry for disturbing you, I was just down here to do some General maintenance, mind if I get past you?”

Calm Evan thinks. he needs to stay calm. They expect screaming and when they don't get it it confuses them, it had worked with Hive ( at least for a while) so it might work here, he just needs to breathe

The rabbit doesn't answer him

It simply stands there drinking in the sight of him, eyes aglow in the darkness

Evan breathes out and then in he opens his mouth to try again again but before he can, the rabbit finally speaks

It simply says one word

His name.

Evan stops, freezing on the spot.

Yous see the thing is Evan doesn't know for a certainty who is in there, he knows for a certainty that it is haunted by someone he has theories and suspicions but with Fazbear entertainments tendency to keep certain things for ever reaching the public getting numbers our accurate stats from them is next to impossible.

Certain stats like say, how many staff have died under their employment

As loathe as he was to admit it being an Afton occasionally had its perks, but even that hadn't been enough sometimes.

Something among many he really doesn't like to dwell on

Evan takes a breath again, in and out. He just has to stay calm.

“Did Hive tell you my name? I'm guessing they were mumbling about me, I think they're still at mad at me because of”

“Evan” he says again. “Evan darling”

Evan stops, stops completely. Horror is engulfing him. Pieces of a picture coming together to an image that Evan doesn't want to look at. Memories and images spiralling together to a truth that he cannot deny or escape coming up to consume him whole

Spring Bonnie was always his favourite

“Dad” he whispers hoarsely

He seemingly takes that as his cue to begin walking towards him, he walks as if it takes effort lurching forward at a pace that Evan thinks he could outrun. Evan is quicker than he looks small and nimble, if the rest of his movements are as stilted and awkward as his walk then Evan should be able to dodge past

He could

He can

Evan doesn't move

His Father reaches him, Evan still has to crane his neck up to meet his eyes

He reaches out to him, and Evan doesn't flinch. Even as his rotted hands encircle him.

Even as his hands pull him in, slowly and gently.

Either Evan was on to something with his movements being stilted and awkward or he's savouring the moment

He pulls him against his chest Evan bring his hands up automatically fingers digging into the suits rotted fur, some of it detaches completely clumping under his fingernails. Evan shudders at the feeling but otherwise still doesn't react. His fathers pulls him even closer

His grip isn't quite painful but its close.

One of his hands begin to card through his hair, bone and metal gently tangling through the mess of curls on the back of his head as he clutches him close

Evan is still, eye pinned wide as his fingers dig into his fathers suit, the smell is abhorrent but Evan just cant move

He feels the costumes mouth gently touch the top of his head jaws opening slightly, a mimicry of the kiss his companion had gifted him with so long ago

And that, that is what breaks the moment, breaks the moment of calm and Evan suddenly cant breathe hands twisting into the suits ragged surface as his eye fills with tears, breath coming in gasps.

His father makes a sound, something quiet and desperate as his grip tightens on him and it finally vaults over the line of uncomfortable and lands in painful, ribs protesting against the treatment.

But then the radio in his hand shrieks a wave of noise that causes his Father to recoil, enough for Evans thrashing to set him free, pulling away Evan turns and bolts

Evan Afton with tears in his eyes and fur under his fingernails runs from the desolate silhouette of his Father

As he is turning the corner, Evan not consciously aware that he's doing it turns his head to look back. Some part of him, a part that sounds a lot like Charlie is hissing for him to stop to just keep looking ahead and keep going.

He looks back anyway

Later that night as he curls in bed and traces the dark shadows of his fathers affection bruising his ribs Evan will think of that final image

The image of his Father illuminated in the twilight of the hallway, head tilted.

With one of his arms outstretched delicately waving goodbye.

#evan afton #fnaf #fnaf au #william afton #springtrap #digital art #art

21 notes · View notes

akira-fishhh · 10 months ago

Text

Grande passion.

Usually, Kreiburg took the best out of life and enjoyed it in the spring, but not this year. Too many contracts have been signed, and only a fool can get away from the desired bills.

Although age takes its toll.

Frederick is a man with an ideal actor's face with wrinkles already gradually standing out. Not a single layer of makeup can hide the fading youth. However, even so, his power of take ladies breath away with his beauty did not fade away in him.

No matter how much time has passed, the memories of his youth will never leave him: thin-lipped wisdom spoke to him from a worn armchair preaching prudence, quoting the book of cowardice, posing as common sense. Kreiburg never listen. However, he'll never admit to himself that he admires his father's speeches, as well as his magnificent music playing.

The lady was grinning, looming in the doorway of the dusty dressing room and talking pretentiously while Frederick stood in the hallway. When she saw the actor, she began to persistently call him a "genius of pure acting." Oh, well. She's not destined to know the truth and get dirty in the "purity" of acting.

Later, a new nickname was heard. "The merciful patron of art". Frederick drew his eyebrows to the bridge of his nose and, holding a battered cane in his hands, walked cautiously on.

As always, there was chaos on the film set. Makeup artists, actors, cameramen, directors rushed around the set and were flat out like bees in a hive

Frederick is too used to such a work fuss, so none of what is happening causes any reaction.

