#i put little skulls in their eyes cause ones dead and the other can see her

[tabbycalliber]

Rusty's grandma Crystal got beef with the clans, too bad he still wants to explore them

[darkbluekies]

A little game

Yandere!king oc x fem!reader

Summary: Edmund going insane when he finds you hurt and unconscious and swears to kill everyone in town.

Warnigns: behading, insanity, blood, guns, abuse, arson, everything like that

Word count: 2.3k

His eyes wander over your lifeless body. Numerous signs of brutal harm can be seen on your body. He can't even imagine what you've been put through, and when he tries he feels sick.

“Kill them all.”

His secretary widens his eyes.“But … your majesty-”

Edmund turns to him with eyes burning with rage. “Do I speak another language?!” he screams. “Kill them all! Every single one of them!”

Maids look at each other in fear, the secretary gulps. Edmund can feel his body tremble. He wants to grab the glass bottle on the bedside table, break it and plunge it deep into someone's, anyone's, heart. Wants to see blood, wants to kill. 

His hammering heart thumps in his ears. A chanting “kill them all, make them pay” repeats in his head, sounding better and better each time.

It all had happened so quickly, and yet so slow. You were kidnapped on a town visit and hurt by someone, badly. A knight had found you after hours of search lifeless in the forest, body torn and beaten. Edmund had thought that you had died. The few moments of uncertainty had felt like hours. Millions of thoughts had passed through his head. What would he do if you were dead? Could he live without you? Why did it hurt so much? Why couldn't he breathe? Was he dead too? Why was he alone again?

But now he was only angry. Someone had hurt you … and the entire town hid the truth, protected the culprit. Edmund didn't care who had done what, everyone was guilty. They are no individuals, only a herd of characterless peasants. And he hates them all.

He wants to touch your face, but he doesn’t dare to. He’s scared that if he touches you, he’s going to kill you. His touch is deadly. You’re already so fragile, so vulnerable. 

“Take families, one by one”, Edmund starts, still shaking, “and bring them here.”

“What are you going to do, your majesty?” the secretary asks, sounding worried. 

“Give this castle a fucking paintjob.”

His hands are bloody — they’re never bloody. He never gets down and dirty, always watched. His heart is beating even quicker, but he can’t seem to get enough. He can’t get rid of the unimaginable anger he feels. It’s like a beast has taken control over his mind and soul and given him a new unclenched blood thirst. Every time he lets his fist make contact with a poor peasants body he sees your broken face in front of him. It makes him hit them more, with even more force. He enjoys it, he finds. 

“Your majesty, please!” the man he’s holding begs. “Please spare me, I’m sorry!”

“What are you sorry for?” Edmund questions harshly. “What can your filthy little peasant heart be sorry for, huh? Was it you who abused my wife?!”

“No! No, your majesty, I didn’t-”

His voice echoes across the court yard. “Then who did?! Who was it?! Who are you covering up for?!”

Before he has the time to answer, Edmund has thrown the man against the castle’s wall with such force that he cracks his skull open on the harsh, sharp stones. Blood splatter. Edmund’s heavy breaths are enough to cause his head to spin. He runs a bloody hand through his black hair. Bodies are lined up against the castle’s walls, stacked on top of each other.

Edmund turns to the knights standing a few meters away from him. 

“If no one fesses up I will kill the entire town!” he shouts. “Every single one!”

“Your majesty, if you kill everyone, who will you rule over?” a knight asks. 

In a swift motion, Edmund grabs a gun from the nearest knight and shoots him. 

“Does anyone else have idiotic questions?!” he screams, directing the gun around. “Huh?! Ask them now so we can get them over with!”

To show that he’s not kidding, he shoots a bullet straight up into the air. None of the knights answer. Edmund scoffs and throws the gun to the side. He catches a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the window and flinches. He didn’t need his mirror to let him know that he’s drenched in blood and sweat. The look inn his eyes is what is startled by. He looks … animalistic. There’s no humanity left in his ice blue eyes anymore. He can feel himself drift into insanity, but he can’t stop it — maybe he doesn't want to.

“Bring the next group”, he demands.

“They are fleeing into the woods, your majesty”, a knight says. 

“Then stop them?!”

“How, your majesty?”

He thinks for a moment. Head spinning, heart thumping in his ears, tast of blood in his mouth. 

“Burn it all down”, he decides. “Burn every possible way out. Burn them in, if necessary.”

The knights nod. Edmund turns back to the poor body on the bloody gravel and picks him up by the collar, carrying him to the others. 

“Isn’t it pretty? The color?”

His secretary tilts his head as he studies the flames in the distance. “I suppose so, but the smell is God awful.”

“Smells like victory to me.”

Edmund turns away from the window, eyes darting to all the things scattered all over the floor. His office is near destroyed. Things lay broken everywhere after his tantrums. He used to value his materialistic obsessions highly, but now they’re not worth a dime to him. Nothing is. Only you. He has to avenge you rightfully. 

“How is my darling doing?” he asks and gives the secretary a stern gaze. “You know to tell me the second she awakes, right? If you don’t, I will drag you out on the court yard and put you with the other bodies.”

“Of course, your majesty, I will come running right away”, the secretary answers. “You can rest assure. I won’t betray you. Besides, her skin is healing. You won’t have to see her grotesque marks.”

Edmund nods. “I want to see her now. To see if you are telling the truth.”

The secretary leads Edmund through the large, dark halls. The people passing him makes his blood boil. They haven’t done anything, but he’s ready to lash out in case anyone gives him a foul look. Anyone showing any signs of distrust need to be killed. Roughly. He will not be made a fool.

A maid opens the door to your shared chamber and Edmund walks over to the bed. For a few seconds, he doesn’t believe that it’s you sleeping under the white sheets. You look so awfully small in the big bed, so unbelievably broken. Your skin looks so weird compared to the white sheets … washed out, somehow. He hates it, absolutely despises it all. 

Edmund sits down on the side of the bed and takes your hand in his, sighing heavily at the state of you. Seeing your frail figure makes him even madder. Why aren’t you waking up? What have that creature done to you to make you look like this? His secretary was right, however, you seem to be doing a bit better. Your body heals. So why aren’t you waking up?

“I will punish them”, he whispers and kisses your forehead. It must be one of the sweetest gestures he has done since you disappeared and came back in whatever state you are in now. “I promise. I love you so much, my darling, I will make them pay.”

The guillotine is working over time. The blade is covered in blood, heads everywhere. Edmund has realized that all people about to be beheaded has either of three possible reactions. Pleading and crying, begging for forgiveness, and emotionless and accepting. He likes to guess who will have what reaction, and when he guesses right he gives himself a clap on the shoulder. He’s standing on the balcony, leaning forward against the railing with his arms resting on it. Smiling. It’s all a big game for him. Like how hurting you and covering up the deed is a big joke to them. But now he’s the hunter, and they’re the pray. They are the punchline in his joke. Not the other way around. His blood boils when he thinks about what the ones hurting you must have been thinking while performing such a merciless act. Were they thinking about him, about how mad he would be? Thinking: “we will have caused a reaction to form in him but he will not know who have done it”, in that case they were wrong. Everyone is punished for their stupid game.

“Please, please!” a woman screams, about to be beheaded. “I know who it was!”

Edmund freezes. 

“Wait!” he shouts to the man holding the rope controlling the blade. 

Edmund hurries down to the court yard and walks over to the woman with her head in the locked hole. He grabs her chin roughly, trying to direct her head up without luck. 

“Who was it?” Edmund spits. “Tell me their names.”

She seems to have lost all speaking ability when nearby Edmund. All color is drained off her face. She faints. Angrily, Edmund lets go of her chin, grabs the rope and lets the blade fall. Her head falls down on the gravel and rolls towards the others. No one says anything.

“Your majesty!” he hears his secretary shout. “The queen is awake!”  

Edmund feels his entire body go numb. He spins around, looking at the secretary in the doorway with large, shocked eyes. He runs after. 

You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake.

“Get out of my fucking way!” Edmund growls and shoved a maid into the wall when she tries opening the door for him.  

You’re laying in the bed, but your eyes are open! Edmund runs over and throws himself at you, hugging you tightly. You start to cry the second he wraps his arms around you and brings your face into his shoulder. He can’t believe that he’s holding you again, to feel your body tremble under his fingertips. He wants to cry. 

“It’s okay”, he whispers and caresses your hair as you sob against his neck. “Everything is okay, my dear. I’m here now, I will not let anything happen to you.”

He can feel his entire body relax. He has you back. Your shaking body feels so … alive. 

“Does it hurt?” he asks. 

You nod against his shoulder and try to pull back, out of his embrace. He doesn’t let you, he only moves you closer. What if you slip away when he lets you go?

“Not yet”, he whispers. “Stay with me a bit longer.”

His hands grab at you, trying to reassure himself that you are, indeed, alive. 

When he does let you go, your eyes are red with tears. He puts his hand on your cheek, wiping your tears carefully with his thumb. 

“I’m so sorry”, he mumbles and feels a stone in his throat. “I really am.”

“Your hand smells like blood …”, you whisper.

He becomes cold as your eyes start to widen in fear.  

“No, no, no!” he says quickly and grabs your face in his hands. “I will stop. Is that what you want? Hm? I-I’ll stop, I’ll show mercy to the ones left if you just give me the name of who … who hurt you. Okay? Please?

The name you give is one he’s familiar with. It’s suddenly clear why everyone wanted to shield the guilty one. His father is one of the richest men in the town. Edmund has yet to kill him. 

“I will take care of him”, he says. “Everything he did to you, I will do to him. I promise. Not more, not less.”

Your shaking hand takes his. Edmund gulps and lifts your intertwined to his lips and kisses. 

“I love you”, he whispers. 

“What is that?” you ask and point towards the forest.”Why is it so black?”

Edmund hesitates and hugs your other hand tighter. They have cleaned the entire court yard and scrubbed the walls so that you won’t have to see any of the horror that has occurred while you were unconscious, but he can’t replace the forest with a new one.

“A wildfire happened while you were unconscious”, he lies. “It was just fixed. Nothing to worry about.”

He continues to walk with you, hand in hand, through the large corridors. He’s on his way down to the dungeon where a certain someone is waiting for him. Edmund’s hands itch when he thinks about what he’s going to do to him. He can’t wait. 

You suddenly hug him. He flinches, but is quick to wrap his arms around you, to secure you against his body. You fit so well against him 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. 

“Nothing”, you say, sounding shy. “Thank you for saving me. I think that I would be dead without you.”

“I would kill everyone in this world for you. You know that.”

But hearing you say ‘thank you’ to him, after everything hes done for — and towards — you causes his stomach to to fill with butterflies. He really would kill everyone for you. Over and over again. 

“I’ll have to leave you here”, he says as you reach the stairs down to the dungeon. “I have something to do. Will you wait for me here?”

“What are you going to do?” you ask hesitantly. 

Edmund smiles, showing off his teeth. “Play.”

[revelboo]

When you have the time, I’d love to see some more of Lost Light Megatron 🥰♥️ I’d happily be his little therapy human, that old man deserves a gentle kiss, a good cuddle, and maybe a good frag to show him we want all of him, in everything capacity 🤣

Definitely all three

Invisible Monsters Pt 7

MTMTE Megatron x Reader

• That warm press of your mouth against him lingers in his thoughts. Everything shifting between you both to a sort of anticipation that hums through him. Every day, you exchange poems. Both of you trying to capture what you want and what neither of you can seem to say out loud. Every day that tension is a bit harder to ignore, especially when you lay on him, his servos draped against your back. You’re still awake, warm against him, little fingers tracing the curling design on his chassis. A decoration he’d added as a gladiator. Now just a reminder of his past, of what he’s survived. “Really?” You ask, voice soft as he slides a servo down your spine and you shift against him.

• Rumbling softly under you, one corner of his lip quirks. “I just see this bot, barely more than a sparkling, running up and he catches on fire. Just lights himself. Couldn’t control his ability and the heat is sizzling on my plating,” he says, that servo sliding up between your shoulder blades then down nearly to your butt as he talks about Rodimus. “Furious and out of control. He’d have made a good Decepticon.” Back up all the way to the base of your skull and back down over the curve of your butt. Distracted in the memory and not even realizing.

• “We could spar again,” you blurt, face red when he glances at you. “Unless I’m a lost cause.” You certainly are against any Cybertronian, but you’re also giving him permission to touch you. Focusing to mass shift under you, hearing your sharp intake of breath as your palms smack down on him and his hand lands on your hip to keep you steady, he smiles. Still so small straddling him, as he resists the urge to let his hands wander. “Alright,” you mutter, shifting distractingly against him until he growls as you slide off of him and put up your little fists. Rolling to his feet, he flexes his servos and circles you. You’ve forgotten all of his lessons, lunging and throwing a clumsy, predictable punch.

• His servos wrap around your wrist as he sidesteps and then yanks you back into him, his other arm curling around you, servos on your hip. “You’re not even trying,” he growls in your ear, lips brushing you. And he releases you, moving out of reach with a shocking agility. But he’s smiling faintly, enjoying this game. Deliberately feinting, he grabs you and then you’re flat on your back as he straddles you, dropping you so much more gently than he had when you’d actually been sparring. “Now you’re dead,” he says, a big hand splayed against your chest to pin you. And you catch his wrist when he tries to lift his hand, about to put some distance between you again.

