#its almost like they have a blood magic curse on their mind and are a fictional character meant to serve a purpose in a story

[vigilskeep]

i hate the varric twist so much because you’re really telling me that rook never offhandly referred to varric in the present tense at all?? that rook just straight up believed varric was alive and in the lighthouse but acted like varric didn’t exist?

also it makes harding seem like she barely cared about varric. she’s known him for ten years, you’d think she’d be more messy from his death and also not act like he’s never existed

remember when i said “consider if asks you send me are just posts that could stand on their own and don’t require my input at all” and also “it’s annoying to send me unsolicited veilguard criticism about something i wasn’t even talking about as if i, a stranger who happens to like the game, have to personally deal with being an anonymous outlet for all your problems with it”? this is like the textbook example of that if anyone was wondering

anyway. i disagree!

[mr-ys-phantasma]

🌙 Moon Phases 🌙

Agatha Harkness X Fem!Reader

Chapter 1. - Chapter 2. - Chapter 3

Chapter 4. - Chapter 5. - Chapter 6

Chapter 7. - Chapter 8. - Chapter 9

Chapter 10. - Chapter 11. - Chapter 12

Chapter 13. - Chapter 14. - Chapter 15

Chapter 16. - Chapter 17.

Word Count: 1521

Chapter 17:

The lyrics left Agatha's lips smoothly, her good voice once again echoing across the room.

I have learned the lesson

Of all that's foul and fair

Our love was forged in Fire

Water, Earth, and Air

The spell is cast how long it lasts

I can not divine...

While other times you would let her voice enchant and put you in some sort of trance, this time you fought it.

Your fingers moved across the strings on their own, though more than once you dared to glance at them to ensure you were focusing on the right notes.

Who knew what would happen if you played a note wrong.

As the song continued and Agatha sang louder, you all joined her; once again backing her up like the first time you summoned the Road.

Yet despite the singing, everyone was on edge. Not only were they trying to see if they could spot this curse but also because of the raging fire that seemed to have started out of nowhere.

It spread almost all around and it was threatening to break your concentration, only for Agatha to snap and remind everyone to keep playing; the fire a clear sign that the curse was being harmed.

Close to the end, as Alice was getting carried away by the music; she dared to look up.

"The curse. I see it. I can see it." She exclaimed, and then something clicked in her mind. "I can kill it."

Your head snapped her way. "Then do it!" You barked at her, trying to be heard above the sound of music as the song was slowly coming to an end.

Wherever it may bend

I'll see you at the end

I'll see you at the end

I'll see you at the end

I'll see you at the end

I'll see you at the end

The last few lyrics came louder and louder, passion and need guiding the invincible magic emitted from all of you.

The loudest of all was Alice, now more determined than ever to defeat this curse for good; take revenge for her mother and every woman in her family that suffered because of it.

By the last lyric, Alice had spread her hands as flames seemed to erupt on and even behind her; giving quite a spectacle to all of you.

Once done, everyone exchanged looks; wondering if this was it or there was something more.

You did not feel the dark energy of the curse in the room, and something was telling you that you had been successful with this trial as well.

Your confirmation came as the metronome stopped ticking and he piano lid opened on its own, showing everyone a ladder and your way out.

"We did it!" Alice exclaimed, feeling lighter and stronger now that she had defeated the curse.

A smile formed on your lips and you looked at Agatha, who tried to hide her smile; though the relief was evident in her blue ones.

You had done it, you had finished one more trial and you were one step closer in reaching the end.

However, the good mood did not remain for something unexpected happened.

In the very next seconds, Teen collapsed on the ground; shocking everyone as you all rushed to check on him, worrying for the worst.

"Teen!" Alice exclaimed. "What happened?"

Agatha did not hide her worry this time. "What's wrong with him?"

Jen dared to move his coat to the side and her eyes doubled at the sight of a glass piece sticking into his flesh, blood slowlu coming out of it.

"He's bleeding."

You stared at the wound, feeling like an idiot for not spotting it right away. You should have, and yet you didn't, leaving the kid to loyaly play the guitar with you while fighting his injury.

"We've got to get him out of here." You ordered, and everyone nodded.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Working together, you all helpd carry the unconscious and injured boy out; before laying him on a big flat stone that had been conveniently appeared for you.

You were back in the woods, your clothes changed to normal but that was the least of your worries.

Your priority was to save Teen, though almost no one knew what to do. Jen made the mistake of pulling the glass piece out, only for the wound to get worse.

"There's so much blood." Agatha exclaimed, passing her hands through her thick hair while trying not to panic

Jen tried to put pressure on the wound, do her best to help stop the bleeding. "I got it." She snapped back.

It was not enough for Agatha. "What else can we do? What else can we do?"

Lilia looked at the boy and then at her. "He's young. He's strong..."

"Don't!" Agatha exclaimed, pointing a finger at the older woman. However, her expression did not remain cold for long as worry took over. "Don't." Her voice cracked.

You had never seen her that way, so vulnerable and open... it brought pain to your heart but also made you wonder what was the true connection between her and the boy.

To react such way... you felt there was more behind it, or you fear she was reacting due to her past trauma with her son; Nicholas.

The wound kept bleeding, and not even Jen could help, not without her magic. Fearing for the worst, Agatha turned to you.

"Please" she begged, using a tone you swore you would never hear before. "Please, save him" she continued, fully aware you could do something; he coven's last chance in saving him.

"Agatha -" You tried to stop her, for she seemed to have forgotten how you did not directly interfere with such things.

She did not let you continue as she moved to grab both your hands into hers. She looked deep into your eyes, doing her best to remain in control.

"I trust you. You can do this. Please... save him..." she begged once again, making it impossible for you to argue.

A lump formed at the back of your throat, and in the end, you nodded. "Okay," you sighed, and she let you go before taking a few steps back.

You turned to the other witches and walked closer to the flat stone, eyeing the bleeding wound and the unconscious boy. His skin was paler than before, and you swore he did not have much time to live unless you did something.

Ignoring the stares of the other women, you losesned your tie. In the process, your three phased moon necklace was drawn from its hidden place beneath your swirt; earning a silent gasp from Lilia, who noticed it first.

Next, your sleeves were pulled up all the way to your elbow; making visible a faint birth mark on the inside of your wrist; the same symbol of your necklace, forever imprinted on your skin.

You took a few deep breaths as you concentrated, feeling the faint moonlight coming from above. It passed through thick dark branches, forming beams of white light that fell on the small clearing and on you.

Your eyes closed, and you turned your palms to be parallel to the ground and to one another. Your fingers curled faintly as suddenly white magic started to form and gather at the space between your palms.

Jen and Alice gasped faintly when your white magic started to extend, creating thin branches of magical energy that passed next to them; illuminating faintly the dark atmosphere around you all.

Alice even dared to extend a finger, impulsively thinking of touching it, only for Jen to slap her wrist and pull it down; giving her a look.

Your eyes were half open, preventing the others from noticing your white irises as your magic rushed through your veins and your body. Slowly, you brought your hands towards the wound before flipping the palms so both were facing the injury.

You gently touched the wound, feeling the warm sensation of blood tickling your skin but you focused as your magic started to enter the boy's body; cleansing and cleaning his wounds.

Some white branches of it spread around the boy's body, giving him an ethereal look. One single strand reached his face before gently entering his nose.

The very next second, Teen took a deep breath; his chest rising and falling with it. Yet his head fell back in exhaustion and trauma, but he was alive.

You withdrew your bloody hands, allowing everyone to see that the wound was gone; a faint scar was the only reminder that it was once there.