A sultry wind of passion swept over the lady and stirred the graceful folds of her dress with an apron. That's ridiculous. Wherever the rumors about Frederick slipped, all the ladies only sighed in love, their blood rushed up, and their cheeks blushed. A brush with shadows slid over his eyelids, and another makeup artist carefully arranged his pure snow-white hair.

When his eyes opened again, he saw how the makeup artist's gaze was clouded by a dreamy haze.

Unpleasant personalities with dyed hair and faces with tons of makeup swirled around. Eternal turmoil and nothing more. It's as if they're not filming another episode of the series, but rushing to help everyone get ready for their last journey.

The two actors next to him looked as grotesque as the scenery, as if borrowed from a rural farce. But he! Kreiburg is too confident in himself, because he is able to take the whole frame to a new level just by smiling at the camera.

Makeup artists loved to have small talk with Frederick where they could pour out their heart or instead they could share their happiness with him. As now, the pianist does not mind at all and he is happy to join the conversation

The lady who had neatly styled Kreiburg's hair walked away and examined her work, modestly finishing it all with the final spray of varnish. After giving a couple of instructions on how to deal with such a hairstyle, she began to put things in a bag.

"You're always bothering me with good advice!" the pianist grunted with a slight friendly smile, straightening the sleeves of his cuffs.

The girl who was putting makeup on his face decided to share her own heartbreaking love story, to which Frederick just chuckled.

"You will always be loved and you will be in love with love. Grande passion¹," Frederick cooed before disappearing with the necessary clothes behind a dressing screen.

"What love allegories are you singing, my dear colleague," one of the actors as famous as Frederick strolled through the dressing room with an imposing gait. "Orpheus". The actor's real name is unknown because of his past as a writer, which made curiosity itch under the skin of the former musician.

A statuesque figure in a white jacket appeared in front of Frederick. Brown-haired with perfectly tousled hair, casting sly glances with a special squint, he is a real ladies' man. There was something about him that caused Frederick to have an overly diverse range of emotions: the desire to once again pull away, but at the same time continue caressing his own ears with the sweet speech of this man. Attractively hateful is the best description of Frederick's attitude towards Orpheus

He is perfect in everything from speech to a perfectly ironed jacket that fits exactly over his shoulders. Seam to seam, arrow to arrow, everything in it is marvelous and there is nothing to complain about.

"Eavesdropping is not good," a sharp remark flew out of the mouth of the white-haired man, who finally vanished from prying eyes behind a screen. In his hands was an elegant black suit with red gloves and a white shirt.

The nimble gaze of green eyes flashed behind the monocle, and their owner himself moved to the mirror to appear at full height. Another reminder of his perfect appearance. Wiping off his lip pencil, which had slightly leaked during his time on set, Orpheus snorted something under his breath.

"What a pity that the dressing room is common for all the actors."

The voice went down almost to a whisper at the end of the phrase.

Frederick pulling on red gloves looked at them. They look unacceptable stylish. Such bright accents in clothes are unusual for him, but it looks very lovely.

Coming out of the screen, Kreiburg hastily fastens a silver chain on his belt and fastens a shirt with openwork elements along the button line. The recent styling held firm, not a hair out of place . It was also good that the hair stylist expertly disguised some bald spots in Frederick's hair. After all, against the background of eternal staining and lack of proper care, the hair began to fall out heavily.

"What the…"

Going up to the mirror, the composer shushed the non-clinging brooch and crumpled collar with displeasure. What do the employees of the film set allow themselves? Frederick, as the protagonist of the series, should be in the frame any minute, and now he has to suffer with a wrinkled collar and a tangled chain? It sounds stupid, but in fact it is even more worse.

"I see you have some problems," a sly grin spread across the lips of the novelist, who leaned on the table near the mirror, which is littered with various brushes, bottles and jars, "May I help a dear colleague?"

The chain of the monocle moved slightly in the air and collided with the writer's cheek, and Orpheus slightly shaking his shoulders began to wait for an answer.

"…Please," Frederick contemptuously agreed to a polite phrase, handing his colleague a silver brooch with a scattering of stones in his hands. Due to his haste, he does not manage to attach the accessory properly at all, so Frederick decided to trust Orpheus.

The dexterous hands of the other immediately placed the brooch in the right place and adjusted Frederick's collar with special care. What could be better than being in the hands of a skilled and obviously experienced man who knows exactly how to help?

The whitish eyelashes narrowed, and Frederick's gaze was fixed on the novelist's clothes. He had a special scattering of stones on his tie and on his breast pocket, and a raven mask hung on the back of his belt. After all, it's not for vain that he has the role of the main antagonist of the entire series.

"It seems that you're already in your heyday, but still have problems with clothes," the novelist chuckled softly, finally removing his hands from the clothes of the other. However, the hands didn't plan to move away from Frederick further; they moved to the slender hips of the blonde, slightly squeezing them.

"Being experienced is far from you, isn't it?"

"I would recommend you to be careful what you say, Orpheus."