• “You never took prisoners?” You ask and as he frowns you lift your arms above your head, wrists together like they’re bound. There’s mischief, heat, and an aching uncertainty in your eyes as you look up at him. Asking for something you can’t say you want any more than he can. Giving permission. Watches your little tongue wet your bottom lip as your face heats.

• Palm sliding up your side along your ribs, he vents raggedly. “I conquered my enemies.” Those red optics sliding possessively over you. “Is that what you want? To be conquered, little one?” That deep voice is little more than a growl as his hand slides up to cup your throat. And you make a soft noise. Wanting something urgent and frantic, not the gentle, flowered lover he plays at in his poems. Two sides of the same coin and you’re not sure which you need more. And he leans forward when you hesitate, lips brushing yours. Kissing you as he reaches to pin your wrists above your head. The warm slide of his mouth the only thing that matters.

• You arch under him, tempting him to take what you’re offering. To lose himself rutting against you. Rung had wanted you to bring out a better, gentler part of him. Not the hungry warlord, but maybe he can’t change. Not really. It’s an effort to pull his head away, seeing those need darkened eyes and knowing he could have this. Have you right now. Is he just an itch you want to scratch that you’ll regret later? An impulse. Remembering your hesitant words you leave him, the aching vulnerability in them, he knows that’s not it. “Don’t go,” you whisper, sensing his hesitation. Releasing your wrists, he shifts onto his side. Waiting as you reluctantly face him and he reaches out to cup your cheek. Trying to rein himself in as you shift against him, mouth brushing his. Little hands on him, straining his control. Tempting him as he slowly allows himself to explore.

Previous

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[i-wanna-write]

Never Again - Daryl Dixon x Reader

Prompt: Reader was at work when the outbreak happened, leaving them separated from their spouse. But, through luck and survival, they find eachother

Takes place during season 1

Warnings: some cuss words. Probably some inaccurate timelines cause I haven’t watched season 1 in ages. Awkward Glenn. Crying Daryl.

All the Flufffff

Word: 2170

————————————————————————

You stare at the flames in front of you, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders while you fiddle with your knife in your hands. The group you joined only hours ago talk quietly among themselves, wise to keep their voices low to not attract the dead. Rick, the small town sheriff you met a week ago, sits next to his wife with his son in his lap, whom he was finally reunited with, details of his time away from them.

Just a day ago you were fighting for your life in Atlanta, killing the already dead with the small town sheriff by your side. You’re grateful for your past and your knowledge of weaponry as that is a needed skill for survival now. The hunting knives and guns you found now act as an extension of your body, allowing you to protect yourself and stay alive.

You never thought a day would come when those who die would not stay dead. That you would have to stick a knife in your coworkers or patient's skulls to put them down. That you’d hear the crack of their skull as you punctured it to reach their brain so they’d stay down. That you’d be separated from your family, separated from your person.

Yet here you are.

“New girl,” a voice sounds from your right. You turn your gaze from the flames to meet Glenn’s eyes, they Asian kid you owe your life to. “Tell us a little about yourself. I feel like we only know your name.”

‘That’s cause that’s all I shared.’ You think to yourself.

His statement causes the whole group to look at you and you feel a little anxious at all their eyes. You were never one to be the center of attention. You always enjoyed talking one on one and were never a fan of groups. You’ve always been closed off and hesitant to open up to others, yet now everyone seems to want to know more about you.

“Um,” you begin. “Well, you all know my name is Y/N and I found Rick a week ago. Before than I was just on my own trying to survive I guess.”

You’re not really sure what to say, not knowing what information these people want. You just met them today. Sure, you trust Rick and Glenn, but feel so out of place compared to them. Glenn seems to know and get along with everyone and Rick has his family and best friend with him. You don’t have anyone.

“What’d you do before all this?” Shane asks. Ricks best friend, small town deputy, and appointed leader of this group.

You sigh, figuring that the sooner you answer their questions, the sooner the attention is off you.

“I was a Physician's Assistant in the ER at a hospital.” You reveal.

Shane whistles. “Damn, so you're a doctor then?”

Everyone seems to get excited at the idea of having a doctor in the group.

You shrug. “Not formally but I guess. I would treat those that came into the ER and had past rotations in the OR, assisting with surgeries. But I always liked the front line and helping people get to the surgery. Not during or after.”

Everyone seems to nod at that answer, seeing the sense

It’s quiet for a moment and you’re glad, hoping the conversation is over and a new one will be picked up.

“What about your family?” A blonde asks.

You look over at her and think it’s Andrea who asked it, or Amy. You’re not quite sure but know they're both blondes and sisters.

“I’m an only child and both my parents have been dead awhile.” You state, not getting into the details.

“What about a boyfriend? Fiance? Husband?” The other blonde asks. Now you think this one is Amy, the younger of the sisters. “I mean, you’re so pretty. Were you single before all this?”

You can feel everyone’s eyes on you even more, if that is possible. You begin to feel your heartbeat increase and your throat begins to feel as if it’s going to close. This is the question you didn’t want to be asked.

“Yeah, you mentioned you were looking for someone.” Rick chimes into the conversation.

Your hand automatically flies to your necklace, fiddling what’s around the chain. So many memories come back to you at once and you feel your eyes fill with tears.

“I-“ you clear your throat, trying to keep the tears at bay before taking a breath to calm yourself. “Yes. I mean no, I wasn’t single before all this. I’m married.” You reveal.

“What?” and “You’re married?” and “I’m so sorry.” are heard all at once.

You close your eyes to take another calming breath, opening them to only stare back at the flames.

“Yeah.” You whisper. “I’m married.”

You can't stand it. You know that if you look away from the fire you’ll see it - the pitying glances. Their looks of sympathy. Rick just reunited with his wife and son and you can’t help but feel jealous, wishing it was you and your husband who were cuddled around the fire instead.

“If you’ll excuse me.” You say, rising to your feet and walking away, needing to get away from the group.

You walk towards some tents, not quite knowing where to go but knowing where you currently don’t want to be. You feel so jealous of Rick and shame fills you because of this. Rick risked his life to help you and vice versa. He’s not only a husband but a father. He deserved to find his family again. He was a sheriff before all this and was shot for Christ sake. He deserves to have found them.

But you still wish you found him.

“Hey.” A voice says.

You turn and see Glenn.

“You probably don’t wanna talk, but I’m here if you wanna…” he trails off.

You smile gratefully, now know what to say.

“You can crash in my tent tonight - not with me of course! I’ll sleep in the RV. Cause, you know, you’re married. Well obviously you know your married but I just mean-“

You cut the rambling kid off, smiling again but this time in amusement.

“Thank you Glenn.” you say, raising your hand. “I appreciate it.”

The kid smiles back and guides you to his tent where you step in and lay down, sleep immediately taking you.

————————————————————————

You wake up to raised voices and immediately grab your knife from under your pillow. You open your eyes and see blue, the past day coming back to you. Atlanta. Wearing a dead man to blend in. The group in the woods. The conversation by the fire.

You sigh, bringing a hand to your face and wiping the sleep from your eyes. You don’t think you should stay with this group. While everyone is nice and open, you feel - you know - that your husband is still out there. You know you’d never forgive yourself if you didn’t find him. Whether walking alive or walking dead.

“Hey.” A voice sounds, causing you to quickly turn, knife raised. “Whoa, sorry! Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You’re face to face with Glenn, his head pooping into the opening of the tent, his eyes wide and arms raised. You lower the knife quickly and swallow, glad you didn’t almost kill the poor guy.

“We let you sleep through breakfast since we figured you’d be so tired.” He begins to explain. “I figured the fighting may have woke you up, guess I was right.”

“What’s going on out there?” You question, pulling the blanket off of you and beginning to rise, your back popping from the night of sleeping on the ground.

“I forgot you weren’t with us yet when we were on the roof.” Glenn begins to explain, motioning for you to follow.

You stand up and exit the tent with him. You’re both standing away from the main clearing where all the action is and you’re glad, never being a fan of drama.

“We were on a roof to escape the dead and handcuffed one of our group to it. He was a real ass. And racist.” Glenn starts. “His brother was out hunting and just got back so we had to tell him we left him behind.”

“You saying you left a racist asshole cuffed to a roof surround by the walking dead,” you question, eyebrows raised and hands on your hip

You have no idea how these people were still alive. Their survival levels are next to non existence.

Glenn’s face turns pink and he ducks his head. “He was high out of his mind!” He starts to defend. “You never met Merle but he -“

“Wait who?” You ask, your heart beginning to pound so loud you hear it in your ears.

Merle. Racist asshole. High. There’s no way that’s a coincidence.

“Merle.” Glenn says cautiously as he notices your reaction and starts to get nervous. You can’t possibly know this guy, right? No way this guy is the husband you’re looking for, right? That’d be bad. Not only would they have an angry Daryl to deal with but and angry you as well.

“And his brothers name is…” you trial off.

“Daryl.” Glenn says, motioning for you to follow him towards the fight.

Daryl. Daryl. Daryl.

Merle, racist asshole high out of his mind with a brother named Daryl who was hunting. Hunter. Your Daryl is a hunter with a brother named Merle who also happens to be a racist asshole that's always high.

This is just one large, almost comical, coincidence right? There’s no way this groups Daryl could be your -

“Daryl?” You whisper to yourself as you reach the clearing.

There, in the middle of the commotion, is your husband. Looking just as he did when you saw him weeks ago, only dirtier. Wearing a green tank top and jeans, his hair is still just as short, reaching just long enough to curl near his ears.

‘Hes here.” You think to yourself. ‘He’s alive.’

…And he’s being held in a chokehold.

“Chokehold’s illegal!” He yells and you can’t help the sob that escapes you at the sound of his voice.

“Best file a complaint.” Shane growls back at him.

You don't care what they’re fighting about as you start running towards them. Your legs move the fastest you ever think you’ve ran, so happy and oh so grateful he’s here. He’s alive.

“Daryl!” You yell as you run towards as Shane lets him go.

His head moves faster than you think humanly possible as his eyes lock on you.

“Y/N?” He questions, as if he’s hallucinating and this is just a nightmare. His brother left behind for dead and his wife finally here and safe.

But he soon realized it is real as your body collides with his.

“Daryl!” You sob, your arms immediately wrapping around his neck and jumping into him so your legs can wrap around his waist.

You burry your face in his neck as sobs now escape you freely. Weeks of not seeing him, not knowing if he was dead, walking dead, or alive have finally led to this moment. You finally have your husband back in your arms.

You take a deep breath in and breathe only Daryl. Gasoline mixed with vanilla and spice. You can feel his skin stick to yours due to the heat but you don’t care and just squeeze tighter. Arms wrap tightly around your waist and you feel every inch of Daryl’s body against your own, so happy he’s in your arms again.

The onlookers watch in confusion, happiness, and shock as Daryl Dixon - who was just screaming at everyone in anger - drops to his knees with a women in his arms. They watch as the usually grumpy man appears to cry tears of joy as he buries his head into the neck of the women in his arms.

“Y/N.” Daryl whispers as he squeezes tighter before pulling away to look at you.

Your eyes meet light blue, more gorgeous than the sky during a sunset and you see the tears running down his face, knowing you match his expression. His hands reach up to cup your cheeks before one of his thumbs moves down to stroke your lips.

“You’re here.” He breathes

“You’re here.” You repeat, a bright smile on your face.

“I looked for ya. I did. I wanted to stay at the house for ya but Merle-“

You cut him off. “It doesn’t matter. Cause you’re here. And I’m here. And we’re here. And I’m never letting you go. Never again.”

Daryl leans in, his lips crushing against yours in a kiss that makes your toes curl. You don’t care that everyone is watching. You finally found the person you were looking for. The person that's been there with you through good times and bad. Your person.

Daryl pulls away, his eyes staring into yours as he whispers with your lips so close you can feel his breath upon yours.

“Never again.”

•••

Please lmk how it was!!!

💜 Kenzie

[poisonsage808]

somethin’ stupid

john munch coming to terms with being stupidly, hopelessly, painfully in love

Some altruistic, smitten fools doped on endorphins wrote songs and poems and books about the great wonders of love. Every single one of them is not only a thick-skulled, injudicious nutjob, but a lying one at that. See they all failed to mention the little deaths, the fucking agonies that balance out the ecstasy of being in love.

Munch was already burdened with a ceaseless mind.

The only thing that spared himself, and the world, from his stream of consciousness was slumber. You sleep better next to the one you love, they said, yeah well, try not sleeping without them there. Fitfully, John stares at the ceiling, the wall, the phone and debates if he could call despite the unideal time. He didn’t realize sleep would completely evade him unless he was a tangled mess of limbs around you.

At first he compared you to a ghost haunting him. Or the plague. You’re with him even when you’re not, be it your voice or a vivid flash of your smile or your hands (somehow) mercilessly squeezing his heart. He misses you. He saw you twenty minutes ago, and he misses you? That’s unfair, downright inhumane.

Presently, you consume every waking thought. Now he had to go about his day seeing and hearing you everywhere. The color of the sky in the morning? He wonders if you’d like it, if you two could talk all night and see it together. That hotdog stand on 48th street? You don’t like that one, but there’s a good pretzel stand nearby.

Oh, and guess what’s worse than thinking these things? Saying them aloud to his partner who already disparages him.