"He should be fine. Just let him rest for a while" you explained as you looked at them, your eyes back to normal as your magic had disappeared; leaving the plain old you standing there.

"Thank you," Agatha muttered in a faint whisper, barely audible to the others.

You offered her a gentle small smile, all you could master at the moment. Seeing hope back in her blue eyes was the reward you did not need but also the reassurance that you had done right; acting and saving the kid.

Chapter 18

[imsuperhungry]

4 𝙖𝙢 (entry 005)

"𝘓𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨,

𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘢 𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘵 𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨"

WARNINGS: Mild Yandere Themes, Cussing, Mentions Of Blood, Mental Breakdown, I made reader sound kinda weak here...

WORD COUNT: 2202

(11:34, ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀʙɪɴ)

You could hardly distinguish whether the violent shivering that seized your body stemmed from the merciless bite of the wind or the crushing weight of the news Ashley had just unleashed upon you. All that mattered now was the desperate journey back to the cabin—where, despite the unsettling truth that clung to you like a shadow, the familiar embrace of warmth would provide a fleeting, comforting illusion of safety

When Ashley and Chris told you about Josh’s death, it felt as though the world stopped in its tracks, a heavy silence pressing into the conversation. You struggled to process the crushing weight of the moment, unable to fully grasp the magnitude of your situation. Not only had you lost the two girls you had come to think of as sisters over the years, but now, you had lost your “brother” as well.

Ashley’s panicked rambling continued after she told you about Josh’s death, but you couldn’t bring yourself to listen. Your mind was too consumed with thoughts of him. Josh—he had lost both of his biological sisters, and now, he had died on the same mountain as them. The guilt that had already been gnawing at you from the prank gone wrong with Hannah now felt like a crushing weight, multiplying with every passing second. You cursed yourself for not somehow intervening, for not magically saving Josh, even though deep down, you knew there was nothing you could have done to prevent it.

What you didn’t know was that when Matt and Emily were also informed of the killer on the mountain, something strange settled deep in their chests. It was as though a switch had flipped in both of them, a primal instinct that surged in different ways. For Emily, the feeling was overpowering, like a compulsion she couldn’t fight—a desperate, almost obsessive drive to protect you from whatever danger loomed ahead. It took hold of her quickly, like a parasite, consuming her thoughts and actions. Her sole objective was clear: get you out, and damn everyone else.

Matt’s reaction, though similarly intense, was more complicated. Along with the protective instinct, there was an undercurrent of something darker—a twisted excitement. Of course, the deaths of your friends should have been a cause for grief, not something to feel exhilarated about, but Matt couldn’t suppress the feeling that protecting you, being your knight in shining armor, might somehow redeem him in ways he hadn’t fully admitted to himself. And as the realization sank in, an internal, wicked grin spread across his face.

Matt quickly wiped the grin from his face, the reality of the situation crashing down on him. There was no time to waste.

You snapped out of your trance and turned to Emily, suddenly aware of the tears streaming down your face. You hadn’t even noticed them until the cold liquid trickled down your neck, the weight of everything finally breaking through.

You gripped Emily's shoulders tightly, desperate to make her understand the urgency in your voice. "Em— we, fuck... we have to find the others!" Your words were strained, the weight of everything pressing down on you. You couldn’t bear the thought of losing anyone else. The weeks you’d spent in bed, drowning in grief over Hannah and Beth’s deaths, had already broken you. You couldn’t go through that again—couldn’t handle another loss, not like this.

She rolled her eyes as she placed her hands atop of yours. “Mike and Jess are off 69’ing each other, and only god knows where Sam is.”

Her words confused you. Where was the urgency? You turned to where Matt, Chris, and Ashley stood, expecting to see the same desperation on their faces, but to your bewilderment, none of them seemed particularly keen on finding the others. It was as though the gravity of the situation hadn’t quite sunk in for them, or worse—they simply didn't care.

“She might be in the lodge!” you said, turning back to Emily, your voice sharp with urgency.

You locked eyes with her, and for a moment, it felt like the weight of everything was there between you. God damn it, how could she say no?

She felt the familiar rush of guilt flood through her, remembering the dumb prank, the one that still haunted her. She remembered the frantic voicemail attempts, her calls going unanswered, and the sick feeling in her stomach as she drove to your house, only to find your phone left forgotten in another room, the tear stains on your walls and, most painfully, your face. It hit her like a punch to the gut. She knew why you were crying—everyone did. Ever since the police had announced the girls as missing, no one had heard from you for weeks.

And now, here you were, pleading with her to help, as if there was any other choice.

With reluctance, Emily finally nodded, agreeing to help. She could see the panic in your eyes, the raw desperation, and it tugged at something deep inside her. The sight of you in any kind of pain—whether mental or physical—made her stomach turn, like a sickness she couldn’t shake. She hated seeing you like this, hated that it was even happening.

“Fine…” she starts “Fine, you’re right, but if there really is some maniac running around killing people on this mountain, we need to get help.”

And just like that, a weight was lifted off your chest. The situation was still bleak, the darkness of it all hanging over you like a storm cloud, but something shifted. You knew searching for the others would be harrowing—nothing short of dreadful—but with Emily by your side, there was a sliver of hope, however small.

Matt, however, was still uncertain about the situation. While the "knight in shining armor" fantasy still played out vividly in his mind, a darker, more protective side of him gnawed at him. He hated the idea of you being in any form of danger—whether it was something as trivial as a tiny paper cut or something far worse, like searching for the others on a dark, freezing mountain with wild animals and a killer lurking nearby. His instincts screamed at him to keep you safe, to pull you away from it all, but he also knew he couldn’t let you go through this alone. Still, the conflict inside him was palpable, the desire to shield you fighting against his need to be the hero.

He grabbed your shoulder, his grip firm, and opened his mouth to speak. "Hey, don't you think—"

But before he could finish, Emily was quick to cut him off, her voice sharp and final. “Why are we still talking about this!? Let’s go!” she shouted, her frustration bubbling to the surface.

With that, the conversation was over. No more hesitation, no more arguments. Emily turned on her heel, and without waiting for a response, she started moving. Matt followed along with her, but you decided to stay with Chris and Ashley, figuring that since they had witnessed Josh’s death, their experience might push them to be more helpful—more driven to find the others. After everything that had happened, you needed people who would act, not just follow.

Both Matt and Emily walked down the hill, their figures slowly disappearing into the frigid night, swallowed up by the darkness. You stood frozen for a moment, staring after them, the cold biting at your skin as you watched their silhouettes fade away.

A knot formed in your chest, the uneasy feeling of being separated from them weighing heavily on your mind. You didn’t know where they were going, or what their next move was, and that uncertainty gnawed at you.

Praying to whoever might be listening—if anyone at all—you silently begged that they, along with the others, would make it through this night. That somehow, by the end of it all, everyone would be safe. The thought of losing anyone else was too much to bear, and you clung to that fragile hope, even as the dark woods around you seemed to close in, relentless and unforgiving.

You were suddenly twirled around, your body spun by a pair of hands gripping you from behind. They pushed you in the opposite direction, the unexpected force taking you off balance. You would’ve been taken completely by surprise, but then you heard Chris’s voice behind you, steady and firm, and felt Ashley beside you, her presence grounding you.

"Come on," Chris urged, his grip tightening as he gently pulled you along. "We can’t waste time.”