Kreiburg's anger is a real delight for the novelist, who enjoys every furrowed muscle and prominent wrinkle on the musician's face.

"Experience does not represent any ethical value."

"In your opinion, is experience an absolutely unnecessary thing?"

The writer's breath only gets closer to the composer's face, and his hands slid to Frederick's waist, stroking the musician's protruding ribs through his jacket. And after all, Frederick has not been a teenager for a long time and is not even quite young, but he is still distinguished by his aristocratic thinness.

"It's just a name that people have given for the mistakes they've made," Frederick whispered right into the novelist's lips, before feeling the audacious movement of the other's face towards his own. A very light touch of lips, but so many emotions. Orpheus, as if sensing a certain confusion of the other, only leans forward more strongly, kissing too harshly for the composer.

Hands in blood red gloves wrap around the torso and neck of the other, mercilessly ruin such an ideal novelist's hairstyle. What a pity. However, in a careless way he looks stunning.

Finally pulling away from each other, Orpheus abruptly grabs his colleague by the hand and pulls him behind the dressing screen, hearing the screams of the film crew from the set. The screen creaks on the floor and now they are already closed on all sides, and the novelist's hands are still holding Frederick by the hips.

"We're going to have a little trouble after this," Orpheus whispers softly into Frederick's lips, putting a red–gloved hand to his lips, leaving a weightless kiss before clinging to it with his teeth and taking it off. What a scoundrel.

– Maintenant, il y a un gros problème dans la grande passion entre nous, Orphée².

/ ¹ - Great passion ² - Now there is a big trouble in the great passion between us, Orpheus.

#identity v #frederick kreiburg #orpheus #fredpheus #orphrick #idv frederick #idv orpheus #idv

19 notes · View notes

notstarcey · 1 year ago

Text

She Magnus on my archives til I

I itch all the time. Deep beneath my skin, where the bone sits, enshrined in flesh, I feel it. Something, not moving but that wants to move. Wants to be free. It itches, and I don’t think I want it. I don’t know what to do.

You can’t help me. I don’t think so, at least. But whatever it is that calls to me, that wants me for its own, it hates you. It hates what you are and what you do. And if it hates you, then maybe you can help me. If I wanted to be helped. I don’t know if I do. You must understand, it sings so sweetly, and I need it, but I am afraid. It isn’t right and I need help. I need it to be seen. To be seen in the cold light of knowledge is anathema to the things that crawl and slither and swarm in the corners and the cracks. In the pitted holes of the hive.

You can’t see it, of course. It isn’t real. Not like you or I are real. It’s more of an everywhere. A feeling. Are you familiar with trypophobia? That disgusted fear at holes, irregular, honeycombed holes. Makes you feel that itch in the back of your mind, like the holes are there too, in your own brain, rotten and hollow and swarming. Is that real?

I’m sorry, I know I’m meant to be telling you what happened. What brought me to this place. This place of books and learning, of sight and beholding. I’m sorry. I should. I will.

I… I haven’t slept in some time. I can’t sleep. My dreams are crawling and many-legged. Not just slithering and burrowing,. though it is the burrowing that draws me. They always sing that song of flesh. I hope you will forgive me for such a rambling story. I hope you will forgive me for a great many things, as it may be I do worse. I have that feeling, that instinct that squirms through your belly. There will be great violence done here. And I bleed into that violence.

Do you know, I wonder? As I watch you sitting there through the glass. Eating a sandwich. Do you know where you are? You called me “dear”. “Have a seat, dear.” “You can write it down, dear.” “Take as much time as you need, dear.” Can you truly know the danger you are in?

There is a wasps’ nest in my attic. A fat, sprawling thing that crouches in the shadowed corner. It thrums with life and malice. I could sit there for hours, watching the swirls of pulp and paper on its surface. I have done. It is not the patterns that enthral me, I’m not one of those fools chasing fractals; no, it’s what sings behind them. Sings that I am beautiful. Sings that I am a home. That I can be fully consumed by what loves me.

I don’t know how long the nest has been there. It’s not even my house, I just live there. Some sweaty old man thinks he owns it, taking money for my presence as though it will save him. I used to worry about it, you know. I remember, before the dreams, I would spend so long worrying about that money. About how I could afford to live there. Now I know that whatever the old man thinks, as he passes about the house with brow crinkled and mouth puckered in disapproval, it is not his. It has a thousand truer owners who shift and live and sing within the very walls of the building. He does not even know about the wasps’ nest. I wonder how long he has not known. How many years it has been there.

Have you ever heard of the filarial worm? Mosquitoes gift it with their kiss and it grows and grows. It stops water moving round the human body right, makes limbs and bellies swell and sag with fluid. Now, when I look at that fat, sweaty sack, I think about it, and the voice sings of showing him what a real parasite can do.