He sees something that he thinks you’d like and his first instinct is to get it, which is weird for him. Contrary to popular belief he’s not cheap, it just so happens that the scale tips in favor of things not being worth spending money on. He didn’t even put all his money into a bar he actively wanted! Would he drop a tenner on a vinyl of your favorite band in a heartbeat, though? Yeah, he’d also listen to it with you— not silently, mind you, he’s still arguably sane— but it should say a lot more than the money thing.

Love languages are crap, pseudoscience for those in need to label themselves. Munch doesn’t think twice about your hand as it slips into his; doesn’t memorize every callous, every divot, crescent and scar he finds. Sure, he becomes involuntarily vigilant when your leg touches his, he’s a cop! Every reaction your touch gives him is explainable, he’s not going to seek it out because of bogus thaumaturgy. With that on the record, he does seek it out.

Ring, ring.

His eye twitches as he reaches for his phone, assuming it’s work.

“Munch.”

“Hi!” You laughed nervously, “I didn’t think you’d be awake— crap, unless I woke you up.”

He’s sitting up at the sound of your voice, like you were on your ninth cup of coffee, “You didn’t, you didn’t. I was just thinking.”

“Don’t you ever stop?”

“The sun doesn’t stop shining, why should I?” A smile cracks across his face when you huff out some amusement, “What’s goin’ on, sweetheart? You ok?”

He can hear the piano fall on you, the weight of calling a detective in the dead of night.

“Christ, I’m so— Yeah, no, I’m fine, I didn’t think— or, actually, I was thinking and that’s the problem.”

The unspoken travels through the wires of both your phones, an inkling of what was on the other’s mind.

“Why don’t I come over,” he suggests casually, betraying his racing heart, “we could think together.”

“I’d like that a lot.”

Relief and excitement tingles from where the phone’s pressed to John’s ear. He was already grabbing his keys, turning back for spare clothes.

He supposes, if he has to be perturbed and encumbered by proclivities of love, it’s nice to know his agony is shared by the person who causes it.

[scri--bble]

MOLD LORE DUMP TIMEE

So before Chara fell into the underground and caused the disease to happen and all Mold was one of the royal scientists (in undermold there was more than him and alphys,fight me), he was this nervous little guy that had somewhat of an attitude, When Chara did fall down and die in the Dreemurr's home, the mold disease spreading made Mold turn paranoid before eventually getting infected and being taken over by it

now he's this almost non-talkative but angry guy, hes sorta dead??? the mold disease keeps him alive like almost everyone else

after getting infected he kinda lost his mind and he turned violent, he still cares dearly about Papyrus even tho his mind is flooded with paranoia

he usually just sits at his booth and tries to rest,even tho the tendrils crawling around him make it uncomfortable all the time(same for the other characters who got tendrils :P), it's painful too cuz the tendrils grow out of his bones (arms and legs and his ribcage)

he likes laying in the snow for some reason and no he doesnt make snow angels (unless ;3)

notes:

the reason his pupils are gone is because the tendrils got to the inside of his head and are crawling outta his eyes (his left eye is entirely covered up,while the other one just a little,enough to let him see), so hes half blind

you cant get rid of the tendrils, theyre a part of him now, they can regen too (depending on how strong/powerful the monster is )

his attacks are slower now,since he feels alot more easily tired and uneasy

he also needs to puke every now and then because the disease cant contain his power which causes him to vomit tendrils (so you might see black liquid dripping from his mouth,idfk hoe), he doesnt puke often like idfk 2 maybe 3 times a week

Mold is... probably bi? still haven't entirely decided but he's definitely a man liker

he's in distress and paranoia most of the time, 1. because hes worried about Papyrus (who's doing actually alot more better than him💀) and 2. He hates having to vomit every week and is walking back and forth nerve-wracked that he can puke any second now without realizing early(he needs a bucket... or a toilet???? fuck)

he puts on this big boy act around others, when it comes to Frisk falling into the underground, Mold would probably be this quiet but tough guy who's a real alpha male...heh.

he has trouble reading obviously (the tendrils tend to move around in his skull,making him distracted easily or making his eyesight worsen or better every now and then ( IDK THE WORDS)

his character in a few words: cold hearted,paranoid, nervous, introverted, sarcastic, a whiny ass bitch when he's drunk (very real of him), easily disgusted (like by a comment or opinion or something)

OK IM MAKING THIS TOO LONG MOST OF YALL WONT WANNA READ.

the color palette i used in the first drawing is

cant find the blog i got it from

[bleghbleghladydeath]

BRIAN AND TIM

No particular AU. TW: Mentions of sex, drugs and murder. Cussing, murder, killing a cop, abuse.

Tim sighed as he drove down the road. It's been so long since 2014, since Alex died. Since Tim woke up to Brian over him, looking different. Brian is hanging out the window, shooting at a farmer who ran them out his barn with a shotgun. Brian cackled as he got the farmer in his skull.  "WOOOO!!" Brian cackled, punching Tim in the arm a little too hard. "Did you see the way his brains flew everywhere!?" Tim winced, swatting at Brian's pale hand. He doesn't like to look Brian, doesn't like to see those red eyes staring into him, he misses Brian's hazel eyes. He pressed hard on the gas while Brian lit up a cigarette, bringing it up to his bloody lips, wiping his constantly bleeding nose. "Okay! So, let's get McDonny's and then go get fucked up on weed in the back of the truck!" Brian said, stretching. "No, you do not have a choice!" Tim sighed. "Okay…" he grumbled. Brian smirked. "You have any other ideas?" Brian asked. Tim opened his mouth but closed it, sighing. Yeah, he does, a lot of ideas but he can't say a single one, but he's switching between running Brian over and fucking him in the back seat. "No.." Tim growled. Brian nodded. "Good boy." he snickered, clapping Tim on the back. 

Tim shrugged Brian off, sighing. He wishes he was twelve, running around Rosswood right now, being happy and free and with the trees. He snorted humorlessly at the thought, yeah, free, as free as one can be with The Operator breathing down their neck. He sighed as Brian offered him a cigarette. "You know I'm trying to quit.." Tim muttered. Brian grinned, messing with the cigarette softly, he ran his finger through his long, brown, matted hair. "Quit? Since when?" Brian asked. Tim growled, tightening his grip on the wheel. "Since last week…" Tim snapped. Brian laughed, throwing his head back, his bright red eyes filled with amusement. "Oh, Tim, you don't quit. You've been smoking since you were fourteen." Brian said, tracing Tim's jaw with the cig. Tim gritted his teeth, God it smells so fucking good. He swatted Brian's hand away. "Stop." He snapped. Brian shrugged, waving his lit cigarette under Tim's nose. Tim bit on his lip so hard he tasted copper, gripping the wheel tighter. He suddenly swerved the car to the right, causing Brian to yelp, sliding to the side. "Put your damn seatbelt on." Tim snarled. Brian barked out a laugh. "Aww! Timmy! You are sooo mean!" Brian said in mock hurt.  Tim struggled not to back hand Brian. God, he wishes Brian stayed dead on the floor of Benedict Hall. "Just…stop waving the damn cig under my nose." Tim snarled. Brian shrugged, blowing smoke in Tim's face. Tim fanned it away, staring at the road. "I hate you." Tim snapped. Brian grinned, dumb fucking grin. 'I should knock his teeth down his throat.' Tim thought. "Oh, baby, you love me~." Brian said, snickering. Tim is silent for a moment, gripping the wheel tighter. "…I do…" He muttered. Brian pressed a kiss to Tim's jaw, glaring at Tim. "Say it." he whispered. Tim sighed, staring at the road. "…I love you." He said under his breath. Brian snorted, patting Tim on the face. "Louder." he commanded. Tim inhaled deep through his nose, gritting his teeth. "I love you." he said, clearly. Brian nodded. "And no one else." Brian said, leaning back. "Now take a damn cig before you blow a blood vessel."

Tim took the cigarette, letting Brian light it for him. God damn, he wishes Brian stayed dead but the thrill he gets from him always make him take that thought back. Made him second guess everything he thinks. Maybe he's the crazy one, maybe Brian really does love him and wants to keep him safe. Tim always reminds himself though. He put his cigarette out on his wrist, chucking it out the window, speeding up a little, hands tensing around the wheel as red and blue lights started to flash behind him. Brian cackle, cocking his gun, sticking out his blood-stained tongue to lick the barrel of the gun suggestively, glancing at Tim. "If you keep driving nice and fast, we might have a little game with our McDonalds and weed." Brian purred before shooting a cop on a motorcycle. Tim's face flushed and he quickly looked away. "..Damn…." he muttered. "….Why was that hot…."  Brian cackled, hanging out the window, he growled as he got shot directly in the face. He got back in the car, checking the wound before rolling his eyes and hanging back out the car. Tim glanced over nervously. He really wishes Brian stayed dead. Brian glanced at Tim. "Peddle to the metal, Masky." Brian growled. Tim's vision blurred; there it goes. He sighs, letting Masky take control.

When Tim comes back to his body, he is naked, in a random fucking warehouse, under a blanket and Brian is smoking weed, his face healed, not even a scar where he got shot, scrolling on a stolen phone next to him. Tim stares, taking in Brian's lean form, the light sign of scoliosis in Brian's back, the pale, dead look of his skin, the veins visible in his neck…the sweat trailing down his shoulder… "Mornin' sunshine." Brian says snickering. Tim stares before lying back down, staring at the warehouse ceiling. "…Where are we?" Tim rasped, suddenly realizing his throat felt raw, Jesus Christ, how hard did Brian throat fuck poor Masky!? Brian stretches, his blanket falling a bit to show his stomach. "Uuuh…I think somewhere in North Carolina." Brian says shrugging. Tim nodded, curling up into a ball under the worn blanket. "Kay.." Tim grunted. Brian grinned. "So, Tim, you ready for that round two I was saving for Masky?" Brian asked. Tim glared at the floor. "Not really." he grumbled.

[milk-crater]

Hangman / Adam Cole

Justice card

Free association lead to this being a western. Please mind the tags/avoid if you don't like talk about hanging.

When “Hangman” Adam Page caught up to his ol’bunkmate, the bank robber Adam Cole, the fugitive turned his blue eyes upon the lawman and smiled.

“I’m glad it’s you who caught me, Page. You’re the only one who can grant my last request. I want to lay with a handsome man one more time before I die.” Cole batted his eyes like a bordello girl. Page rolled his eyes in response, kept his gun trained on the other man.

“That line ever work?” They were at Cole’s lean-too hideout by a brook. Page had tracked him there after spotting suds downstream: they smelled of coconut oil, one of Cole’s many fancy affections.   

“Used to work on you,” Cole said, his smile turning wistful. “Come on. One last roll in the hay. Your kiss is sweeter than the noose. though it feels a bit the same when you have whiskers, like you do now. When I’m hanging from that scratchy rope I’ll close my eyes and pretend it’s you kissing me.”

Page felt a twinge in his heart. Cole was a scoundrel, but that didn’t mean he wanted to see him dead.

Cole held up his hands, wrists together. “You can cuff me if makes you feel more at ease while we’re fucking.”

Page sighed, tried not to roll his eyes again. “That would actually make me feel worse about it all, actually.”

Cole shrugged, dropped his hands. He shot a sly look at the star-shaped badge on Page’s chest.

“I can’t believe Kenny finally let you be sheriff.”

“Kenny didn’t let me be anything,” Page growled, all of his sympathy and yearning for the other Adam dissipating with one little poke. God, he’d forgotten how good Cole was at getting a rise out of him.

Cole grinned. “Sure, sure.”

“You have to answer for your crimes, Cole,” Page said, putting the power of the law into his voice. It didn’t seem to intimidate Cole. The man just frowned, blue eyes turning glacial.

“And when are Kenny and the Bucks going to pay for their crimes? When are they going to pay for what they did to me?”

“What are you talking about? When they ran you out of town for embezzling from the widows and orphan fund? You deserved that—”

“No, not that,” Cole spat out. “What they did after that. What they did to me.”

There was an earnestness to Cole’s anger that made Page pause.

“What did they do?”

Adam looked away. “You don’t want to know.”

You don’t want to know. A sentence that managed to imply it had been something mighty awful, and also a phrase that managed to implicit Page’s complicity in whatever it was, his willful blindness to whatever awful business his best friends had conducted behind his back.

Page bristled at the unspoken accusation. Just ’cause his pals were ‘elite’, that didn’t mean they were above the law. Hangman could still set things right.

“Look, Adam, I can’t rightly help you if you don’t tell me—”

Cole turned his face back towards Hangman. As they made eye contact a mighty strange thing happened: Cole’s eyes changed. They went from true blue to green, the bright green of absinthe—no, of poison. A monstrous green. Then the green leeched away and his eyes were grey, the grey of coins on a corpse’s eyes. Then there were the chalky white of bone, of a dead man’s skull.

Then they were blue again, bright blue and alive, irises reflecting the flickering campfire light.

Page stumbled back. He felt an awful sickness in the pit of his stomach, like he was a couple breaths from expunging his dinner.

One side of Cole’s mouth quirked up.

“If you really want to know, ask the Bucks,” Cole said. “They might not tell you while I’m alive, but I bet they will when I’m dead. Again.”