As you began the walk, you let them push you forward, your body moving like a ragdoll, limp and heavy with sorrow. Each step felt like dragging yourself through thick mud, your mind weighed down by the thought of Josh. Josh, oh, Josh. Just being on his property—the place that had once felt like a second home—was enough to make your chest tighten with grief. It was all too much. You wanted to scream, to wail like a toddler who had been torn from something they loved, to let the tears flow freely, but you couldn’t. Not here. Not now.

You walked in silence with Chris and Ashley until you reached the cabin, each step heavy, each breath colder than the last. The familiar sight of the place only deepened the ache in your chest. The second the door creaked open, you didn’t hesitate. You darted inside, your feet carrying you up the stairs before Chris or Ashley could say a word.

Without a thought, you made a beeline for the bathroom—the one you last remembered Sam entering for her bath. The door was ajar, the space still smelling faintly of soap and steam, though the warmth that had once filled it was now long gone.

You stood there for a moment, taking in the empty room, the silence settling around you like a suffocating weight. The bathtub, still wet from Sam’s last use, felt like a dagger driven deep into your chest.

You pulled yourself together, your breath shaky, and sauntered out of the bathroom, moving aimlessly through the cabin. You passed by the guest rooms, pausing at the second bathroom, and then forced yourself into Hannah and Beth’s rooms. You’d sworn to yourself that you wouldn’t enter either of them tonight—not after everything.

Hannah’s room was eerily untouched, her belongings scattered in the same way they had been before the prank. Beth’s room, though, was different. The bed was unmade, the scent of her perfume still faint in the air, and it all felt so painfully real.

Sam was gone.

It became too much for your body to handle. The suffocating grief, the weight of all the loss, had exhausted you in a way you couldn’t describe—a new, unfamiliar kind of emptiness that left you hollowed out, barely able to breathe. Sam, Josh, Hannah, Beth... The names echoed in your mind like a cruel chant, and somewhere deep inside, you almost wished you could be next. Just to escape this endless cycle of pain.

Before you could stop yourself, your knees buckled, and you collapsed onto the ground, the cool wood pressing against your skin as your sobs wracked through your body. You couldn’t hold it back anymore. Your chest heaved with each scratchy, ragged breath, the sound raw and broken. The sobs were too deep to stifle, too powerful to suppress. Your body shook uncontrollably, every tear that spilled feeling like a new weight added to the crushing burden you already carried.

There was no way to escape it. No way to stop. The grief, the guilt, the overwhelming sense of loss—it consumed you. It was all you could do to let the tears flow, to let the sobs shake you to your core, hoping that maybe, just maybe, the pain would eventually start to fade. But deep down, you knew it wouldn’t. Not anytime soon.

Josh’s gaze flickered through the screens, his feet propped up on the table beside the sprawling array of monitors. He watched as you began your slow descent into despair, each moment an agonizing unraveling of the person he once knew. You were like a delicate flower wilting under the relentless weight of sorrow, sobbing on the unforgiving, rough-hewn wooden floor. The sight twisted in Josh’s gut, a bitter pang of helplessness striking every chord in his body.

Faking his death had clearly left its mark on you, and in a twisted, perverse way, that fact brought him a strange sense of satisfaction. It was obvious how deeply you cared for him—your breakdown over his “death” spoke volumes—and knowing that his own feelings were returned brought him a happiness nothing else could match.

Yet, even amidst the happiness, a shadow of sadness lingered. He couldn’t bear to see you like this—none of the others who had once filled the cabin could. To him, you were his little bumblebee, and you deserved nothing less than joy, far from the weight of any negative emotions.

He reached out to you through the screen, his hand moving gently as if to stroke your hair—a fragile attempt to comfort your trembling, tear-streaked form sprawled across the floor.

“Just wait, petal, I'll be back soon.”

[skyward-floored]

Whumptober Day 10: Passing out from pain

I’m soooooo glad I had this prewritten guys you have no idea. Who’s ready for a Hyrule blood curse fic? 😈

Warnings: blood and severe injury, brief body horror, uncertain fate of a character

Ao3 link

Continuation (day 18)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The blade sinks through his chest, and with it, seals Hyrule’s doom.

He can’t even scream anymore, his voice raw from threats and defiance and previous cries already torn from his throat. Ropes keep him from moving anything except for his head, and even if they weren’t, he’s so exhausted from the lack of nourishment and every last-ditch escape effort he’s made in the past couple days that he couldn’t move even if he wanted to.

So when the blade rips through him, right below his ribs, all that comes out of Hyrule’s throat is a breathy whimper.

It changes to a keening whine when the sword is twisted in his gut, the sound thick with agony. Blood gushes when the sword is pulled back out, and Hyrule lets out a weak cry, watching through blurry vision as his skin turns red with it.

Blood pools below him in a slight indentation in the stone, the rock cut precisely for this moment. It trails down the side, and Hyrule forces himself to watch as it lands in a large bowl with a pile of ashes, which immediately begin to smoke.

An angry sob tears from his throat as more of his blood spills, howls of victory and glee a cacophony in his ears. He fought tooth and nail against this ever happening, yet here he is, like a lamb at the slaughter, his blood spilled and Ganon’s return imminent.

And nobody comes to help him.

Hyrule closes his eyes then, shaking in pain and grief. He’d fallen through a portal alone, right into a near army of monsters in his homeland. Caught off-guard and dizzy from dark magic, he’d given the fight everything he had, but it hadn’t been enough. He’d been hit over the head and dragged away, and despite his endless attempts at freedom, nothing had worked.

The others had never shown up.

Goddesses if nothing else, send them to fix my mess, Hyrule pleads as he hears an unearthly squelch come from the ashes, and the monsters roar in excitement. Even if I have to die, help them stop him, don’t let my land be destroyed because of me.

A hissing sound is coming from the ashes now, dark magic coalescing and feeding off of Hyrule’s blood. It’s like ice in his veins, sharp and deadly cold, and Hyrule sobs again, giving a weak thrash against his bonds.

He can’t let them win. He can’t.

He can’t.

The dark magic is leeching off of him like a parasite now, feeding off of his blood and magic, stealing his energy and very lifeblood to use for its own purposes. The chanting around him speeds, excitement thrumming in the air. Hyrule hears something move beside him, drag itself through the ashes, and if he’d eaten anything in the past few days, it would be coming up now.

“More,” a voice rasps, phlegmy and horrific, and more tears born of pain roll down Hyrule’s cheeks as the blade sinks through him in a different part of his chest. He chokes, and it’s pulled out and slashed at his sides and arms as well. By then the pain is blocking out so much of his world that Hyrule doesn’t realize it at first when the blade is dragged from his shoulder straight down to the opposite hip.

He would scream, but what energy he had is being siphoned away from him, and all he can do is shudder with a cough that tastes like blood. His whole body feels soaked with it, and an almost hilarious thought drifts through his mind that it’s a good thing the monsters stripped him of everything but his shorts, otherwise he’d be washing bloodstains out for months.

As if I’ll live that long.

He convulses with another wracking cough, and blood spatters up with it, pain dulling so much of his world. For some reason the only clear sense he has left is his hearing, and his ears are filled with his own agonized breaths, chants and cheers of monsters, the gut-churning sounds of bones popping together and skin forming over flesh beside him.

He’s shocked he isn’t dead yet, but the dark magic probably has a hand in that. It’s siphoning even more greedily now, and Hyrule feels it increase and increase and increase until all he can do is shake and gasp from the pain it leaves him with.

It abruptly triples and rips a broken scream from his throat (apparently he is still capable of such noises), making his back arch and vision go red with agony. It only lasts a few moments, but they’re like a lifetime.