How many months has it been like this? Was there a time before? There must have been. I remember a life that was not itching, not fear, not nectar-sweet song. I had a job. I sold crystals. They were clean, and sharp and bright and they did not sing to me, though I sometimes said they did. We would sell the stones to smiling young couples with colour in their hair. I remember, before I found the nest, someone new came. His name was Oliver, and he would look at me so strangely. Not with lust or affection or contempt, but with sadness. Such a deep sadness. And once with fear. It didn’t matter, because no-one in the shop wanted to hear about the ants below it. I tried to tell them, to explain, but they did not care. The pretty young things complained and I left.

That was when I still called myself a witch. Wicca and paganism, I would spend my weekends at rituals by the Thames. I wanted something beyond myself, but could not stomach the priest or the imam or pujari of the churches. I knew better. I knew that it was not so simple as to call out to well-trodden gods. I never felt from my rituals anything except exhaustion and pride. I thought that those were my spiritual raptures.

I wish, deep inside, below the itch, that they were still my raptures. I have touched something now, though, that all my talk of ley lines and mother goddesses could never have prepared me for. It is not a god. Or if it is then it is a dead god, decayed and clammy corpse-flesh brimming with writhing graveworms.

When did I first hear it? It wasn’t the nest, I’m sure of that. I never went in the attic. It was locked and I didn’t have a key. I spent a day sawing through the padlock with an old hacksaw. My hands were blistered by the end. Why would I have done that if I didn’t know what I would find? The face of the one who sang to me dwelling within the hidden darkness above me. I had seen no wasps. I know I hadn’t. There are no wasps in the nest. So how else would I have known that I needed to be there, to be in the dark with it, if it had not already been singing to me?

No, that’s not right. The nest does not sing to me. It is simply the face. Not the whole face, for the whole of the hive is infinite. An unending plane of wriggling forms swarming in and out of the distended pores and honeycombed flesh. The nest is nothing but paper.

Was it the spiders? There were webs in the corners, around the entryway into the attic. I would watch them scurry and disappear in between the wooden boards. ‘Where are you going, little spiders?’ I would think. ‘What are you seeing in the dark? Is it food? Prey? Predators?’ I wondered if it was the spiders that made the gentle buzzing song. It was not. Webs have a song as well, of course, but it is not the song of the hive.

I used to pick at my skin. It was a compulsion. I would spend hours in the bathroom, staring as close as I could get to my face to the mirrors, searching for darkened pores to squeeze and watch the congealed oil worm its way out of my skin. Often I would end with swollen red marks where it had become inflamed with irritation or infection. Did I hear the song then?

Was it when I was a child, such a clear memory of a classmate telling me a blackhead was a hole in my face, and if I didn’t keep it clean it would grow and rot. Did I hear it then, as that image lodged in my mind forever? Or was it last year, passing by a strip of green they call a park near my house, after the rain, and watching a hundred worms crawl and squirm to the surface.

Perhaps I’ve always heard it. Perhaps the itch has always been the real me, and it was the happy, smiling Jane who called herself a witch and drank wine in the park when it was sunny. Maybe it was her who was the maddened illusion that hides the sick squirming reality of what I am. Of what we all are, when you strip away the pretence that there is more to a person than a warm, wet habitat for the billion crawling things that need a home. That love us in their way.

I need to think. To clear my head. To try and remember, but remember what? I was lonely before. I know that. I had friends, at least I used to, but I lost them. Or they lost me. Why was it? I remember shouting, recriminations, and I was abandoned. No idea why. The memories are a blur. I do remember that they called me “toxic”. I don’t think I really knew what that meant, except that it was the reason I was so very painfully lonely. Was that it? Was I swayed and drawn simply by the prospect of being genuinely loved? Not loved as you would understand it. A deeper, more primal love. A need as much as a feeling. Love that consumes you in all ways.

You can’t help me. I’m sure of that now. I have tried to write it down, to put it into terms and words you could understand. And now I stare at it and not a word of it is even enough to fully describe the fact that I itch. Because ‘itch’ is not the right word. There is no right word because for all your Institute and ignorance may laud the power of the word, it cannot even stretch to fully capture what I feel in my bones. What possible recourse could there be for me in your books and files and libraries except more useless ink and dying letters? I see now why the hive hates you. You can see it and log it and note it’s every detail but you can never understand it. You rob it of its fear even though your weak words have no right to do so.

I do not know why the hive chose me, but it did. And I think that it always had. The song is loud and beautiful and I am so very afraid. There is a wasps’ nest in my attic. Perhaps it can soothe my itching soul.

#the magnus archives #tma shitpost #i have too many statements saved onto my phone #magnus archives #help

37 notes · View notes

nathaaaan · 5 months ago

Text

My mind keeps thinking about a very toxic Sashanne Danne AU. A Danne AU where Anne is mainly in control of her body, making her actions her own. A Danne AU where Anne wants Sasha all to herself despite everything she’s done. She can’t help but love her, even if her love was warpped into some twisted form of affection.

I suppose the equivalent of tough love, but thirty times worse.