Page swallowed down the acid bile that had been building up in his mouth. He didn’t know what the fuck was going on, or what had happened, but he knew two things:

1. His pals were capable of some awful things.

2. He didn’t want to know what exactly.

“Pack up your camp and haul ass,” Page said gruffly. “I’m taking the money you stole back to town. Be happy I’m letting you leave with your life.”

Cole sighed at got to his feet, patting the dirt off his pants as he stood.

“You sure you don’t want to fuck, for old times sake?”

“No,” Hangman said. He shuddered, imaging what it would be like if he looked into Cole’s eye mid coitus and saw those corpse eyes looking back at him.

Cole smiled sadly, as if he could read Hanger’s mind.

“Well, maybe next time, sheriff.” He tipped his hat, grabbed his pack, and melted into the darkness.  

[somber-sapphic]

I'm Always Coming Back

Haha, I'm here! I'm reposting everything that I can! If you had an ask that wasn't answered, I lost it and I'm so sorry for that. (wanda x reader)

Wanda is back after a rough mission and you need to hide just how sick you are.

---

You grumbled softly and ran a hand over your face, trying to force the stars from your vision. Logically, you knew that you had made a bad decision keeping yourself awake for so long. But the date with Wanda had been fantastic. 

She had been gone for so long, her mission had taken two extra days and Fury had been up her ass interrogating her for hours about why it had run so long. Several different governments had also been trying to talk/murder her and then she’d had to go into hiding. She’d spent another week in hiding. It was hell. 

“Y/n? You okay?” Wanda asked, settling back into her fighting stance. You forced a smile and nodded, trying to plan how exactly you were going to fight her without passing out. It wasn’t that you were unskilled in hand to hand combat, in fact it was one of your greatest strengths. The issue was the overwhelming dizziness caused by the congestion fucking with your inner ear.

“I’m fine. Let’s do this.” She came at you. You dodged the first punch, but the second hit you square in the gut. You grunted and tried to sweep her leg, but she had already leapt away, clearly using her powers as an assist. Part of you wished that you had powers of your own. Then you could shove all of this down more easily and kick her ass. 

“Hun, you’re looking a little unsteady. Do you want to stop?” Yes, yes you wanted to stop. Your limbs were getting heavy and the effort of drawing air into your already beat up lungs was exhausting. Black spots had begun to dance in your vision and you could vaguely see the woman running towards you. 

“Y/n!” You tried to hit her, figuring that the two of you were still sparing. You suddenly felt like you were floating, the world sort of fuzzing out around you. The sky was bluer, making everything else seem dark in contrast. You felt yourself taking a few steps backward, but you had no control. The last thing you saw before collapsing was a terrified looking Wanda trying desperately to get to you. 

–

“You are so fucking stupid. You are an idiot. I hate you, I hate you so much. A forcefield? You put up a fucking forcefield? What did you think that I was going to crack your skull? Oh wait, you already did that!” You groaned and turned your head to the side, trying to escape the nagging voice in your head. 

“Y/n? You had better be awake. I can’t kill you if you die.” The voice said, sounding a little more clear and less in your head. A cool hand landed on your cheek and someone was pushing hair from your eyes. 

As your awareness increased, so did the pain. It felt like someone was smashing your skull with a hammer. Why were they doing that? Seemed unfair. Plus, you were too cold. Or too hot. Or maybe both? And your nose was running. You tried to lift a hand to rub your drippy appendage, but the other person beat you there. 

“Wa’na?” You mumbled, fighting to lift heavy eyelids. It felt as if someone had taped rocks to your eyes. The blurry figure smiled down at you and you swore you saw the woman pushing a tear off of her cheek. 

“D’nt cry.” You frowned, picking up one heavy arm in an attempt to touch her face. Instead, you sort of smacked her. Wanda let out a teary laugh and held your hand to the side of her face, helping you out a little. 

“Don’t scare me like that and I won’t cry.” She replied, bending down to kiss your overly warm forehead. Your lips turned up in a small smile and you nuzzled into the touch, missing the comfort that she brought. 

Tears welled up in your eyes as you realized just how much you had missed her. She was your everything and for so long you had thought she was dead. They couldn’t update you as to her condition, they just told you to sit tight. Wait. Go about your day and hope the love of your life returns to you. 

“I don’t feel good.” You whimpered, your body heaving with quiet sobs. The tears made your head hurt worse, you just wanted to be held. Wanda being the wonderful woman that she was, shifted onto your bed and pulled you into her arms. She cradled your injured head against your chest, and stroked your hair, kissing your hair as you cried. 

“I know detka, I know. It's okay sweetheart. It's all okay. We’re going to watch movies and cuddle and I’ll get you whatever you want. We can do whatever you want until you feel better. I’ve got you, I love you, I shouldn’t have been gone so long. It's all going to be alright.” You weren’t sure if she was reading your thoughts, but you wouldn't be surprised if she was. You knew that you were projecting loudly and she could only do so much to block you out. 

“I missed you…I-I was scared you weren’t, weren’t coming back.” You said into her shirt, breathing in the comfort that she brought. Wanda ran her nails along your scalp, adding another layer of relaxation. A little moan escaped your lips and she chuckled, glad that she was calming you down. 

“I’m always coming back to you. I’ll always come home. I love you, you are my everything. Close your eyes, beautiful. I’ll wake you in a few hours to make sure you didn’t scramble your brains.” Now it was your turn to laugh. You smiled into her stomach and listened as she began to hum an old Sokovian song. Your head hurt and you felt miserable, but everything was better when you were in the arms of your witch. 

[specialagentlokitty]

Daryl x reader - take on the world together

Part 9:

You bared your teeth, pulling Daryl fully against your chest, and he kept his bow raised, his other hand reaching into your belt for your knife.

“Come on, you can’t be greedy now, it’s not the time for that.”

“He isn’t food.” You said lowly.

The other vampire scoffed, standing in front of the door.

“Come on, food is running low, we can’t be picky here. I mean he smells a bit ripe but that’s fine.”

“He isn’t food, get that through your thick skull asshole.”

“Then why’re you keeping him so close? We don’t give a crap about humans, not our job.”

You scoffed, shaking your head.

“The world’s gone to shit moron, you can’t just go around killing people.”

“They’re gonna die anyway.”

“They can survive.”

“No they can’t, best kill them now.”

Daryl scoffed, resting his back against you.

“Try it asshole, see just how much I can kick your ass.”

The other vampire tried to move closer and Daryl shot his leg causing him to fall to the ground.

He growled, the sound echoing off the walls and Daryl scoffed.

“That ain’t scaring shit.”

The vampire ripped the arrow from his leg and smirked.

“Who says I’m trying to scared something? The dead are drawn to the sound…” he whispered.

You heard walkers snarling.

“Oh you bastard!”

You shuffled back with Daryl, and he gripped your arm, looking at you and you nodded your head.

He cut your arm.

You turned your attention away from him, pulling your jacket jacket off to cover him a little better.

“Ain’t gonna stop a whole horde of them.” The vampire whispered.

“We need to go…” Daryl whispered.

“We can’t, either the walkers will get you or he will, I can’t stop both…”

He rested his back on your shoulder, looking at the walkers in the doorway.

“I move, they came flooding in. You let me have the man, I’ll let them go on their merry way.”

You couldn’t risk moving, if you moved from Daryl there would be no doubt that the walkers would smell him instantly.

“How about some more?”

The other vampire growled again, attracting more walkers with the noise.

You realised what he was doing, he was copying the sound that a big cat would make in the wild, an animal call.

Smirked, and shuffled a little bit.

“Oh yeah? Guess what? That isn’t scaring shit…” you whispered.

You placed your hands over Daryl’s ears, and he looked up at you to see your red eyes, fangs bared.

You took a deep breath, and you growled back, deeper, a lot deeper and slower, the echo of the growl was enough to shake the windows.

Daryl felt the vibration of your chest on his back as you growled.

Where as the other ones growl was animal like, yours was much more demonic, powerful in every sense of the work.

He hadn’t been scared of anything, not his past, not death, not walkers, but that sound alone was enough to make his heart drop for a moment.

The other vampire dropped to his knees, covering his ears.

The growl lasted near enough a minute until finally you stopped.

“Okay! Okay! I’ll go, you won’t see me again…”

He scrambled away, and you stayed there, moving your hands from Daryl’s ears.

“Holy shit…” he whispered.

Pushing him up, you rushed to the door, looking outside to see the walkers leaving, not wanting to handle whatever it was that caused the noise they heard.

You stayed there for a moment and then you turned around.

“They’re gone, all of them.”

He nodded, pushing himself up and he wiped your knife on his jacket before putting it in his belt, picking up his crossbow and you picked up the two arrows.

Walking over you handed them back over to him and picked up your jacket to put it back on.

“The fuck was that about? Holy shit (Y/N).”

“It’s how we settle disputes, the one with the loudest growl always wins. The louder the growl the more painful it is to the others ears, which is why I covered yours. If it destroys our ears, imagine what it could do to yours.”

“Yeah, I like my hearing the way it is.”

You laughed a little, taking the box of supplies back to the door.

You picked up a couple of boxes and walked over to the car to put them in, and he followed you.

“Why’d his attract walkers but yours didn’t?”

“His was more animal like, mine isn’t. They may have no brain function but they’re attracted to sound, they hear an animal they go towards it, they hear a sound that loud and they automatically leave, it radiates death.”

He nodded his head, handing you the car keys for you to drive back.

Getting in the drivers side, you waited for him to give you the all clear before driving away.

You were driving for maybe a couple of minutes.

“Thanks.”

You glanced at him before turning back to the road.

“For what?”

“Driving that crazy fucker away, and letting me bleed you to cover my scent.”

“Don’t make it a habit, I like my blood being inside my body, not outside.”

He chuckled, nodding his head.

“Yeah, can’t really argue with that one.”

You smiled a little, keeping your eyes fixed on the road.

“Can you do it at any time?”

“Yeah, but I can’t do it at the prison, can’t risk anybody else finding out.”

“Why? If they see you’re just trynna help I can see them having an issue with it.”

“People are born to be scared of what they don’t understand Daryl, and I’m different. With the walkers out there I don’t think anybody is gonna be too pleased knowing that another undead is living with them.”

He glanced at you.

“You ever gonna tell ‘em?”

“When the time is right maybe, but right now this ain’t the time.”

He turned back to looking out his window.

“The boy seen that?”

“Yeah, once. Scared him a little, but he knew it wasn’t to hurt him.”

Daryl nodded again.

“Stop the car.”

You didn’t as he said though you were a little confused about why he wanted you to stop the car.

You looked at him and he smirked a little.

“Do it again.”

“Eh?”

“Come on, just show me again.”

“Fine, get out the car, we can’t be near it.”

He followed you away from the car and down the road a little bit so you could still keep an eye on it.

You took a deep breath, and you looked at him.

He covered his ears and you did the same growl as before, birds flying from the trees in fear.

Again, it was loud, demonic sounding, and it sparked that same feeling he felt back in the store, that voice in the back of his mind telling him to run.

You turned your head to look at him.

“Happy now?”

He lowered his hands, grinning a little.

“Yeah.”

You both got back to the car, and you tossed him the keys.

“Just for that you can drive back.”

“Oh hell no, I drove here.”

“You just made me growl like I was a damn show dog.”

“Hey, I asked, you complied, that ain’t my problem.”

He tossed the keys back only for you to toss them back at him before jumping into the passenger side of the car.

He walked over, opened the door he grabbed your arm and pulled you out, getting into the passenger side.

“Yeah bitch, I win.”

“I could throw you out right now.”

“Do it.”

You huffed, slamming the door closed and went back to driving back to the prison while he bragged about his victory.

You spent a few hours driving, and slowly it started to become dark.

“Think we’ll need to stop?” You asked.

Daryl looked up from his crossbow and looked out the windows.

“How far out?”

“Still about two hours or so, this path is going to be flooded with walkers soon.”

He nodded his head.

“Yeah, yeah pull over.”

You did as he asked, bringing the car behind some trees to hide it from anybody that may want to to raid the supplies.

“Is there anything nearby here?”

“It’s empty roads, and we don’t have enough daylight to go looking around, I can’t exactly leave you in the car.”

“I can manage myself.”

You rolled your eyes.

“I know that dumbass, I mean with the amount of walkers that idiot may have brought over, who knows how many there are and where they are.”

“Yeah, true.”

You took your jacket, handing it to him and he climbed into the back seat, using it to cover the window behind his head.

You reclined your seat, kicking your feet up on the dash as you watched the sun setting through the trees.

“Why don’t you turn into a massive walking matchstick?”

“Daryl what the fuck?”

He sat up a little.

“Well, you aren’t supposed to walk around during the day, the whole being of darkness hates sunlight crap.”

“You’re so weird.”

“Come on, is it true or not?”

You rolled your eyes, turning to lay on your side so you could look at him.

“Yes, it’s true. Sunlight burns us, if we’re in it too long set us on fire.”

“You ain’t on fire.”

You raised your right hand, showing him the ring on your index finger.

“Passed on through generations of vampires, one dies the ring goes to a new one. This one belonged to the woman that turned me. She was being chased by hunters, left me this.”

“Sorry.”

You shrugged slightly.

“That’s life.”

“You mean death?”

You stuck your middle finger up at him and rolled back over to stare out the window.

Daryl shuffled down, resting his head on the seat, putting his arm over his eyes.

You closed yours as well, but without much need for sleep you just laid there, any walked going past just ignoring you.