When it eases and Hyrule finally falls still, all he can do is drag in a trembling, wretched hiccup.

And then the laughter starts.

It begins at first weak and croaking, as if it has to remember how to make such a sound. But as the minutes tick by, it grows louder, and deeper, and so familiar that Hyrule nearly wails with the weight of his failure.

He’s back.

Oh gods he’s back.

Hyrule keeps his eyes closed as the laughter continues, his body finally gone limp. It’s the one comfort he has left, and the darkness behind his eyelids is getting deeper at the edges, the kind Hyrule only ever sees when things are really bad. But the moment he begins to drift into its edges, the stabbing ice of dark magic drags him back, wracking him with another bubbling cough.

Footsteps trail closer to him, different then that of the monsters who’ve been prowling around the stone. Fingers—claws abruptly grab his chin, tilting his face around, and Hyrule feels blood drip down his face.

“I know you live, Hero. Look at me.”

The voice is familiar and not, booming and smooth, yet holding an inhuman growl, one that makes Hyrule involuntarily shudder.

The claws grip tighter when he doesn’t obey, breaking skin. Despite how Hyrule doesn’t want to do anything that voice tells him, let his final act be one of defiance, his curiosity of what his failure has done gets the better of him.

He drags opens his eyes, and sees a monster.

Ganon isn’t a beast like when Hyrule fought him— but neither is he entirely a man. He’s some sort of mix of the two, claws rather than fingers, hooves instead of feet. His hair is more of a mane than anything, and where there isn’t fur, his skin has a blueish tone to it, one Hyrule wishes he didn’t remember so well.

Ganon’s face is largely human, though the features aren’t quite right, a snout-like nose, sharp teeth... especially the red eyes, shot through with a terrifyingly intelligent yellow. Those eyes study Hyrule in silence, the laughter subsided.

He tilts Hyrule’s head side to side, and Ganon leans so close to him that Hyrule can see the flecks of black in his eyes.

“This is the child who slew me?” he growls, digging his claws even tighter into Hyrule’s jaw. Hyrule can’t control the way his breath hitches in pain, and a smirk pulls at Ganon’s mouth, revealing fangs so large they’re almost tusks. “Pathetic.”

Ganon abruptly drops his chin, scoring marks along his cheek, and Hyrule can only watch as he studies the crimson on his hands, leaning forward to sniff it. A grin pulls at his lips, and he suddenly drags a clawed hand across Hyrule’s chest, coating his palm in blood as Hyrule chokes back another whimper of pain.

Ganon raises it up for the crowd of monsters to see, fingers dripping with red.

Then presses it to his bare chest, and the monsters roar at the handprint of blood left there when he removes it.

Ganon raises his hand to his mouth then, his tongue flicking out as he licks the remaining blood off his claws, and Hyrule chokes back bile. The monsters around them continue to roar, watching as their master licks their enemy’s blood from his hand, but they fall silent as he finishes, and raises a fist.

“Hyrule will be ours!” he roars, and the monsters roar with him, blin and poe, wizzrobe and daira, all ecstatic at the return of their master.

Ganon probably gives more of a speech of some kind then, one that whips the monsters into a near frenzy, but Hyrule doesn’t hear any of it, lost in his failure and brokenness. Blood still drips from his wrecked chest, sticky and hot against his freezing skin. His whole body is pain, his world is that of darkness and blood, and he doesn’t know why he isn’t dead yet.

Am I not even granted that release?

Something wet falls down his cheek, and Hyrule doesn’t know whether it’s blood or tears.

Just breathing is agony in its purest form, and Hyrule’s wet rasps grow weaker with every gurgling exhale. Claws grip at his chin again after a bit, pressing until his eyes open, and Hyrule sees Ganon leering at him mere inches from his face.

“Not yet, little hero,” Ganon growls, victory glinting in his eyes. “As much as I’d like to watch you drown in your own blood, I have use of you yet.”

Hyrule glares through the pain and his tears, rage at the beast in front of him granting him just a bit of energy. “G... g-go to... hhh—”

His chest convulses and blood spurts from his mouth in a weak cough again, making Ganon laugh.

He abruptly slams a clawed hand down on Hyrule’s middle, and his world explodes into white and red, swirling with stars that bleed almost as much as he is.

If he screams, he doesn’t hear it.

He can’t breathe, not through the pressure and pain in his middle, his throat full of liquid he’s too weak to expel. Hyrule gags and writhes, tears slipping down his nose, all while Ganon watches with a delighted smirk.

“Bring him,” he hears faintly, and Hyrule wants to do everything he can to stop that voice. He wants to scream and fight and protect his world from the monster he’s created, steal a sword and drive it through Ganon’s chest before he can do anything else, but he’s too drained. Too powerless.

Too weak.

All he can do is sob one last desperate prayer that his brothers will do what he couldn’t, and then his vision spirals from red to black.

[obsessedwhyyes]

A Tale of Fools and Tricksters (1)

Chapter 1: Whispers of Hope

Summary: The Festival of Fools - a carnival of magic and illusions which shall set your heart ablaze and bring your dreams to life. Legends say that the Festival of Fools will grant one wish to those pure of heart and soul - for a price. Seeking a cure for the Curse of Stone which plagues her people, Elysia Thorne seeks the aid of the festival's enigmatic ringmaster, Astarion Ancunin, whose charm is as dangerous as it is irresistible.

But as their fates intertwine, it becomes clear that all is not as it seems...

Rating: M Chapter Word Count: 5479 Pairing: Astarion x Fem!OC Content: Alternative Universe (Circus), Ringmaster Astarion, mild horror elements, eventual smut, eventual romance, basically a big whimsical (slightly dark, slightly trippy) fairytale of an AU.

A/N: And here we have my first ever longfic! I'm actually a teensy bit nervous about this one! While the direction and story are different, I was actually inspired a lot by Hunchback of Notre Dame for this. I always loved how it managed to be both incredibly dark and beautifully whimsical. So, going into this, I knew that's the vibe I wanted to go for. Hopefully you enjoy!

The applause faded like dying stars, yet the dream remained, vivid, unyielding.

The Ringmaster stood alone at the heart of his stage with ivory skin almost luminescent under the spotlight. His audience gazed up at him in endless wonder, their faces reflecting the ethereal lights that twisted and pulsed at his command.

He was beautiful, he was powerful, he was–

A flicker disturbed the edge of his vision - shadows slipping through shadows. The silver filigree at his throat seemed to tighten and, for a heartbeat, the lights dimmed, casting the stage into near darkness. In the breath of shadow, he glimpsed threads of starlight descending from above; felt the phantom touch of something cold against his skin.

Then came the voice, sliding through his mind, honeyed and ancient, sweet as poisoned wine. The words themselves faded into the dark, but their essence lingered, reminiscent of promises forged in moonlight and bound in blood.

But the Ringmaster’s smile did not falter. It did not waver, even as those shadows moved closer, ever closer…

But then, suddenly, he awoke.

He gasped, his hand searching for his neck.

There it was, as always. That collar of silver filigree, beautiful and confining.

Reality bled back as the dark, shadowy remnants of his dream made way for the vivid colours of his tent.

Yet, within his mind, soft as silk, sharp as teeth, he still heard them, hooking beneath his skin.

Whispers.

Whispers…

It began with whispers.

Hushed voices carried on the evening breeze, tales of wonder and magic that danced through the village of Starfall like autumn leaves. The Festival of Fools was coming, they said. A carnival of dreams and wishes, of laughter and light.