Like, she’s still mad at Sasha for obvious reasons, but she loves her to the point where she just wants her by her side and doesn’t want to let that go. And of course she needs Sasha for her plans, so she’s really hard on her, but if Sasha does something right for once, she’ll shower her in love and affection. The Core (I’m gonna refer to them as Danne when they’re in control)/Danne will even say shit like; “Our host has claimed you as mate,” and start calling her “Love, dear, cutie…” any nickname under the sun really, but those’d be the main three. They encourage Sasha to do the same, but Sasha isn’t as open to it as they are. Danne would be on the aggressive side—more focused on their plans as opposed to Anne, but they’d still show Sasha affection, especially when she starts to crave their touch.

Oh and both Danne and Anne are incredibly touchy—I’d assume they are since Anne is canonically touchy with Marcy in Marcy at the Gates. Not to the point where it’s inappropriate without Sasha’s consent, they’re just touchy. At first, Sasha would shy away from their touch, but then she’d learn (YES I MEAN LEARN) to lean into it and absolutely fucking love it.

Let’s not forget about gaslighting, and just emotional manipulation in general. Anne would constantly use the fact that Sasha lied and betrayed her to get her to do something she wants, or threaten to hurt people in the Resistance—even if they’re people she knows, or threaten to find Marcy and eliminate her. (She’s bluffing, but like, Sasha doesn’t need to know that 🤭) Anne’s constantly belittling and patronizing her for what she’s done in the past, which is actually a little deserved.

She’d say things like, “It’s your fault I’m like this, why are you crying?” “No one will love you the way I love you,” “Without me, you’d have nothing,” and “You’re so lucky to have me. Nobody else would put up with you,”

Whenever Sasha snaps at her, she’s quick to make it seem like she’s the victim. “Don’t you care about my feelings?” “How can you be so heartless?” “I thought you cared about me,” all of it would cause Sasha to shut down because even if her friend is being possessed by a hive-mind, or doing all of this by her own will, she cares about Anne too. And deep deep deep deep deep deep deep really fucking deep down, she knows that her Anne, the silly, lovable one, who would always put others first is there.

Anne physically abuses her too, just so you know. All loyal and noble warriors are trained and disciplined after all. Whipped into shape to obey their master. Danne normally does this, because Anne doesn’t want to see Sasha get hurt, but she knows it’s necessary. Sometimes, however, she feels a little sadistic and decides to partake in it herself. Labeling it as training and refusing to ever admit she abused Sasha.

I don’t think I’d write them getting freaky if I wrote this, but I have the slightest feeling that it might escalate to that. 😭 Sasha would be the one to initiate this kind of love tho. Mainly cause Anne has feelings and isn’t some (completely) heartless monster. (Consent is so fucking cool ya’ll‼️)

Anne would be whisked away by The Core or Andrias for important war biz, and it really pisses her off because she wants to spend as much time as she can with Sasha before the invasion.

OH YEAH. They’re cuddle buddies because I say so. Both of them want cuddles, but it’s usually Sasha since Anne doesn’t really have to sleep anymore. At the beginning of their relationship, Anne started it because she wanted to be close to Sasha, and eventually Sasha started (timidly) asking for cuddles and because Anne is infatuated with Sasha, she’d drop everything to cuddle.

So, just think of those Darcy/Anne fics but more tamed. 🙌

Also it just occurred to me that their ship name would be Danne…

#sashanne #amphibia #anne boonchuy #amphibia au #sasha waybright #marcy wu #MARCY WU MENTION ✊#dark anne boonchuy #danne #toxic relationship #emotional abuse #manipulation #tw abuse #affection #love #it’s the trueeee it’s the trueee it’s the trueeee kind of love 😍#sasha x anne

7 notes · View notes

r0-boat · 2 years ago

Text

Bee!Emmet Eats you out on the throne that's it, that's the entire post.

AFAB Gn! reader

Cw: voyeurism-ish, public sex?,( anyone can walk in)

Nsfw

The Gear Station hives thrown room rarely gets used, not since their last queen was slain by her own subjects. Despite the drones wanting to prepare the room to suit your tastes, you see no use for it. Having room to sit around and do nothing did not appeal to you. But Emmet had something else in mind. Taking you to the empty throne room, his eyes darkening with lust when you sat on the golden chair. You are none the wiser smiling when his lips and nose tickle your cheek, peppering kisses all over your face; he gets on one knee taking your hand, and lays his lips upon your knuckles.

When he leans forward to meet, your lips is when you get the hint that he's brought you here for something little more. His kiss becomes hungrier as his tongue darts into your mouth, and his hands slip underneath your shirt feeling up your body before traveling to your pants. His growls are immediately swallowed by your mouth just barely breaking the kiss to demand your pants to be removed.

" mmh... you look so delicious like this." Emmet muttered, his cheek nuzzling against your thigh as he spread you open. Resting your legs over his shoulders, he gets closer, his hot breath tickling your warm cunt. As a reaction, you close your legs on him, squeezing his head. Muscles squeezing down on him, Emmet inhales the sensation of being in between your thighs, going straight to his loins.