You were listening to the world around, for people, walkers, animals, everything.

So, after a while of just laying there you knew when something was wrong, everything went quiet immediately.

Getting up you tapped Daryl’s thigh, making him grumble a little.

“Somethings wrong…”

“Why?”

“It’s quiet.”

He opened his eyes, looking over at you, slowly reaching for the knife in his belt and you shook your head, handing him your other one.

“Keep it there in case…”

He slowly nodded, and you quietly opened the car door.

Standing up, you closed the door quietly, jumped on the roof of the car, crouched down as you looked around.

There wasn’t anything, not a single Walker, or animal.

You leant over the car, knocking on the drivers side window and he opened the window a little.

“I don’t see anything, slowly drive, I’ll bang twice if I see anything…”

“Yeah…”

You crouched down, keeping a hand between the gap in the in the window and the roof of the car, and Daryl slowly took the car back on the road, trying to be as quiet as possible as he drove down it.

You looked around, listened, but there was nothing.

It was strange, there was no way they all just wondered away, you should’ve heard at least one or two walkers somewhere.

“Anything?” He quietly called.

“No, keep going.”

You got closer to the prison, and you heard all the noise.

You heard the walkers at the fence, people shouting, and you heard Spencer yell your name loudly.

“The prison!”

Daryl immediately sped job not wasting any time, going as fast as as he could to get back to the prison

[tommarvoloriddlesdiary]

based on this

-

He’s halfway through the portrait to the common room when someone calls his name.

“Weasley.”

Ron pauses. It’s not that he’s not used to being stopped (though typically it was proceeded by a sharp Mister); it’s that he’s not used to being stopped by this bloke. It takes him a full minute to look around. After all, Ginny might be nearby.

But there’s no one. She’s not here. Ron is. The reality of what’s happening is even more mind-boggling when he turns around, brows furrowed and says, “Yeah, Riddle?”

Tom Riddle is what Ron can only call an Apex Slytherin—top of the food chain, probably drinks the blood of innocents out of solid gold goblets, professor’s favourite, sneaky and conniving and outrageously good-looking.

It pains him to admit that last part, but game recognises game.

And there he is, slightly up the hall. Standing back straight, tie straight, head-boy pin straight, announcing Ron’s name. What in Merlin’s name is going on?

“Have you seen Potter?” The way Riddle asks questions is like how his mum asks questions. It’s with that eerie knowing, like they already have a script of what you’re going to say and expect you to say it exactly as written or face the consequences of lying.

But he’s pretty sure Riddle won’t punish him with no quidditch or send him to his room for the evening, so Ron shrugs. “I dunno. Harry’s probably in the dorms.”

Riddle sighs, “Yes,” and sounds ever put-upon. It only confirms Ron’s working theory of an invisible script. “I would like to speak with him,” he continues.

They stare blankly at each other.

...Is he meant to say something? If Riddle wants to speak to Harry, he can speak to him. What’s this have to do with Ron?

It goes on until he nods slowly, hoping that’ll make Riddle spell things out a little clearer. Eventually, Riddle closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and says, “Fetch him for me.”

It’s definitely not a question. Ron can hear absolutely zero question in Riddle’s tone of voice.

Now, he may not like the guy, but he’s not stupid enough to risk pissing him off. “Uh, sure? Give me a minute.”

When Riddle nods, Ron finally crosses the frame. Then he does something he’s never had to do in all seven years of his Hogwarts life; he watches and waits for the portrait to shut entirely. Just in case.

The common room is always crowded after dinner, and today is no different. It takes him longer than ever to make his way through the room, dodging questions and pranks and careless remarks—and those are just from Ginny. Though, he thinks it probably hasn’t been that long at all.

…But there’s a concerning weight pressing against the back of his skull, burning a hole into his brain. He swears it’s Riddle’s anger rising as the minutes pass. Or maybe he’s just been cursed. He did turn his back on Riddle for a second, after all. That’s plenty of time to horrifically maim Ron with an undetectable curse that slowly rends him into a vegetable…

Finding Harry is a relief he hasn’t felt since making the quidditch team.

However, it seems Harry’s in a bit of a mood. He’s lying face down on his bed, glasses still on, robes a mess. Ron’s not sure what’s happened to cause this, but he’s got a sneaking suspicion it has something to do with tall, dark, and edge-lordy out in the hallway.

Well. Ron’s made it this far. So even though Harry can’t see him, he thumbs over his shoulder roughly to where Riddle is waiting and says, “Hey, Harry. Someone was asking for you or something-”

“Tell them I’m dead,” immediately comes muffled out of the Harry-shaped lump before he could finish.

And Ron… Nah, he’s not gonna argue. “Uh...” It takes him all of three seconds to lock in on a plan. “Alright?”

He’s out of the dorm and into the common room in a flash. It takes a few minutes to convince Ginny, but when she hears it’s for Harry’s sake, she’s happy to drop everything. And ultimately, Ron returns to Tom Riddle a new man.

Riddle quickly looks him up and down, most likely cataloguing the obvious lack of Harry along with everything else. The first crack in his polished veneer is the small line between his brows.

“Weasley...” he starts and stops. Stares a few moments longer as if debating whether the answer to his next question is important enough to hear and gives in, “What happened to you?”

Internally Ron thanks the Slytherin learned temptation to have all the information possible. Externally Ron heaves and sniffles. A few more tears slip down his face, and his voice cracks for good measure as he says, “Harry’s died.”

The second crack is a slight frown that tugs at Riddle’s lips. “I just spoke to Potter before dinner. He was perfectly fine.”

"Yeah, well," Ron prepared for this, “it’s happened all of a sudden.” He wheezes, “He fell off his broom during a pickup round of quidditch. It was so fast. He plummeted before anyone could get their wands out to stop him-" he shudders and holds his hand to his mouth.

So overwhelmed he must look (thanks, Ginny) during this fake dramatised retelling of Harry’s untimely death because Riddle’s face turns white as a sheet. It’s the most emotion Ron’s ever seen on him.

For a moment, just a small moment, Ron wonders if this is a bad idea.

And then Riddle is turning about face and marching down the hall, going who knows where to do who knows what. It’s plenty of time for Ron to shrug off the worry and wipe away the fake tears.

Too late now.

[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 10

Illustration (and the art in the chapter!) by @raphaels-little-beast

Title: Hell to Pay Summary: Assassinating an archdevil is a daunting task, even for the heroes of Baldur’s Gate. Some inside help from ‘the devil they know’ would be good, if not for the detail their last meeting ended with said devil dead in his own home. Or did it? Characters: Raphael, the Dark Urge, Astarion, Haarlep, Halsin, Karlach, Wyll. Rating: M Status: In progress

All chapters will be tagged as ‘hell to pay’ on my blog. Also on Ao3.

*** Raphael is not very happy about the new and improved House of Hope. Karlach is not terribly excited about Raphael's continued existence either. Durge is still projecting like a cinema. This is fine. ***

“What the fuck do you mean, Raphael is here??”

“In the foyer--”

“If he so much looks at Hope, I’ll--”

“They’re keeping him there, don’t worry! Halsin got him entangled in vines the second he began yelling about the decor--”

“Why is the fucker alive and why is he with you? What’s going on? Oh gods, you didn’t pledge your soul to a devil again, did you?” Karlach groaned and grasped Wyll by the shoulders, so frantic she didn’t even seem to realize she’d pulled him off his feet to look him in the eye. “Tell me you didn’t give him your soul!”

“No, no! I couldn’t even if I wanted to, Mizora still holds it--”

“Good! Shit, no, still not good, but-- why is he here?”

“We sort of…” Wyll bit his tongue before he could say ‘made a deal’. It wasn’t too far off, but it was bound to make Karlach frantic. “We sort of came to an understanding--”

“An understanding!”

“I realize it sounds bad, but--”

“It sounds bad because it is bad! All the understanding you got to have about devils is that they’re bad news!”

“I am aware. More than most, really. But--”

“But it’s not all of him there, is it?” Hope spoke suddenly, causing Wyll to trail off and Karlach to look over, still holding Wyll a good couple of inches above the floor. Hope had seemed startled when Wyll had mentioned Raphael’s presence but not, he realized now, scared at all. “There is no devil in the House now. I’d feel it.”

Karlach blinked. “... All right, I’ll bite. What does that mean? Is he here, or is he not?”

Hope looked up, and joined her hands. “He is,” she said, and separated her hands, holding them apart. “And he is not. Not all of him. There is no devil here.”

“... Right,” Karlach said, in the tone of someone who had no clue what in the literal Hells was going on. She turned back to give Wyll a long, very clear look. 

Please tell me you know what’s going on.

“Raphael has ran afoul of Mephistopheles--”

“Yeah, Durge saw it in the ball, I remember. I thought daddy dearest had eaten him?”

“Well, he-- tried. But to make a long story short, his soul was split in two halves. One remained in Cania, and the other found its way to the Material Plane. As things stand now, he’s human. Well, the half of him we’ve got is, at least.”

“... So if I split his skull, he’ll stay down?”

“It would be best if you didn’t split his skull, though."

"Not hearing a no."

"No, Karlach. He knows where we can find something that can kill Zariel.”

“He claims he knows where we can find something--”

“If he’s lying, I’ll make sure to look the other way,” Wyll cut her off, and smiled. “In case your axe slips.”

Karlach seemed to consider it for a moment, then she smiled. No, she grinned. “That sounds good, really. Oh I can’t wait for the moment my axe slips. What does he even want in exchange? He’s got to want something if he’s to help us kill Zariel.”

“... The other half of his soul.”

This time, Karlach laughed - long and loud, putting Wyll down so that she could wrap her hands around her stomach and then laugh some more. “HAH! Good one! Fucker must be desperate if he thinks we’re gonna face off Mephistopheles to get half of his rotten soul back.” One last laugh, and she wiped a tear of mirth from her eye. “Ah, I can’t wait to see his face when he tries to hold us to it and we tell him to fuck off.”

The others may be of a different mind about that - specifically, Durge may be of a different mind - but there was no reason to bring it up now. They’d cross that bridge when they got to it, Wyll decided. “First thing, we need to focus on taking Zariel down.”

“Ah, yes. I’ll enjoy that too.” Karlach grinned, reaching back to stroke the handle of her greataxe. “I’ve been so bored here, you have no idea. No offense, Hope! It’s really nice here now that you run the place. And I’m grateful you let me stay. It’s just-- well-- uneventful,” she added. Hope made a vague gesture with her hand. 

“None taken. I like uneventful, as it turns out. I hope things stay uneventful here for a very very very veeeery long time. But I have a favor to ask you. Two, really.”

“Anything!”

“Please don’t split Raphael’s skull with an axe.”

Karlach blinked, the smile fading like she’d been told that her birthday was canceled. “But--”

“I still don’t know where my sister’s soul is and, technically, he owns it. So the information I need to get her back is in that skull and I don’t think it will drop out as a helpful little note if you split it. I mean, it would be really nice if it did, but I don’t think it would happen. It would be really really great if you could leave it in one piece at least until you can get some answers about Korrilla’s soul. And where it may be. And how to get it back. You know?”

“I…” Karlach worked her jaw a moment, and finally sighed. “Fine, no splitting his skull until I get him to fess up about that. Only because it’s you asking, Hope.”

A bright smile. “Thank you! Oh, and the other favor-- you know that box? The sad one?”

Wyll had no idea what box she was talking about, but Karlach clearly did. She nodded. “Yes, the one you wouldn’t touch? With the lyre and the pendant and all that?”

“Yes, that. Would you give it to Raphael?”

“Why? I get it that you’re nice, Hope, but everything here is yours now.”

“Not that. It’s his sadness. I don’t want to bear it for him, so he should have it back.” A shrug. “Maybe he can make something of it. Maybe it will just make him sad. He kind of deserves that anyway.”

“... I have no idea what all the rest means, but you’ll hear no objections from me on that point,” Karlach said. “Wait just a second, Wyll. I’ll pick the box up, say bye to the souls while I’m at it, and be right back.”

“Sure.” Wyll fell quiet a moment, watching her leave - what a relief to find her safe and well, even if bored half out of her mind! - then turned to Hope. “Thank you again, for keeping her safe. And-- sorry we took Raphael under this roof again. We know you’ve had enough of him for the next several lifetimes.”

A shrug, a wave of her hand. “I’ve had enough of him for the rest of eternity and a bit beyond that, but if I don’t have to see him, it’s fine.” A pause, then, “I’m sorry I can’t come to help, though. I thought I should, but the souls here kinda need me, and with Raphael involved--”

“You have done more than enough, Hope. We’d ask nothing more of you.”

“Will you tell the others I said hi? And that I’m sorry I’m not coming over to say hi myself. You know. Half of Raphael is still too much Raphael for me.” A pause. “Will you do it? Get that other half of him back?”

Ah. Wyll cleared his throat. “Well… I suppose it would be best if we didn’t, don’t you?”

“Ah, yes. Possibly. Maybe. Likely, really. He’d be dangerous again.” A pause, a frown. “... But if it helps get my sister back, you know, I wouldn’t oppose it. I trust your judgment. I just want her back.”

She rejected you at every turn, Wyll almost said, but what right did he have to say as much? He'd sold his soul twice over for the father who cast him out, and would do it a third time if he had to. In the end, he just nodded. “I understand,” he said. He did, he really did. 