Elysia Thorne paid the gossip little mind at first. Her world had shrunk to the confines of sickrooms, providing whatever healing comfort she could to her people. A hopeless endeavour - everyone knows that halting the Stone Curse is impossible once it takes hold. 

First, you notice your fingernails turning brittle, cracking like sun-baked clay. Then comes the hardening - a creeping sensation that begins at your fingertips, as if you've dipped them in cement that never quite dries.

The transformation is slow, methodical in its cruelty. Day by day, the stiffness crawls up your fingers, turning flesh to granite, joints to unyielding stone. Your hands become living sculptures, beautiful in their horror - each line and wrinkle preserved perfectly in stone, a monument to what was once warm and alive. The curse inches up your arms with inexorable patience, claiming territory finger by finger, joint by joint, until your limbs become too heavy to lift.

Some say the worst part is watching it spread across your chest, feeling your lungs strain against the weight of stone ribs. But Elysia knew, from countless deathbed vigils, that the true horror comes when the curse reaches your heart. She had held too many hands - some warm, some already stone - as that vital muscle struggled against its rocky prison, beat by weakening beat, until finally... silence.

Thus, the art of healing the Stone Curse, such as it was, lay not in false promises of cure but in small mercies. A salve to ease the grinding sensation in solidifying joints. Warm compresses to comfort flesh not yet turned to stone. And, perhaps most importantly, a gentle presence in those final moments when the heart begins its last, laboured beats against walls of granite.

That was Elysia’s true role, here in this quiet little village. A sanctity of calm, of empathy in the face of certain death.

Elysia had planted countless herb gardens, seeking new combinations that might slow the curse's advance. She had filled her medical journal with careful observations, tracking the curse's progress through generations. She had even learned to weave dried flowers into her patients' hair - a reminder that beauty could exist alongside suffering. But for all her knowledge, all her careful studies and gentle ministrations, she couldn't halt the curse's inexorable march toward the heart.

These days, Yenna's case consumed most of her attention. The girl was twelve - far too young to face such a fate, though Elysia had learned long ago that the curse cared nothing for age or circumstance. It had already claimed Yenna's mother three months past, leaving the girl in Elysia's care more often than not. The father, overwhelmed by grief and the demands of a dying child, rarely visited anymore. 

The curse would visit Elysia one day too. It was only a matter of time.

In her small sickroom, Yenna lay caught in the curse's embrace, her left arm now completely transformed. The stone had a peculiar beauty to it - smooth and grey as river rock, with veins of lighter crystal that caught the lamplight. If you didn't know better, you might think it an artist's masterpiece. But Elysia did know better. She saw how the crystalline patterns were creeping past the girl's shoulder, advancing with each passing day.

She had perhaps a month before the curse reached her heart - two, if they were fortunate.

Yet Yenna seemed to bear her fate with a grace that Elysia could scarcely fathom, delighting in the little things - in fairytales, in the company of others, in the flowers that had been carefully weaved into her hair.

"Tell me a story, Elysia," Yenna whispered, her voice as fragile as spun sugar. "Something happy."

Elysia's heart clenched, but she summoned a smile as bright and warm as summer sunshine.

"Once upon a time," she began, "there was a beautiful nightingale with feathers as white as moonlight. But this nightingale had a terrible secret - it couldn't sing."

As she spoke, her hands worked with practiced grace, checking Yenna's pulse at her throat, adjusting pillows with the kind of gentle efficiency that came from years of tending to the cursed.

"The other birds mocked the nightingale, so it fled deeper and deeper into the forest, where the shadows grew thick and the moonlight barely touched the ground. There, it met a fox who offered to teach it a new kind of song - one that would make others marvel, one that would make them stare in wonder. The nightingale, desperate to belong, accepted."

Her fingers worked methodically as she spoke, applying fresh herbs to the boundary where flesh met stone.

"Its new song was beautiful, but strange - not quite natural, yet enchanting all the same. Other creatures came from far and wide to hear it, never knowing the price of such beauty. Night after night the nightingale sang, its voice growing more captivating, more otherworldly, until even the stars seemed to pause in their dance to listen."

She smiled softly, tucking a strand of Yenna's hair behind her ear, careful to avoid the grey patches beginning to show at her temples.

"One night, a kind traveler heard the nightingale's song. But while others were entranced by its haunting melody, the traveler heard something else - a loneliness beneath the beauty, a yearning for something real. With patience, the traveler showed the nightingale that its worth wasn't in any song, borrowed or natural, but in its spirit.

"Slowly, the nightingale found its own voice - softer than its enchanted song, perhaps, but true. And though some missed its otherworldly melodies, others were drawn to this new sound - one of resilience and hope. The forest, once so dark and lonely, became a place of honest beauty.

"And so, the nightingale learned that sometimes our greatest weaknesses can become our greatest strengths, if only we're brave enough to be true to ourselves."

Yenna's eyes, heavy with sleep, fluttered closed. A soft smile played on her lips as she drifted off, the story's gentle magic working its spell.

It was a fairytale she had told many others, and would do so again, granting a moment of reprieve to those for whom hope had faded like ink in water. But the whisper of hope in her own heart refused to be silenced. There had to be something more she could offer, some way to break this curse that had haunted her people for generations.

As if in answer to her unspoken plea, the wind outside began to change. Yes, there was something new on the breeze - the faint tinkling of bells, the creak of wheels, and... music?

She couldn't deny her curiosity.

As Elysia drew closer to the window, she saw something that made her breath catch.

A carriage unlike any she had ever seen rolled into the village square, wheels turning with an otherworldly grace that seemed to defy the rutted earth beneath them. It seemed a masterwork of impossible architecture - wood carved into flowing curves, painted with deep purples and midnight blues that shifted like oil on water. Golden filigree traced patterns across its surface, forming images that Elysia could have sworn moved when caught in the corner of her eye - acrobats frozen mid-leap, mystical beasts with jewelled eyes, masked figures dancing eternally.

Lanterns swayed from the carriage’s eaves, casting an otherworldly glow, lighting the way for the four horses that pull it. At first glance, they appeared to be made of living shadow, black coats seeming to absorb all light that touched them.

Atop this magnificent conveyance stood a figure dressed in a riot of blues and golds. A gold half-mask, matching his blonde, perfectly permed hair, obscured the upper half of his face, leaving visible only a pair of startlingly intense eyes and a practised smile. When he spoke, his voice carried across the square with an unnatural clarity - projected, maybe, to reach every ear in the village.

“Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed citizens of Starfall!” The man swept his arms wide, rings glinting on his gloved fingers. “I am Petras - herald of wonders and marvels beyond your wildest dreams!”

Elysia watched as curious faces, young and old, peeked out their doors and windows to catch a glimpse of the spectacle. Others were bold enough to approach the stranger, drawn to him like moths to a particularly enchanting flame.

“Behold!” Petras continued, his gestures grand and sweeping. “The Festival of Fools approaches - a carnival of wonders where the impossible bows to your imagination, where a realm of dreams and magic awaits, only a tenday’s travel away!” His smile widened, showing teeth that gleamed perhaps a touch too bright. “And where wishes might just come true for those brave enough - or desperate enough - to seize their chance.”

Wishes coming true… Elysia had heard rumours of the festival’s magic. But to see this otherworldly spectacle before her eyes… The very air around the carriage and its herald seemed to shimmer around them, as if reality itself knew this creation didn't quite belong in the waking world.

It couldn't be real…

Could it?

"Elysia." Jenevelle's voice cut through her wonder, sharp and practical as ever. "Whatever you're thinking, stop."