The constricting bulging of his parents becoming all too addictive, he bucks his hips, fingers digging into your soft flesh, letting out a long, drawn-out moan, your title leaving his lips Like a prayer. When you relax as if in a trance, Emmet leans forward. The pheromones of your sweet pussy drew him in like a moth to a flame. Oh, how he wants to bury his face between your folds and stay there for hours, eating you out. As Depo drones come and go looking at their King with envy wishing it was themselves between their Royal's legs.

Emmet giving your thighs a small kiss, purrs. "Do you like this, my Royal? Do you like seeing me on my knees for you? Ready to serve my dear highness on their throne?"

His tongue darts out, laying down flat against your entrance with long licks up against your folds. He savers your taste, his long inhuman tongue diving past your folds, slowly stretching you out when he laps at your velvet walls.

His antenna twitches as he lets out a mellow buzzing. Feeling your fingers brush into his hair, messing up his fluffy locks. He moans at your taste. He can't help but roll his hips; his hand slides past his pants, cupping his bulge and feeling his cock throb into his palm. He goes for more, his lips wrapping around your sensitive clit, suckling and pressing his tongue against it.

The way you grind into his face desperate to come, burying his face within your making it hard for him to breathe, made his cock twitch, his tongue vigorously thrust inside of you, his long tongue gliding against your squeezing walls while his nose bumps against your clit, making you fall over the edge. You pull Emmet's hair bracing yourself as gush on his tongue.

As you come down from your high Emmet pulls away licking his lips

" Thank you for the meal, your Highness."

#smut #beegearstation au #submas smut #Submas #pokemon submas #pokemon emmet smut #subway boss emmet #subway master emmet #pokemon emmet #submas #pokemon submas smut

131 notes · View notes

fairytale-poll · 1 year ago

Text

ROUND 1C, MATCH 8 OUT OF 8!

Propaganda Under the Cut:

Mira:

She’s a badass and I love her

She embodies one of the truest parts of the Little Mermaid dating back to the original story: She loves the prince, even if he does not love her in return. It isn’t out of desperation or a desire to be sought and wanted, it is simple and pure love for another soul. A love so true that she lets him go without so much as a word of protest because when you truly love someone your greatest wish is for their happiness.

Will beat the shit out of the sea witch (good for her).

Bug:

Their a bug that falls in love with a human they rescue and becomes human, but even when they don't get to keep their human body, they still get to be with their love. It's a sci-fi fairytale musical.

Little Mermaid meets Starship Troopers musical starring awesome puppets and the most trans coded main character ever. Please. Please vote Bug Starship I love him. Go watch Kick it Up a Notch from Starship. Go watch Status Quo from Starship. You will understand.

He's a bug and he lives in space on a bug planet but he really wants to be a starship ranger which you can only be if you are a human and then one day a spaceship lands on his planet and so he goes to an evil bug called Pincer who then helps him become a human. And Bug falls in love with a human on the spaceship and it's very sweet. The musical and storyline are based on the little mermaid story, the creators themselves called it "the little mermaid but in space". Bug wanting to be a human/a starship ranger and achieving that and falling in love with a human is very much like the little mermaid

Starship is a musical that can only be described as The Little Mermaid meets Starship Troopers. It follows Bug, an alien bug who dreams of being a Starship Ranger, a galactic explorer/soldier, but the rigid confines of bug society keeps him trapped in a job he hates. He reaches a Starship Ranger named February from the hive and immediately falls in love with her. In order to be with her and pursue his dream, he makes a deal with a giant scorpion named Pincer who through sci-fi bs gives him a human body. Near the end of the second act he sacrifices his human body and returns to his bug body, and saves the day and wins February's heart. It's truly the ultimate Little Mermaid. He has multiple songs, and his bug body is portrayed by a puppet!! Vote for Bug!!

“It's a big, big, universe So many dimensions And unanswered questions Not to mention Life What an invention Life There's no choice involved in what you are given One mind, one voice, one body to live in It's a short, small thing we lead With so much potential Pointless or essential Which one can I be? Where do I fit? Where do I stand? Who are they to say what I am? And how can I stay inside this awful world I know? I need a way out I need an escape I'd rather be dead than to live in this place I wish that something or someone could just take it all away Someone take me away” dear god….. can anybody hear me…. (song from starship)

They are the purest little mermaid adaptation done in the most unuque way. An alien insect gets turned into a human, a race he has always loved and admired, to be with the woman he fell in love with. Also just a great musical.

Bug's whole arc is so so in tune with that of the little mermaid. He is an alien who has fallen in love with humanity through a crashed spaceship and trades his place in the hive for a chance to be with both with the human he's falling for and to be a Starship Ranger. He body swaps with human in a cryogenic pod! It's literally sci-fi Little Mermaid!

#dimension 20 #dimension 20: neverafter #starship #team starkid #starship by team starkid #mira #bug #the little mermaid #little mermaid #fairytale #hans christian andersen #poll tournament #poll bracket #character polls #polls #round 1 #round 1c #the little merpoll

100 notes · View notes

gnostichor · 1 year ago

Text

That Hopeful Alchemy

Eris stepped out into the evening air of the Tower, the warm mug of mulled cider in her hands a welcome bulwark against the rapidly cooling weather. Festival of the Lost had just begun, and something about those celebrations made it feel like it was always evening in the Tower. She walked in between paper lanterns and decorated gourds, effigies of reverence to the autumnal harvests and the spirits of those we have had to leave behind: the semiotics of change and time's stubborn procession.