He never had a sister, but if he ever did, he knew he’d stop at nothing to have her back, too. *** “... You know, I could use that organ now. To compose music. As it would be my task as the High Cantor and all that.”

“Five more minutes and I’ll give it back.”

“Ah-ha. Say it in Infernal, little duke. It’s about time you practiced that, too.”

“Ugh.” Raphael wrinkled his nose, pulling his hands away from the keys, and spoke again, more slowly. The words did not come as naturally, didn’t slide off his tongue quite as easily, but they did come. And in time, Antilia had told him, they would come effortlessly. “I’d like to practice a little longer, if you please, Lady Antilia.”

That brief, oddly musical laugh again. “Since you asked so politely, I shall allow it while Ionger while I look over my other compositions. Ten minutes, not one more.”

“Thank you, Lady Antilia.”

“Less talking and more playing. If you’re to bar me from using my own organ, you may as well make it worth it,” she said. In the end, however, she let him practice for more than ten minutes. Lady Antilia always allowed for more time, as long as he answered her questions correctly and in Infernal, even if a lot of them were not worded like questions. “Phlegethos,” was all she said now, not lifting her eyes from the music sheets.

“The fourth layer of the Nine Hells of Baator,” Raphael replied, without missing a beat. His fingers did not lose track of the music, either, and he kept playing even as he spoke. “Ruled jointly by Lord Belial and Lady Fierna.”

“Belial’s task?”

“Lord Belial supervises the Diabolical Court on behalf of Asmodeus. Any and all devils can be promoted and demoted there, or sent to the Pit of Flames for more serious crimes.”

“And what makes the Pit of Flames so terrible? Are we not immune to fire?”

That was such an easy question, Raphael may have almost found it insulting if not for the fact it gave him more time at the organ. He grinned, fingers still flying over the keys. The music was somewhat muted now, through some mechanism or maybe magic, to allow them to hear each other over it. “To fire, yes. But that in the Pit is Hellfire, created by Lord Mephistopheles, unbearable even for the mightiest baatezu.”

A chuckle. “Correct. And who--”

“I used it, once.”

“... What?”

Raphael turned, still grinning. He didn’t have many impressive things to talk about, compared to the intricate histories of the Hells Lady Antilia could tell him all about, so it was nice to have at least something to share now. “Hellfire. This one time we were attacked by perytons while traveling through the Starspire Mountains, and--”

“You used Hellfire? Back in the Material Plane?” Lady Antilia’s voice was suddenly sharp, her expression tense. It made the smile fade from Raphael’s face, and he got a wrong note that rang out like a graceless clang before he pulled his hands away from the organ keys. He found himself stammering, a sudden knot somewhere in his stomach. Was something wrong? Had he done something wrong? Raphael stumbled over his reply, wishing he could take that statement back. “I mean-- I think? It burned white-hot, the peryton pretty much melted and died in moments. And one of the guides said it looked like hellfire to hi--”

Lady Antilia stood, and walked up to Raphael’s seat. She crouched, grasping his shoulders  hard, and looked at him in the eye. Something about the intensity of her gaze made Raphael want to shift back, but her grip was too firm. “Who trained you to use it?”

“No one. I’d never even seen--”

“You were attacked, and you summoned hellfire entirely out of instinct?”

“I-- I think it was hellfire, but only once. I couldn’t do it again. I only summoned normal fire when I tried. Am I--”

Am I in trouble, he wanted to ask, but never got to. The heavy door leading to the music room opened, and a voice rang out. It was a woman’s voice, almost as musical as Antilia, but lower, all soft notes.

“Ah, here you are. It seems I missed the latest arrival.  My apologies for failing to welcome you until now, little one. I have only now returned to Cania.”

Both Raphael and Antilia turned to the source of the voice. Raphael had thought Antilia beautiful, and she was, but the devil standing in the doorway, dressed in fine silks of black and deep reds, could eclipse even her the way the sun hides distant stars. She was small - shorter than him, it seemed to Raphael - with long thin horns curling in a corkscrew shape and sharp, striking features. Her skin was the color of cinnamon, her eyes red as her hair, which fell over her shoulders in loose curls.

Her smile was warm as she walked in; still, Antilia quickly pulled away and bowed. “Lady Baalphegor,” she greeted her, and Raphael’s mouth went dry. 

He knew that name: Duchess Baalphegor, his father’s Consort. It seemed some sort of curse, really, that he’d meet each of his parents’ consort while knowing his actual parent through tales only. He’d failed to make a good first impression once before, squalling next to his dying mother; he surely hoped he could make a better impression now. 

So he stood, quickly, and bowed deep, following Antilia’s example. “Lady Baalphegor--”

“Oh, no need for that. Let me look at you, little one.” A warm hand under his chin, lifting up his face. He met her gaze to see her smiling. If she was in any way put off by the fact her consort had sired children with mortals, it did not show. “A handsome young devil if I’ve ever seen one. You look quite a lot like your father.”

The words were spoken kindly, but they opened up a pit somewhere in Raphel’s chest, heart skipping a beat. In the back of his mind he saw Rahirek Starspire gazing at his human form, truly looking at him for the first time. You look like your mother, he’d said.

He knew from the portraits that his devil form looked like his father, or at least one of the faces he wore - but hearing it from his Consort was… different. “I do?” he found himself asking, half bashful and half hopeful. She blinked. 

“Surely, you noticed-- oh.” A pause, a long-suffering sigh. “Lady Antilia, please do not tell me Lord Mephistopheles has yet to meet his son. This boy has been here for weeks, I am told.”

Antilia nodded, her gaze still held respectfully low. “Lord Mephistopheles has been very busy in your absence, it seems,” she said. “Hardly anyone has seen him.”

“Those silly experiments of his again.” Another sigh, while Antilia stiffened in a way that very much suggested no one else in all of Cania, or in all of the Hells save perhaps Asmodeus, would ever refer to Mephistopheles’ work with arcane magic as silly experiments. Ignoring her clear discomfort, Duchess Baalphegor looked back at Raphael. A thumb brushed over his cheek. “What is your name, little one?”

“Lord Mephistopheles named me Raphael, Lady Baalphegor.”

A huff. “If he named you, he should be bothered to properly meet you. Do not worry, Raphael, I’ll ensure that he does soon.” A pause, another smile before she let go of his face. “Your Infernal is excellent, for someone who’s been here so short a time.”

Raphael’s face grew warm, and he was once again thankful blushing did not show on his skin. “Thank you, Duchess.”

A brief, soft laugh. “I’ll take no thanks for stating a fact. I see you’re escaping the lessons with your preceptor to learn music from the High Cantor herself.”

“I have been ensuring he knows what he ought to know about Cania and Baator,” Antilia said, tilting her head. “He’s a bright pupil in both aspects.”

A chuckle. “Of course he is. I doubt a single soul in or outside the Hells could blame you for coming here, Raphael. I’d pick Lady Antilia over the preceptor myself. He is a uniquely unpleasant being.” Another smile, and she took a step back. “Ah, but I’ve interrupted a lesson. Do carry on - I am in need of rest from my travels. Expect your father to see you soon, child.”

“I-- thank you, Lady Baalphegor.”

“No need to thank me. Welcome home,” she replied, and that was it. A smile, a nod at Antilia and she was gone, closing the doors behind her. Raphael looked up, still reeling a little, to see the High Cantor let out a long breath. Something in her rigid posture seemed to relax, but her lips were still pulled in a tight line as she glanced down to meet his gaze. 

“... Until you are certain of your affinity with Hellfire,” she said, “do not speak of it. Not Lord Mephistopheles, not her - no one. And don’t ever tell them you used it entirely by accident.”

“I thought it was something all devils can--”

“You thought wrong,” she cut him off, her voice suddenly sharp. “Archedevils and very few others may hope to wield it. Go boasting about it, and you’ll be seen as too much a threat.”

Raphael frowned. “I wasn’t boasting, and-- I'm not planning to be a threat at all," he protested.

Antilia laughed. Only this time it didn’t sound like music anymore. "But you are, little duke," she said, tilting up his chin, a smile now playing on her lips. "Listen and listen well. You have mortal blood in you, as do I. But we are devils as much as anybody else here, and dangerous by virtue of our existence. As long as you live and breathe, you will be a threat to somebody. We all are. And we all must be. If you cease being a danger to anyone, little duke - if you make yourself harmless and toothless - that is the day you die. But if you show all your teeth, someone will take the chance and strike first. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

Raphael thought back of the old story he had read when he was little, the scorpion tearing off its stinger to try and live like a beetle, and of what Lord Starspire had told him over the crackling fire in the hearth, looking at him across a lanceboard set-- You were too quick to get on the defense. Retreat begets regret. Remember that. -- and suddenly he knew what his existence would be, what it had to be, in the Nine Hells of Baator. An endless game with the highest stakes, with every other devil - be it pit fiends or gelugons, his own sire or his own siblings, everyone - a potential opponent. Every possible move, his own or others', would have to be calculated, predicted, accounted for in advance. All of Cania was a lanceboard with infinite pieces, each of them wearing a smile and hiding a dagger under their robes.

“Raphael. Do you understand ?"

He swallowed, and nodded. "I have to be a threat. But not so much a threat that my destruction becomes someone's priority."

Antilia stared a moment, and chuckled. "You learn fast. You may live well, after all, as long as you trust no one.”

“Not even you?” Raphael hadn't meant to sound like he wanted to, but the pleading note made it in his voice all the same. There he was, in his father's court, surrounded by others of his kind, learning music from the High Cantor, welcomed by Lord Mephistopheles’ own consort… and yet he had never felt so alone before. “I thought-- I hoped--”

For a moment, her smile dampened. "You ought to forget all about that hope, for your own good,” she murmured. “And you will.”

“I don’t want--”

“What you want is very human of you, little duke. But do not worry. In time you'll grow out of it, or you won't grow much older. Until then, don't let it show again - to anyone. Not even me," she added, and let go of his face. "You’d do well to mistrust me, and most of all mistrust anyone who tells you that you may trust them." She did not name Baalphegor, but she may as well have. “... Now go. I’ll be needing the organ,” she added with a sharp nod to the door.

And that, love, was that. *** “Release me at once!”

“No.”

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s for your own good. Hope would absolutely destroy you as you are now. And we wouldn’t try too hard to stop her, either.”

Still struggling against the vines Halsin had cast the moment he’d started screaming and trying to storm in, damn near foaming at the mouth, Raphael didn’t seem to even register Astarion’s words. “What has she done to my--”

“ Her house now. I mean, really, if you wanted to claim ownership, you shouldn’t have named it House of Hope. I will concede, however, that the new decor is positively ghastly,” Astarion said, looking around. The flower beds and birds had to be some sort of illusion, surely, but the scattered art supplies and half-finished paintings looked very much real. 

None of them looked good - someone was trying to build some kind of statue out of broken pottery it seemed - but Astarion supposed everyone had a right to do whatever they wanted with relative, newfound freedom. Even when it meant questionable attempts at art therapy. 

The thought of turning Cazador’s castle into some sort of resort for his victims had never so much crossed his mind, but to be fair he could leave that place, while the souls there… well, the only thing outside the House of Hope was Avernus, so it made sense to stay there with the new management and make the best of it.

Unless you were Raphael, who both wanted to storm in and very much looked like he’d gladly take on Zariel and Mephistopheles at once with his bare hands rather than having to keep looking at Hope’s redecorations. All things considered, they were probably doing him a favor by not letting him see anything past the foyer. Astarion had once joked he’d probably have a stroke if he saw the changes Hope made to the place, but now it didn’t seem that far-fetched anymore.

Unaware of Astarion’s thoughts, Raphael made another useless attempt to break free from the vines and snarled. “I’m going to kill her. I’ll skin her alive and--”

“No, you won’t,” Durge replied, almost conversationally, just as Halsin lifted a hand. Yet another vine emerged from the ground, wrapping itself around Raphael’s neck, tight enough to make him trail off, the growl turning into a startled intake of breath.

“I suggest you pick your battles,” Halsin said, voice grave. He didn’t threaten often but when he meant business, he did mean business. “And I highly suggest you do not pick this one.”

Raphael’s mouth snapped shut, but only for a moment. He glowered at Halsin before turning to Durge. “This is my House of--”

“Not anymore it’s not, fucker.”

“Karlach!”

Raphael and his whining were forgotten very quickly when Karlach burst in and began pulling each of them into a near spine-breaking hug. It had been only weeks since they’d last seen each other, but it clearly had felt like a lot more to her. Honestly, Astarion thought, they were lucky she hadn’t grown bored enough to decide she’d rather brave Avernus on her own.

“Oh I’m so sorry for dragging you back to the Hells, but I’m so happy to see you guys.”

“You didn’t drag us anywhere, Karlach. We were happy to help.”

“I was so fucking bored, Durge, you have no idea.”

“I can imagine. Coming here took a while more than we thought it would--”

“Doesn’t matter though! You’re here and we’re ready to kick Zariel’s ass!”

Astarion cleared his throat. “Almost ready, I’d say. There just is a sword we’re supposed to pick up, but luckily,” he added, gesturing to Raphael, “we have a very convenient guide.”

Still tangled in Halsin’s vines, the very convenient guide glared at Karlach. “I’ve seen dogs greet long-lost masters with more dignity,” he snapped. “If you’re quite done with the moving reunion--”

“Ah, I almost forgot. Hey, Raphael! Catch!”