Elysia turned to find her fellow healer standing in the doorway, arms crossed. Where Elysia favoured flowing dresses and dried flowers, Jenevelle preferred practical robes in dark colours, her silver hair pulled back severely from her face. They were as different as summer and winter, yet somehow had forged an effective partnership in their shared calling.

"You haven't even heard what I'm thinking," Elysia said, though a smile tugged at her lips. It was an old dance between them - Elysia's hope and Jenevelle's scepticism, constantly at odds yet somehow balancing each other.

"I don't need to," Jenevelle moved to check on Yenna's sleeping form. "That look in your eyes says enough. And before you ask - no, I don't believe in magical festivals that grant wishes. Neither should you."

The crowd gathering in the square didn't share Jenevelle's doubts. They pressed closer as Petras continued his performance, his gestures grand and sweeping.

Elysia found herself leaning further out the window, her heart quickening. There was something in Petras’s voice - something that spoke to the ache of hope she'd carried for so long for her people.

“But how?” called a voice from the crowd. “A tenday’s travel, right as winter approaches. It's impossible.”

Petras’s laugh rang out like silver bells. “Ah, but that's the beauty of it!” With a flourish, he gestured to the carriage below. “This magnificent conveyance doesn't merely transport - it transcends! Space itself bends to its will. It will carry the worthy directly to the festival’s gates.”

The side of the carriage unfolded like a blooming flower, revealing the plush velvet seats within.

“But choose quickly, my friends,” he continued. “For the Festival of Fools is as fleeting as starlight, and far more precious. Miss your chance, and you may wait lifetimes before it graces your humble shores again.”

Elysia's hands curled against the windowsill. Hope, that dangerous flower she thought she'd learned to uproot, bloomed fresh in her chest. "What if it's real, Jen? What if there's a chance to break the curse?"

"And what of your patients while you chase fairy tales?" Jenevelle's voice was sharp, but her eyes were concerned when they met Elysia's. "What of Yenna?"

"You could tend to them," Elysia said softly. "You're as skilled a healer as I am."

" More skilled," Jenevelle corrected, with a touch of her usual dry humour. "I don't waste time weaving flowers into their hair."

Elysia turned to face Jenevelle fully. "We both know our treatments only ease their passing. The curse continues to spread, and nothing we do can stop it. I have to try. Even if it's just a chance, the smallest possibility... don't our people deserve that?"

Jenevelle was quiet for a long moment, studying Elysia with those sharp green eyes that seemed to see through all pretence. 

Finally, she sighed. 

"You're going regardless of what I say, aren't you?"

"Yes," Elysia admitted.

"Then at least let me help you prepare." Jenevelle moved to Elysia's workbench, gathering supplies with practised efficiency. "Take your medical journal. Your grey cloak - it's getting cold at night. And for gods' sake, try not to trust everyone who smiles at you."

Elysia felt her heart swell. "Thank you, Jen."

"Don't thank me yet," she replied. "Just... come back. These people need their gentle healer." A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "I'm not very good at telling stories."

Outside, Petras's voice rose in a final call. "Time grows short! Who among you dares to chase their dreams?"

Elysia quickly gathered her supplies, tucking them into her pack. She paused at Yenna's bedside, pressing a kiss to the sleeping girl's forehead.

"Go," Jenevelle said quietly. "Before I remember my common sense and try to stop you."

With one last look at her sleeping patient and her friend, Elysia slipped out into the night.

The air was thick with possibility and the sweet scent of hope - dangerous, and intoxicating as wine.

The crowd had thinned somewhat when Elysia approached the carriage. The hesitant had retreated to the safety of their homes, leaving only those whose desperation or curiosity outweighed their fear. The shadow-horses turned their luminous silver eyes toward her, and she felt a shiver run down her spine. Up close, she could see the way starlight shifted beneath their dark coats like veins of quicksilver.

Petras’s gaze settled on her with a calculating intensity. His smile softened, but something in his eyes remained sharp, assessing. He leaned forward, his voice dropping just low enough to draw her attention.

“Ah, another brave soul,” he said, the words honeyed but with a curious weight. He extended a gloved hand, as though welcoming her, yet there was an air of expectation behind it, an unspoken challenge.

“Step right up, my dear. Adventure awaits.” He held her gaze, then tilted his head. “But tell me, citizen of Starfall… What makes you wish to dance with fate?”

Elysia felt a chill, as though he had peeled back some layer of her heart to glimpse the wound within. “My people suffer from a curse,” she replied, lifting her chin. “If there is a chance I could find a cure, I would be a fool not to take it.”

Petras’s eyes gleamed, his smile widening. “Ah, a noble reason indeed. A healer’s heart, so quick to offer itself up for others.” He paused, his fingers tapping lightly against his chin. “But what of the risk? What if the price were steep, dear healer? What would you be willing to pay to end their suffering?”

The question echoed through her, stirring the depths of her own doubt. What would she sacrifice if it came down to it? Her life, her freedom? Or perhaps something else, something more intangible? 

She met his gaze, her voice unwavering. “Whatever it takes. I’ll pay it.”

Petras’s smile took on a strange satisfaction. “Good,” he said. “Then you are worthy indeed.” He reached out and grasped her hand, leading her to the carriage. His grip was firm, almost possessive, as though he were imprinting something unseen upon her.

“Come along, then,” he said, gesturing to the open carriage door with a flourish. “The Festival awaits, and the path to wonder is short for those who are ready to leave the known world behind.”

Five others had already claimed their seats in the carriage's velvet interior. Her healer's eye catalogued them automatically: a merchant whose fingers wouldn't stop counting invisible coins, nervous energy radiating from his thin frame; an elderly woman clutching a locket, her fingers twisted with age and arthritis; a young couple holding hands so tightly their knuckles had gone white, both bearing the telltale grey pallor of the stone curse's early stages. And a boy who couldn't have seen more than sixteen summers, his eyes bright with dreams of escape.

As Elysia settled onto the plush velvet, she found herself studying their faces more closely. How many were running toward something, and how many running away? How many carried wishes as desperate as her own?

The door swung closed with a deep, resonant sound - like the sealing of fate itself. 

And then, the world… shifted.

Colours blurred and bled into one another like wet paint, spilling from the edges of reality. The familiar sounds of the village - cricket songs, the faint bleat of distant sheep, the warm crackle of hearth fires - stretched and warped into something altogether unfamiliar, as if someone had pulled them apart like threads and woven them into a new, strange tapestry. Elysia’s stomach gave a lurch as reality folded around her, shifting in ways her senses couldn’t comprehend.

It was like being unmade and then reassembled in the space between breaths. Light fractured into ribbons of shimmering colour, winding around the carriage in a dance of prismatic splendour. Time lost all meaning; they could have been travelling for seconds or centuries.

And then, just as abruptly as it began, it stopped.

The door swung open to reveal a transformed world. Where once there had been the familiar, earthy confines of the village square, there now sprawled a fantastical landscape, too rich and strange for words, its beauty as alluring as it was unnerving.

The Festival of Fools stretched before them, a labyrinth of wonder that defied earthly architecture. 

And it was beyond anything Elysia could have dreamed.

Tents of midnight blue and deep crimson reached toward a sky caught in eternal twilight. Banners of silk and starlight rippled in the breeze, while lanterns of every hue bobbed and swayed overhead, their light catching on gilt edges and crystal chimes.