Historically, Eris had found little of value in such pageantry; what could someone truly know of loss, she would assure herself, if they thought it transmutable by the exchange of confectionery and the carving of winter squash? This year, however, her steps were not quite as heavy, her glances less cutting. Her trials in the athenæum and the oubliette—just as they had peeled away the chitinous plates from her body—had served to abrade some of the more calloused edges of her preconceived notions about modern life in the City.

Where she had once seen frivolity and unearned levity, she began to see catharsis and a different sort of magic: that transmutative rending of a source of grief and sorrow not into a weapon designed to spread more of the same, but a scalpel to be turned on itself so that the flesh may heal. She had begun to appreciate and respect the poetry of that hopeful alchemy.

Out of the corner of her left-most eye, Eris saw a woman waving to her. An older woman. Eva Levante, she noted, the cheermonger. Eris took a sip from her mug and let the kind embrace of the rising steam give her the courage to approach the grinning woman.

"Hello, Eva." Eris said, doing her best to unflatten her affect. "As ever, the efforts you and the other citizens put into the decoration is commendable."

"Hello dear, and thank you," Eva replied, her impish smile never fading. "You're looking quite well, if you don't mind me saying." "I do not mind, and thank you—I am in fact feeling quite well. An auspicious symmetry."

Raising her hand to her mouth, Eva laughed quietly, but never dropped the mirthful grin.

"How can I help you, Eva?" Eris raised the mug to her lips, sipping. "So, been any Hive gods, lately?" Eva finally let out with a titter.

An awful sound emanated from Eris' mug: the sound of someone bursting into laughter as they are sipping hot mulled cider.

#eris morn #eva levante #festival of the lost #fotl #destiny fanfiction #destiny the game #destiny 2 #my writing

51 notes · View notes

ciaossu-imagines · 1 year ago

Note

Ikerev & Zombie Apocalypse?

Of course, anon dear! I'm so, so sorry this took forever to get back to you but if you're still reading, I hope you'll enjoy the headcanons I thought of for this AU!

Okay, so we're going into this with me forewarning everyone. By it's very nature, a zombie apocalypse AU is going to get dark, gritty, angsty, and probably a little fucked up and as I love getting the chance to get angsty and dark, you know things might get fucked up here and there with some of these headcanons. If that is not your cup of tea or something you think might bother you, it might be better for you to stop reading.

So now that we have that out of the way, if you're still reading, let's get this all started. So, in my head, this AU is less of an actual alternate universe. I still very much see this set in Cradle, with the same universe existing of Magic and the Magic Tower and the different armies. However, I don't see the armies as still really fighting each other - they are at peace and the Magic Tower, though definitely still shady as fuck and definitely still up to no real good, isn't thought of as an absolute threat. Everything seems good and peaceful and that's part of the real set-up of this AU.

So, to get to the real meat of this AU. So, everything is nice and peaceful. Life seems idyllic. But then things start to change. The Magic Tower, still headed by Amon Jabberwock, is doing what the Magic Tower always does - experimenting with the Magic Crystals, seeing what can be done with them. Their latest experiment is working with the crystals and humans to see if, by ingesting bits of the crystals and thus integrating them into the human body, they can enhance the boundaries of what a human body and mind can do. The experiments seem to be well-meaning, are sold as looking to find cures for aging, for disabilities, for anything bad that can possibly happen to a human body or mind. What they're really after, or at least what Amon wants them for, is to create his own army of superhuman soldiers to conquer Cradle, though not even his followers are really privy to that fact.

Too bad the experiments seem to be failing. Most of the humans experimented on are dying…and then things seem to change. Things start to appear to be going well and the Magic Tower rejoices and gets inspired to really test even further limits of the experiment. The long and short of it though - these new Crystal infused humans? They're super-strong, seemingly impervious to all harm except complete decapitation to sever the connection of brain and body, with superhuman senses…oh, and they all go insane. Like, their brain goes bad - all limiters are taken off and they start to act solely on impulses and basic desires instead of any rational thoughts or logic. They're extremely violent if threatened at all or if something stands in the way of one of their wants. They experience extreme hunger at points and if food isn't readily available….well, humans are a source of meat too. They crave sex, food, shelter, warmth, liquid. Some of them retain enough of their personalities to have cravings for things they especially loved before the experiments as well.

The worst thing? Though they start as mindless, they quickly seem to link up into some sort of hive-mind and they start enhancing their numbers. If they don't outright kill, they forcibly turn others into beings like themselves by forcibly feeding them crystals. If the person survives this, they join The Hive.

It starts in the Tower. Amon willingly joins The Hive, makes himself the Head of it. Dalim, being a Disciple of the Tower, is in this initial first attack by these creatures. Terrified and no longer trusting in Amon, Dum does do the right thing in the end and tries to ensure that the experiment dies in the Tower, that none of the infected escape the Tower. He helps get other Disciples out but unfortunately, he succumbs to an attack by several of the infected and gets forcibly recruited into The Hive.