“Wha--”

A box Karlach had been keeping under her arm sailed through the air and hit Raphael’s forehead with remarkable aim. It got a rather undignified yelp out of him, which turned into a growl when the same vines that had kept him from catching anything kept him from touching his head. “Agh! What manner of joke is--” he snapped, only to trail off when his gaze fell on the box. He stared at it as though he couldn’t understand what he was even looking at. 

Karlach shrugged. “A little something that Hope wanted you to have. She said it’s yours. Consider it a goodbye gift, cause she’s never going to have to see your mug in this place. Now, ready to head out? Cause Zariel isn’t gonna off herself…”

They did leave, and it didn’t escape Astarion how, the vines removed, Raphael did pick up the box and stared at it for several moments, eyes blank, saying nothing. *** Dalah was almost out of the vault, her duty for the day done, when she felt those eyes on her again. No guards were in sight, but she was still wary to risk being spotted together, as they would soon enough realize one of their own was missing and go looking for him. So she turned, and gestured for Israfel to leave.

But he did not leave. He approached her in a curious gait, as though trying to make himself non-threatening if that was even possible, his flames burning low. He came to pause so close to her the heat almost singed her hair anyway, and made those chirring noises again. Dalah hesitated, suddenly reminded of what she’d been saying before they were interrupted.

You were tiny, then.

She remembered it as though it had only just happened, even after so many centuries. She remembered the pain and blood, the smell of the scorched mattress and her own seared flesh; the pain had been so unbearable she’d thought a fully grown devil would burst from her, scattering her entrails across the room like those of a gutted deer. 

Instead, it had been small. The worst of it had passed and she found herself sharing the mattress with the squirming, wailing thing she had brought forth entirely on her own after ordering the servants away with an excuse. He was covered in her blood, but it was barely noticeable on crimson skin. A male, she’d noted in the same detached fashion she’d noted the sharp nubs on his head that would grow into horns, the crinkled membrane of tiny wings, and the tail.

A devil. The price she’d paid so her husband may live, her death sentence. He had killed her for his first breath and yet he used that breath to wail and wail and wail like he was the one bleeding out, small limbs flailing, half tangled in the umbilical cord and his own tail. 

Part of her had expected his sire to appear in a cloud of sulfur and take his accursed offspring to the Hells with him, but no such thing happened. The sky outside began to darken, she kept bleeding, and the child kept screaming. What right did a devil have, she’d thought, to seek comfort the way a baby would? Yet she had wanted those cries to stop. 

She’d reached out, so weak she could barely pull the squalling creature up against her chest, in the crook of her arm. “Demanding, aren’t we?” she’d heard herself murmuring, her own voice barely audible.

She felt cold all over and yet she must have been warmer than the rest of the room, because the child grew a little quieter now, pressed against her. A tiny, bloodied hand had curled around her finger. Even this small, he had claws. 

Almost delirious with blood loss, not knowing that her husband was just now crossing the threshold of their home bearing gifts for her that he would soon place on her grave, Dalah had smiled. Her head rolled against her shoulder, dark hair spilling on the newborn’s brow. Somewhere in the back of her mind, there was the first lullaby she’d ever learned. Half a rhyme, half a warning she’d failed to heed in the end. 

“Then down came the claw,” she’d whispered. “And that…”

“... And that, love, was that.”

Her words sounded even fainter now, amidst the icy walls of Mephistopheles’ vault, than they had on her deathbed that day. Still, Israfel heard, and made a high-pitched, metallic sound in response. Not the same shriek he’d let out when she’d uttered his name last, but a sound of distress nonetheless. Dalah swallowed. 

It was on me, all of it. I turned to a devil, offered him the souls of every servant in the  household for my husband’s life. I’d have bought half a city’s worth of slaves to sell him, if he asked. Even if Rahirek would have hated me for it, it wouldn’t have mattered as long as he lived. But all Mephistopheles wanted that day was my womb for his spawn and I saw it too late. He got his due and I got mine. Only one innocent party in all of it, and here he stands. 

“Do you know?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Do you know who I am now?”

For a few moments, there was no response. He just looked at her, that thing that was her son or at least part of him. Then he made a low clacking noise and lowered himself once more, and that clawed hand once again left long deliberate marks in the ice, like-- like--

Down came the claw. 

Dalah swallowed, feeling as though something was stuck in her throat. She could almost smell it again for a moment, so many mortal lifetimes later - the scorched mattress and seared flesh, and her own blood. 

“How?” she whispered. “How do you-- you were only just born, you cannot remember--”

There were steps, and her voice trailed off. One last look, and she turned away to hurry back before they had another incident on their hands they may not be able to cover up, steps as quick as her pounding heart.

It did not matter either way, she told herself. Any questions she may have asked would go unanswered: Israfel could not answer her, words beyond him. She’d had her chance to speak to him, all of him, when he’d first been brought to Mephistar and in all the years he'd lived at court. Several occasions, and she’d taken none. Each time she tried to look upon him, she’d turned away. 

Her doom, her folly, a price to pay - never her child. There had been no joy in his birth, much less in his conception; she could only remember the agony of it all, the icy touch of his sire on her skin.

This, too, I claim as mine.

Mephistopheles’ son, one of many. He’d claimed him as he’d claimed her womb and her soul, yet none of it had meant a thing for him. Something to claim and cast aside, like the many artifacts in his vaults, experiments started and interrupted and never looked at again.

But Rahirek had kept him, she was sure of it now. He raised him, looked after him, and even now this mutilated half of him still remembered the star-and-spire sigil of a long-extinct family. She did not recall her husband’s face as well as she wished she could, time and grief eroding her memories like water on stone, but she remembered he was kind. She remembered he had loved her. Of course he’d kept the boy, because he was hers. 

Mephistopheles had claimed so much - he’d been claiming and claiming and claiming for time immemorial - and she’d let him take what he would because there was no other choice she could make, then. She stood no chance to change things… until Lady Baalphegor gave her a ring, and told her to save her son.

Dalah did not know what Baalphegor’s plans for him were; she could only hope it would not end with his death. At the very least, she hoped - what an odd thing, hope, after all those centuries - she may meet the rest of him, perhaps see him whole one more time. Maybe they could talk, then, if only once. She could make it be enough.

This, at least, I claim as mine. *** “Here, this is yours. Lord Sunspear--”

“Starspire.”

“Whatever it may be. The mortal humbly requested this was delivered in your hands personally when we came to collect your possessions.”

Chamberlain Barbas was none too pleased to have been asked to run such an errand for a half-fiend spawn of Mephistopheles, and he had no qualms letting it show. Surrounded by piles of his old possessions plucked from the Material Realm - books, mostly, left carelessly in piles across the floor - Raphael bit back an insult and took the box. 

A wooden box, with the spear-and-star sigil on it. Unlike everything else that had been delivered to his room, he couldn’t recall seeing it before.

“I trust you won’t be needing anything else, little duke,” Barbas said, voice dripping with sarcasm at the title, and Raphael found he couldn’t muster the will to look back at him. He just shook his head, barely listening to the footsteps and the sound of a door closing, leaving him alone again amidst relics of a past life he could never go back to. 

Of all his things, he’d asked that box to be handed to him personally. Raphael swallowed, sat on the ground against the wall, and opened it.

Most things inside, he recognized. There was his mother’s lyre, the one he’d learned to play with, all black wood and ivory details; a book titled Rhymes from the Land of the Purple Dragon which too had belonged to her, and which he'd read cover to cover more than once. The black king from the lanceboard set back home, too, he recognized. There were two things in there he had never seen before: a pendant - a locket, decorated with the star-and-spire motif, and a letter. 

He reached in to pick up the locket, but then his gaze fell on the letter, penned in the familiar handwriting of Lord Starspire, and on the very first words on the upper left corner.

Dearest Israfel.

And it was all wrong, because there was no Israfel and there would never be again. His sire had named him Raphael and his will was unstoppable as the tide. He was to be Raphael, and Lady Antilia had made very clear who that would be. A fiend and a threat, mistrustful and untrustworthy and no one’s dearest ever again.

Raphael’s vision blurred, and he dropped the unopened locket back in the box as though it burned him. He slammed the box shut and pushed it away from him, to slide across the floor. He held his knees against his chest and closed his eyes, trying to make himself small.

If they suspect they have something on you, you must not turn that suspicion into certainty. That’s inviting them to strike. Do you understand?

If you make yourself harmless and toothless - that is the day you die.

He’d understood then and he understood now, but tears still spilled and he pressed his face against his knees to muffle all noise, so that no one would hear. *** Camping in Avernus wasn’t all that different from camping in the Material Plane. As long as one ignored the bare rocky ground, the rivers of boiling magma, the sulfur forcing itself in the lungs with each breath, the unnatural flaming yet sunless sky, the screams and hisses and shrieks and clangs that rang out at all times in the distance, from fights and skirmishes somewhere out of sight. 

… All right, so camping in Avernus was very different from camping in the Material Plane, but they had found a cave that looked as close to safe as it could get, and could finally take turns resting before heading off again. There was also something to be said for the magma taking away the need of starting a fire to cook, really. Durge finished the last of their meal, and looked away from their companions to the only person who was not, at the moment, sitting down to eat. Raphael had taken the first turn to watch out for dangers at the mouth of the cave unprompted, but of course he was not looking outside at all.

On the floor, the wooden box was open, and he  held an open locket in his hand.

There was laughter over something that Wyll had said, but Durge’s attention was already elsewhere. They gave Astarion’s hand a brief squeeze, which he returned, and they stood to walk up to the cave entrance; Raphael did not look up from the portrait in the locket, or acknowledge them in any way as they sat by him. Durge chose to allow a few more moments of silence before they spoke.

“... The same woman we saw in the orb.”

“How very perceptive,” was the dry reply. 

“The same debtor who helped you escape, you said.”

“Are you here to ensure your short term memory at least is still working?” Raphael replied, but his voice was too distant for his words to carry any bite. He was running his thumb over the miniature, his brow furrowed. Durge smiled weakly. 

“Had you never seen her before?”

“No.”

“I can see the resemblance.”

This time the corners of Raphael’s lips seemed to curl upwards, faintly, if just for a moment. “I was told as much, a very long time ago. In this form, clearly. The other one is all Mephistopheles, I suppose.”

“Well, I’d say it’s better than nothing. There is no part of me that did not come from Bhaal.”

“Had Mephistopheles had the power or chance to carve a son from his own flesh, I doubt I’m what he’d have chosen.”

Durge laughed. “He’s slowly melting his own kingdom from the inside out. I’d hesitate to consider him a paragon of wisdom. And besides, I didn’t work out too well as a Chosen of Bhaal either. Even his best laid plans did not account for an improvised lobotomy by a scorned sister.”

This time, the sound that left Raphael more closely resembled a chuckle, and he looked up from the portrait to glance at them. “I wouldn’t blame the lobotomy. If I were a betting man, I’d bet you always had a penchant to wreck any kind of plan.”

A fanged grin. “May very well be. We each have our talents,” Durge said, then, “Your mother was bold indeed, risking the ire of the Lord of the Eighth to save you.”

A scoff, and Raphael snapped the locked shut. “I am under no delusion it was her plan, or even what she wanted to do. She was following orders, that's all. Whose, I do not know.”

“I suppose you’ll have the chance to ask her once we get to Cania.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps she is already gone.” A shrug. “Debtors are of no consequence. Whoever used her as their chess piece may have sacrificed her immediately afterwards.”

“One can always hope for the best, no?”

“... Your other talent, it seems, is finding all the wrong words.”

“Yes, that’s usually why I let Astarion do the talking. Still pisses off a lot of people.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Raphael replied in a tone which suggested he could imagine it vividly. 

A brief pause followed. Durge glanced at the burning sky for a few moments, the House of Hope now merely a dot in the distance now, before they spoke. “... Halsin is keeping a bowl for you.”

“If the tiefling doesn’t put poison in it, I may consider the offer.”

“Not her style. She only needs-- well, can you blame her, given her history with your kind?”

A roll of his eyes, and he reached for something else in the box - a letter, it seemed. “She is perhaps three or four generations removed from being one of my kind,” Raphael pointed out. “Still, point taken. Now, you don’t need to stay and guard the entrance. I can do as much just fine.”

Durge may not always be the best at picking up social cues, but they could tell they were being dismissed. They nodded without a further word and went back to join the others inside the cave, leaving him to read the letter in peace.

*** [Back to Chapter 9]

[On to Chapter 11]

[Back to Start]

[cartoon-buffoon]

(Uh just in case) TW: Suicide & Guns

Problem with drawing this was HET's posing since it's supposed to be him reaching over Oswald to grab the gun, now this would be fine if not for both characters obviously having black bodies so you can see I kinda went crazy with the white outlines. Also for the hole on the side of Euthenasia's head: it annoys me how in WI the gun misfires and it blows out his eye, the problem is at that angle it has NO SHOT (heh, shot) of hitting his eye so I always imagined it just went in through his skull and ricocheted out his socket

Oh and here's a short little story/exchange between the two that's related to this drawing for my AU of HET & Euthenasia if you care and wanna read it that is ↓ (warning: lots of vulgarity & of course suicide being the main focus)

Euthenasia trembled and stared down the skull faced feline who had a firm grip on his gun "let it go Felix, I can't miss again" he exclaimed, finger still on the trigger "there's only one bullet left in the chamber"

Het ignored the buck's commands and spoke calmly in his raspy voice "Oz, put the gun down before you hurt yourself"

"haha! No shit Sherlock! That's the FUCKING point!" Euthenasia grit his teeth and clicked the hammer back "GET LOST AND LET ME DO THIS!"