Elysia blinked, her gaze shifting to her fellow passengers as they tumbled out of the carriage, each one wearing a dazed expression. As dazed as she felt. She hesitated, instinctively reaching out to the elderly woman beside her - but her companion barely seemed to see her, her gaze fixed on a nearby tent. The woman’s fingers twisted around her locket, her eyes shining with something distant, as if already lost to the promise of whatever marvel lay within.

“Wait–” Elysia began. Her hand fell away as the merchant shuffled past her, eyes flickering to a tent entrance adorned with gleaming gold. Elysia opened her mouth to speak, but he had already drifted away, his body moving with a compulsion she could almost feel.

The young couple clung to each other, moving in perfect unison toward a stage where ethereal figures danced, their feet floating above the ground, defying gravity with languid grace. Their eyes sparkled with something strange and fierce, their fingers woven so tightly together that Elysia doubted she could have separated them even if she’d tried.

And the boy - the boy with his fierce, bright gaze - paused only briefly, sparing her a glance that was both curious and determined. Elysia raised a hand to him, but before she could even form a greeting, he turned toward a pavilion wreathed in veils of light, vanishing into the crowd with the others.

It was as if the festival itself had taken hold of them, plucking them away like petals from a flower and scattering them to its far corners. 

And so she stood. Alone.

The air buzzed with magic, thick and tangible, and Elysia felt it tugging at her too, inviting her to drift into its embrace, to forget herself in the allure of it all.

No, she thought, shaking her head. You’re here for a reason. Stay focused.

Her fingers brushed against the medical journal tucked safely in her pack - a small, grounding reminder of reality and purpose in this world that felt more like a waking dream.

With thoughts of her people, pained, with hearts pounding frantically against stone prisons strong in her mind, her resolve was surely immovable.

This was it now. No going back.

She took a deep breath, inhaling frosty air which carried the scent of mulled wine and honey, and took her first, tentative steps.

It was impossible not to stare in awe at all that surrounded her.

The festival sprawled in every direction, paths twisting and turning. Music wove through the air, sometimes near, sometimes far, always just familiar enough to be enticing. Each route beckoned with its own marvels - a path strewn with flowers that bloomed and wilted in heartbeats, another where the very ground rippled like water beneath her feet.

As she wandered, her trained eye couldn’t help but catalogue the details around her. Performers moved through the crowd with an otherworldly grace that was almost painful in its perfection, their bodies bending and twisting as if the bones within them were liquid: jugglers, acrobats, wandering magicians. Vendors offered sweets that sparkled like jewels and steamed with impossible colours.

Every sight, every sound, every scent seemed designed to overwhelm the senses, to make one forget the world beyond the festival's borders.

That's when she heard it - a voice that seemed to command the very air itself, echoing from the grandest tent she had ever seen. The Big Top stood at what seemed to be the heart of the festival, its peaks disappearing into the twilight sky.

The pull of that voice was irresistible. Elysia found her feet carrying her toward the Big Top of their own accord, drawn like a moth to flame. As she drew closer, the distinct sound of music grew stronger, wrapping around her like silk.

Elysia pushed through the velvet curtains that concealed the entrance.

And gasped.

Inside, row upon row of plush velvet seats surrounded a central stage, each filled to the brim with spectators who sat unnaturally still, their eyes fixed forward with an intensity that stirred something in Elysia's healer's instincts.

But it was the figure commanding the stage that truly stole her breath.

He moved with a grace that transcended mere performance, each gesture flowing into the next as though his very presence were an intricate, endless dance. His coat was black as a starless night, its fabric embroidered with shifting silver constellations that seemed to breathe with the light, stars woven into darkness. Beneath it, a deep crimson vest clung to his form, its subtle gleam catching the lantern glow like the first blush of dawn against shadowed cliffs. In his hand was a cane - a slender, polished rod of black wood that absorbed light, crowned with a silver star cradled within a crescent moon.

Around his throat, a high collar of delicate silver filigree encircled his neck, as beautiful as it was constrictive, its pattern like that of a spider’s web. His face was partly obscured by a half-mask of lace, its delicate, web-like design mirroring that of the collar, with tiny, glinting gems that sparkled like trapped stars. The mask framed his features, giving the sharp lines of his jaw and the hint of a smirk a more dangerous appeal.

But his eyes...

Gods, those eyes.

They glowed a fierce, unnatural red, like rubies held to candlelight, gleaming with a mix of mischief and promise. They swept across the crowd, capturing the gaze of every watcher with an intensity that bordered on hypnotic. 

And when they locked with hers, everything else faded into silence.

Time seemed to stop.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" His voice was like the richest of velvets. "Tonight, we transcend the mundane, we breach the veil between reality and dreams. But for our next performance..." His eyes remained fixed on Elysia, a smile curving his lips, "I require a volunteer."

Goosebumps flared across her skin.

His hand extended toward her, pale and elegant. "You there, my dear. Won't you join us?"

The invitation hung in the air like a challenge, but Elysia’s body had already betrayed her, rising before her mind could form a protest. The crowd seemed to melt away as she walked, her limbs light and unsteady, as though the air itself was enchanted. 

In this moment, it felt as though there was no applause, no noise - just the sound of her heart pounding in her chest and the soft, rhythmic pulse of the festival’s music humming through her bones. 

Up close… gods, he was beautiful. Beautiful in an ethereal sort of way that Elysia had never encountered: skin pale as moonlight, hair a shock of white.

But then he smiled, and his teeth… she could have sworn they seemed just a touch too sharp.

This man - this creature - radiated danger beneath his beauty, like poisonous flowers that tempt with their colours before they kill. 

Yet she had come too far to retreat now.

"And what's your name, darling?" he asked, his voice pitched for her ears alone despite the crowded tent. 

"Elysia," she managed, surprised by the steadiness in her voice. Years of maintaining calm at sickbeds served her well now, it would seem. "Elysia Thorne."

"Elysia," he repeated, as though tasting each syllable on his tongue. "I am Astarion, master of ceremonies and ringmaster of this humble circus." His head tilted slightly, studying her with those burning eyes. "Tell me, what brings a healer to our little festival of wonders?"

She started at that. "How did you-?"

"Your hands," he murmured, catching one of hers in his cool grasp. "They bear the telltale stains of medicinal herbs. And your eyes… they carry the weight of one who knows too much of suffering."

"My people are cursed," she said, lifting her chin. "They're turning to stone, and nothing I do can stop it. I've heard the festival can grant wishes."

A curious expression flickered in those crimson eyes before his smile widened, unreadable under that lace mask of his.

"Oh, you sweetheart." He turned to address the crowd, though his hand remained at the small of her back, cool even through the fabric of her dress. "Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we have something special indeed. A healer seeking to cure the incurable! Shall we show her what wonders await?"

Before she could respond, Astarion raised his cane with a flourish.

The stage erupted into light at the sweep of his cane, a soft shimmer that expanded and enveloped the space. Elysia felt the magic in the air, delicate as a lover's touch, winding between her fingers and across her skin.

Shadows and starlight blurred into a living tapestry as a phantom beast took form - a tiger, its body composed of silk-like darkness threaded with starlight. Its stripes glowed silver, each muscle rippling with a sensual grace as it prowled a slow circle around her, leaving faint trails of light that faded like a sigh.

"Beautiful, isn’t she?" he murmured near her ear, his voice like a low hum in the dark. Elysia felt her skin flush under the intensity of his attention. The cane twirled through his fingers with effortless skill, the silver star at its tip casting prismatic glints that danced over her skin, each glimmer a soft, fleeting caress.

"But that’s only the beginning," he continued. "Tell me, my dear healer, do you trust me?”