The infected surge out of the Tower and it's not too long before the peace of Cradle is completely shattered and things become a full out 'zombie apocalypse'. The armies each do their best to fight The Hive and protect the citizens but still steadfastly refuse to join forces with each other until much later on in the story.

I see Jonah as being one of the first to die. It's not because he's not strong and more than a capable fighter. It's because he's just genuinely someone who doesn't have a lot of common sense. His death comes in the first wave of the infected out of the Tower. He chose bravery and doing his duty but, after seeing other soldiers downed and even seeing some be forcibly infected, his ego and lack of common sense really did him in and he gets slaughtered and eaten.

Though he'll last throughout most of the story, I do see Lancelot dying. It's his death that inspires the two armies to join forces and come together, actually. The thing is, as a magically strong person already, the Hive (and Amon, their leader) didn't want to kill Lancelot. No, they became almost obsessed with changing him, with making him a part of the Hive. Though Lancelot was strong and clever enough to hold them off for a long time, while saving someone else whilst in the midst of battle, he was left vulnerable for long enough to be force fed what was needed to ensure he would eventually turn. Though the only one who was aware of this was Kyle, who steadfastly maintained that they would find a way to save Lance, Lancelot knew what needed to be done. He told Sirius and Harr the truth of what had happened and begged his two best friends to do what needed to be done - to kill him.

Sirius was the one to actually end up doing the deed. He'd already lost most of his family and by that point, had seen enough other people die. He'd been so strong up until that point and he'd inspired so many people to keep going with his never give up attitude, his optimism that things would get better, and his hard work. But after that, after being forced to kill one of his oldest and dearest friends? He sure kept trying, so hard, but the fact of the matter was that after that, Sirius really started to give up. Another major story event really did him in and he almost recklessly charged into the next major battle with The Hive and was taken down. Those close by at the time said he seemed almost relieved as The Hive killed him.

That other major story event? It has to do with Harr. Harr was a Magic Tower Disciple who had abducted his position the second the Tower started experimenting on humans. It was just something Harr could not handle, could not get behind, so he left. He did his best to keep his eye on things with the Tower though, worried about what might happen. When the worst does happen, Harr feels immense guilt for not having done more to stop this from happening. He becomes obsessed with finding a cure for those infected, with stopping this with as little bloodshed as possible. Loki helps him, as does Kyle, who also becomes obsessive about finding a cure.

As the days and weeks go by though and they seem to be getting nowhere, Kyle starts drinking harder and harder and becoming more and more reckless in his efforts to learn more about the infected. He needs test subjects and by the time the armies manage to trap and transport an infected person to him, not only have they suffered major casualties, but the infected in question is normally dead as well. Kyle becomes tired of seeing people die and being helpless to stop it and he directly goes out into the field. Dead infected specimens aren't helping; he needs a live one and becomes bound and determined to get one. While trying to do so, Kyle gets captured and changed.

The newly infected Kyle is feral and attacks his former comrades, killing Loki. Between Loki's death and Kyle's change, combined with watching Sirius kill Lancelot just the day before, Harr cannot handle things anymore. It's too much and his brain just can't deal. Harr takes a dive, head first, from the place this all started - the Tower itself. He's dead upon impact with the ground, quick and painless, but dead nonetheless.

Because the idea, while horrible, was too delicious to resist…I really do see Dean being brutally savaged and beaten to death by his own infected brother. The sibling rivalry had carried over enough in the infected Dalim's mind for the need to kill his brother to be a major desire of his.

Now, I have always kind of headcanoned that Mousse has narcolepsy. Obviously he doesn't have a route so I don't know for sure if that is canonically true but I see that being his undoing in this AU. He gets infected in his sleep very early on in the story.

Oliver becomes very useful though. He devotes himself to making weapons and traps and fortifying buildings to become shelters. Though he doesn't go into battles himself and is very protected, he's such an important and integral part of everything.

I do see Edgar, Fenrir, and Seth becoming rather famous as front line warriors against the Hive. All or any of them alone become major targets of the Hive because of how many infected they take out and how integral a part of survival in this new world they become.

After Lancelot's death, Blanc and Ray become co-leaders, trying everything they can to gather and ensure the safety of all non-infected individuals. Blanc keeps an eye and really dedicates himself to ensuring the non-infected are safe and taken care of and that shelter, food, water, and basic needs can be met for everyone while Ray leads the more military side of ensuring continued life and safety for the survivors.

Zero ends up specializing in rescue missions, in getting groups of non-infected people to safety, and really ends up becoming Blanc's second in command. Luka, meanwhile, stays under Ray and does fight…Luka's biggest regret in everything though? That he couldn't save his brother. So he becomes foolhardy and reckless at times, taking risks he shouldn't, because to him, if he can save even just one more person…maybe that will take some of the guilt away, absolve him even a little. Even just a smidge.

17 notes · View notes