Het tightened his grasp on the gun, ready to divert the barrel elsewhere if Euthenasia tried anything "listen, you unloaded 5 bullets into my skull!" He tapped the side of his head and pointed at the cracks the rabbit gave him "now I don't care really, I've been hurt far worse than some silly little bullets, but if you miss your shot you're gonna blow out your other eye, now put it down because I really don't wanna wear a vest reading 'seeing eye cat' for the rest of my fucking life"

"I won't miss if you just let go!"

"If I gotta live in this shit hole so do you! I know life ain't fair yet you just can't fuck off and die because of it!" Het hissed.

"oh you're a comedian now! Ain'tcha!? A real funny man! Because I find it so funny you constantly say I would be better off dead, but here you are! The one trying to stop me!" Euthenasia used his other hand to wave it in Het's face "the walking contradiction! Which is it now? Huh? Should I pull the trigger or not!?"

"...." Het stayed silent, his skull showing no emotion other than a permanent smile plastered onto it.

"oh! Does the kitty cat not have a smartass remark this time around!?" Euthenasia took a step closer to the cat his hand holding the gun making the entire thing shake like a blender "what's next from the hypocrite? Why don't you start to babble on your psychopathic bullshit hmm? See if that'll convince me not to do it! Heck maybe if you're lucky instead of dying I'll start seeing things from your fucked up point of view! I bet you'd like that, huh?"

If Het could scowl, this would be the moment he would of "Alright prick, stop attacking me and focus on yourself" Het spun Euthanasia around and made him gaze at his own reflection "Look in the mirror for a second...do you think Ortensia would wanna see you like this?"

Oswald glared up at the cat who was still holding the barrel of his gun and being the one thing stopping him. Slowly lowering his gaze his eyes fell onto the mirror in front of him. The dim light in the room obscured most of the surroundings yet he could still see his clear as day his broken visage. Gun pressed to his head, mouth stuck in a crooked smirk, eye spasming out and twitching, even his empty socket was leaking a trail of bloody tears that stained his white fur. Instead of his own appearance being the thing that snapped him out of it, it wasn't—rather the image of Het's face. Several cracks running across the feline's skull caused by bullets bouncing off it was what made Euthenasia snap out of his rage induced haze and finally come to his senses.

Euthenasia's grip slowly faltered on the gun as his eye was fixed on the mirror "oh god..."

"well looks like me being a pain your ass actually helped for once, ain't that neat?" Once Euthenasia let go, Het released the firearm and let it clatter to the ground "heh, you know it's bad when I'm the voice of reason here"

Euthenasia turned around and faced Het, seeing what he did even more clearly "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry"

"what for?" Het noticed the buck staring at the cracks across his skull "oh yeah, well that's what bullets do after all, I'm just thankful I'm such a hardhead otherwise they would of probably done a lot worse" Het knocked on his dome trying to lighten the mood

Euthenasia didn't say a word and wrapped his arms around Het and brought him into a hug. Het tensed up at the touch although after hearing some quiet sobs come from the rabbit he slowly leaned into it. The cat was unsure on what to do with his hands, apart of him wanted to hug back yet everything else told him otherwise, eventually he just rested his arms to the side and let out a sigh.

"a thank you would of worked just as fine"

Oswald remained quiet and tightened the hug, still choking down sobs.

"... Your welcome, Ozzie... you're welcome"

[goose-ate-thebee]

Okay so this is my first smut so please give me some slack 😭

But it is fem!readerxGhost and it is smut....this might be cringe asf imma try and improve 😔

give me some suggestions whom should be next

anyway enjoy this Abomination

Late night in a dead silence with You, your thoughts, and the 6'4 tall British man that wears a skull mask named Simon Riley aka Ghost. You and Ghost were sitting in the silent back of a random abandoned room where some things were still in good condition like the lights and the ripped-up sheeted bed. You try to walk over to the dresser but Ghost pulls you back "Don't be stupid now y/n you might get killed for being so wreckless" Ghost spoke as he pulled you behind him and slowly opened the dresser from a slight distance. There lies a necklace, money, ID cards, and other random stuff but the one that sticks out the most is a condom that looks brand smacking new. "Uhh Ghost you see what I see" you spoke trying to hold in a giggle, Ghost looked over at you with disappointment in his eyes "Really!" Ghost snapped at you as he gripped your face looking into your eyes. "SORRY, SORRY I WAS JUST TRYING TO LIGHTEN UP THE MOOD IT WAS SILENCE FOR TOO LONG!" you apologized holding onto his exposed veiny forehands as he just signed and let out. "Do it again and you'll get a hard lesson from me next time" Ghost threatened you to stop your nonsense but you thought he was just joking back. you giggle and put your hands on your waist "Okay Simon". Ghost death stared you down "The fuck you just say Y/n" Ghost walk towards you causing you to walk backward then eventually you walk back into a wall "Want to try again Love, I'm waiting" he tower over you staring you down. "Okay, Simon its‐" you were cut off when he shoved his fingers into your mouth and the other hand of his held your chin up to him "I gave you one chance and you fuck up so badly, I might have to punish you for failing such a little lesson huh you dumb bitch". You gagged on his fingers a little bit and wrapped your hands around his forearm again, you moan over his finger feeling a little arousal maybe a little too much arousal by the situation "Your acting like such a whore it adorable" Ghost taunts you as he let go of you. You fall on your knees looking up at him breathing heavily "No I'm not shut the hell up Si‐ Ghost" You look down slightly flustered. Ghost smiled to himself happy that she fixed it herself before Ghost did it for her again. "You are but it's fine 'cause you're my whore, now get on your feet so we can get a move on" He gestures to you to get up. You slowly stand up to gain more strength again "Yes Lt. Ghost"

[satancopilotsmytardis]

omg!! plz tell us about ur fnaf au!!

I have been let off my leash again!!! Okay so I want to preface this with what the state of FNAF lore was like when I started working on this:

Started working on this between the release of FNAF4 and Sister Location, ended shortly after the reveal of Michael's "I'm coming to find you"/Robot spaghetti endings.

Back when the Puppet was still using He/him pronouns and we had limited knowledge about Charlie/Henry, etc. past the stuff from FNAF: World and I think the Silver Eyes novel.

This was still firmly at the tail end of people switching from calling Purple Guy Vincent in their AUs to using William Afton because of the books.

Very little of this will match anything even remotely canon including names.

So the AU was what I called the 'Afton Siblings AU':

Basic premise: None of the Afton children died. They still went through deeply traumatic shit and grew up under their father's thumb until he got arrested for the Missing Children's Incident, released, and then fucked off into the ether.

Michael: 26, he works as the nighttime security officer at their Fazbear's location. When he was 13 he stuck his brother's head into Freddy's mouth on his birthday as a prank after treating his brother like shit in the wake of their mom leaving them, and Caleb nearly died. Their father ended up sticking his own arm into the mouth of the animatronic and breaking his hand very badly, but kept Freddy from crunching all the way through Caleb's skull and killing him. Once William healed up, he brought Michael back to the restaurant and killed all of Michael's friends to make a point. Michael has been in charge of taking care of his siblings ever since.

Bailey (Baby): 23, the tallest of the kids, which is something she delights in literally holding over her brothers. She works as their Fazbear's location's mechanic. She keeps the animatronics running and it the only one who is aware that the suits aren't just haunted, but that the bodies are inside of the suits as well.

Caleb (Crying Child): 18, he works as a server at the Fazbear's location he once almost died at when he was a little kid. He forgave Michael years ago for the incident and he has the best relationship with the animatronics because the echo of his childhood trauma is still lingering in the pizzeria as Golden Freddy. (Think Stone Tape theory)

The Afton kids are all pseudo-adopted by Henry when shit goes down, and he makes sure that they have jobs and bought them their childhood home when everything goes tits up and their father is in the wind. They all call him 'Uncle Henry' and he doesn't hold what William has done against them, but none of them have ever directly talked about that with Henry. They all live together and are just trying to keep things at the pizzeria calm and under control as their father keeps, somehow, going around and continuing to rack up his body count.

However, I got distracted before I ever fully fleshed out this AU by some side characters and their extremely unhinged sex life. So hey, y'all remember Jeremy?

Jeremy Fitzgerald: 25 forever, died in 1987 when the Mangle bit through his skull, taking one of his eyes and causing catastrophic brain damage. As with all things in a Fazbear's location, he could not simply stay dead, and Fazbear Entertainment dug up his corpse (or perhaps never let his body be buried in the first place, he's not sure) and sat him back in the security office to continue doing his job after death, and uh, to his great displeasure, yes that absolutely worked. He is stuck in a haunting loop like the animatronics and continues to do his job for many years.

Nightmarionne/the Puppet/Net/Marion: Looks like the normal puppet during the day/to other people, but to Jeremy, he looks like Nightmarrionne because Jeremy can now see how he's been twisted and warped by his need for vengeance. However, he normally puts that aside to care for the 'children'. Somehow, pre-FNAF6 I had decided that he would grow and be more fully sapient than the rest of the animal-suit-bound animatronics and I was accidentally right about that.

Jeremy and Net start off very contentiously, because Net thinks that Jeremy stole the 'gift' of life after death somehow, which would tie him back to 'The Man' who the animatronics know as their murderer.

Jeremy, of course, has no fucking idea what he's talking about. He still gets tortured about it though.

Years pass and eventually Jeremy's brain kind of rewires to the pain of being tortured, especially because no matter what Net does to him (or the other animatronics cause he does end up in a suit more than once), it's all temporary. Net eventually explains to him about the children, the gift, the murders, and they (as essentially the only adults in the building) try to look after it and the other suits.

Jeremy pops a boner while Net's playing with his offal one night and the rest is pretty gory history with them genuinely falling in love and having a very healthy and trusting relationship-- where half of their sex is body horror but, shhh 🤫

All is fine and dandy until their location gets marked for re-opening and Henry sends Michael to go to that location and check it out, where he meets Jeremy, finds out their location is also haunted, and Jeremy learns that because he's haunting his own corpse, he's not actually bound to the same rules as the animatronics. He can leave the building, stay up after 6am, and etc. he just hadn't because he was so conditioned by the others he never tried.

Jeremy befriends the Afton kids not knowing about their father, and that creates further conflict down the line when William comes back into town for some reason.

(he also has a very weird threesome with Michael and Net at one point, but you know, that's not important)

(Baily also makes Net a strap but that's also not important)

I spent... more time writing Jeremy/Net porn than I want to admit to, frankly, and this fic eventually started to be adapted into my Everrealm Amusement Park story that I also never finished.

[keithisbae1]

Bones and All

Sasuke Uchiha is no stranger to death, he welcomes it with open arms.

He lost his family, his clan and even killed his brother with his own two hands. Even if the illness did get to him first. He still harboured such hatred for his brother and wanted him dead. Then after finding out the truth about what happened to the clan. He wanted Konoha to bleed. To crush his enemies' skulls and hear their pleas and cries as they begged for mercy.

Just like what they did to him.

Now, things were different. He protected Konoha but only to help Naruto with his dream.

His views had changed and he didn’t want anyone else to suffer the way he had.

Despite this, it doesn’t change his past and the fact so many had wanted him dead. Which is why he was here now bleeding on the forest floor. 

Maybe if he’s lucky enough he’ll be reunited with his family, not that he feels like he deserves it.

And as for his friends? They’ll live without him just fine.

Naruto had his own family now to worry about, Kakashi like him had been used to death. What was one more? And as for Sakura? She loved him yes but he was sure she’ll move on and find someone else.

He knows they’ll never forget him if them chasing him despite everything he’s put them through doesn’t show it, what will? But he doesn’t want any of them to put their life on hold for him. 

So when his heart gave its last final beat the last thing expected was to see Sakura already on the other side. And talking to his parents in his old house?

What?

Wasn’t she meant to be in Konoha with the rest?

“Sakura,” she jumped turning to the sound of his voice and he can see the damage to her body. A deep gash on her stomach and her right eye was missing. He doesn’t dare want to think how or rather who was the cause of it and judging from how she was avoiding eye contact, neither did she.

This wasn’t a dream. 

“Well, hello to you too dear.” Mikoto broke the eerie silence.

“We were just talking about you, she didn’t have anywhere else to go and since we know how good ‘friends’ you two are, we figured she could wait here with us. Until either, you or her parents showed up.” Like it was only natural for her to be there, but it wasn’t or shouldn’t be.

She didn’t even have any children of her own yet, from what Naruto wrote. It was too soon for her to be here. Unlike him. 

“Nothing to say dear?” No hi or I’m back or any emotional reunion with his beloved parents. Instead, only two words crossed Sasuke’s mind.

“Marry me.” He ignored the coughing fit his father had as Mikoto patted him on the back chuckling at how her little boy hadn’t changed. 

His eyes solely focused on Sakura.

“I believe you're meant to get married before death little brother.” Itachi came in at perfect timing. Maybe he was selfish but what was stopping them now?

They had all the time in the world together.