The responsible answer would be no. The safe answer would be no. 

And yet…

"Yes," she breathed.

He smiled something sinful. 

“Excellent.” 

With a flick of his wrist, he lifted her, magic making her as light as a feather. The tiger moved beneath her, and without hesitation, she found herself seated astride its back, floating through a dream woven of starlight. It was cool beneath her, a sensation like silk winding over her legs, tangible yet ephemeral, like liquid moonlight.

“You see, ladies and gentlemen,” Astarion’s voice echoed across the tent, his tone honeyed, “true magic lies not in the illusion itself, but in making you forget it’s an illusion at all.”

He lifted her higher, and as her feet left the ground, the phantom tiger began to dissolve, breaking into threads of light. It shifted beneath her, its form disintegrating into long, silken ribbons that spiralled upward, wrapping around her wrists, her waist, her ankles. Elysia gasped as the cool, weightless strands slid over her skin, binding her gently, lifting her further into the air, until she was suspended like a marionette in a web of pure magic.

The ribbons caressed her, sliding over her bare arms, tracing her collarbone, winding around her waist with an intimate, knowing pressure. They didn’t restrict her - they cradled her, their touch both tender and possessive, as though Astarion’s magic were wrapping her in the embrace of his own hands. She felt the shimmer of starlight against her skin, cool as frost yet stirring a warmth deep within her.

"You see," Astarion murmured, his voice close, dangerously soft, “true magic lies in the transition - that delicious moment between reality and dream.”

He extended his hand toward her, and the ribbons of light responded, lowering her gently until her feet nearly touched the stage, held in that intoxicating moment just before she could ground herself. She floated there, caught between the air and his spell, as though she had been pulled into the space between breaths.

“The moment,” he continued, catching her hand and pulling her close, “when one can no longer tell where the performance ends…”

He spun her, the ribbons of light tightening as he did so, sliding across her shoulders, down her back, encircling her waist in soft, twisting knots that bound her body to his magic. 

She was lost in him, in the power that flowed from his touch, in the way the silken light wound around them both like a lover’s embrace.

Elysia’s heart pounded in time with the pulse of the festival. And Astarion - he was the centre of it all, the master of this world, his every movement deliberate, calculated. She could feel it: the weight of his control, the way he led her without question, without hesitation.

And so, they danced. Deeply, intensely. Every step, every movement, every brush of his fingers across her skin was a command she couldn’t ignore. The ribbons tightened around her as he led her in intricate steps, each turn leaving trails of silver light in the air, shimmering like scattered stars. She could feel the texture of the magic against her skin, smooth and cool as it pressed into her, guiding her in a rhythm as old as desire itself.

“You’re beautiful when you let go, darling” he whispered, his voice low, dangerous. “So few allow themselves to surrender to the festival.”

The magic, and this bizarre, enchanted dance, reached its crescendo. Phantom stars whirled around them in dizzying spirals. The very air seemed to sing with power. And then...

He pulled her close, one final spin that ended with her dipped low in his arms. Their faces were inches apart, his cool breath mingling with her heavy breathing. The world beyond them had dissolved into a shower of starlight.

Time seemed suspended. Elysia could feel her heart pounding against her ribs, could see her own reflection in Astarion's eyes. 

There was something she was supposed to remember, something important...

But it slipped away like smoke through her fingers. How could anything matter more than this moment, this magic, this man who held her as if she were something precious and dangerous all at once?

Remember …

Remember? Remember what?

Her heart beat wildly under the allure of his gaze, his power.

... Why am I here again?

Masterlist can be found here!

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[parad-ice-lostandfound]

Prompt: The Devildom had been your home for the last two years. As such, you were confident in your ability to carry out a few errands on your own every once in a while. So when you were told that none of the brothers could accompany you in your little shopping trip for project supplies, you were fine with it. You could handle getting those supplies on your own, you had reassured them. So how did a simple outing turn into such a disaster? Pairing: OM!Brothers with GN!MC (can be read as platonic or romantic) Genre: Slight angst, Hurt/Comfort TW: Mc gets hurt, mentions of injuries, mention of blood in Satan and Asmo's part, Satan and Asmo's part is a bit darker than the others, I ran out of ideas by the time I got to the twins

You leaned against a stone wall, panting heavily. Your eyes darted this way and that way, and a lump formed in your throat.

How did a simple outing turn into this?

You sucked in a breath, gingerly lifting the edge of your shirt to inspect your side. A big bruise decorated your lower torso, its redness a garish and painful reminder of the very dangerous situation you had barely made out of.

The Devildom had been your home for the last two years. As such, you were confident in your ability to carry out a few errands on your own every once in a while. After all, you couldn't always rely on your friends to follow you along everywhere, even if they said they didn't mind. So when you were told that none of the brothers could accompany you in your little shopping trip for project supplies, you were fine with it. You could handle getting those supplies on your own, you had reassured them.

And now you were here, hiding in one of the Devildom's many alleyways from the demons that were clearly after your life.

"How could you let them get away like that?!"

A whimper left your lips as you tried to make sense of where exactly you were in Devildom, and how to get back to the HOL without getting caught by your bloodthirsty pursuers.

"... Did you hear that?"

"Yes."

You cursed the naturally superior senses of demons, breaking out into a run in the opposite direction of the voices. You could see streetlights and hear the hustle and bustle associated with Devildom's marketplace. Maybe you would be able to lose them in the midst of the crowd there?

You could hear footsteps behind you, internally thanking that you had taken up on Beel's offers to work out together. Your stamina couldn't fail you, not when those demons had cast a spell that locked your magic and your influence over your pacts. In other words, everything you knew and had was practically useless.

Just a little more, please!

Please!

The universe seemed to take pity on you finally as you saw a familiar figure in the crowd. You could almost cry from the relief, calling out his name as loud as you could.

Lucifer

"LUCIFER!"

Lucifer did not know what to think when he heard you yell his name, followed by you almost barreling into him. If not for his instincts being as quick and precise as they are, you both would have fallen to the ground. And he intended to let you know just how reckless and dangerous that was, at least until he saw you clutching your side with pain on your face. The concern that he'd pushed to the back of his mind in favour of scolding you came back in full force, and he cupped your face, using his magic to soothe you and check what was wrong.

"MC? What is the matter, hm?"

The absolute concern and care in his voice caused the dam to burst, and all of the panicked and scared feelings that you had set aside in favour of finding your way back home appeared in the form of tears. Lucifer pulled you into his arms, the way you were crying, hiccupping and stuttering over your words as you told him everything making him tense up slightly.

Once you were calm enough, he took you to a nearby restaurant, paying for a private area. He ordered a few dishes, and while you waited, he asked you to describe the demons' appearance. He kept you next to him, tracing circles on the back of your hand closest to him as you did, carefully listening (and recording everything on his DDD). When the food finally came, he asked you to start eating, claiming he wasn't hungry yet.

Lucifer hummed reading Mammon's message. Out of all of his brothers, he knew he could count on Mammon to show some restraint and bring the lowly things that dared to harm his human in front of Lucifer, without immediately killing them on sight. He would prefer to not tell his brothers of this incident, but one look at you and they would figure out something was wrong.

Lucifer: Mammon.

Lucifer: Some demons tried to harm MC. This is a description of them. Find them.

att. recording

Mammon: On it.

"Lucifer?" Garnet eyes flew upwards to meet yours, instincts still on high alert for the first sign of discomfort. "Yes, MC?"

You lightly raised your fork to his lips, a wordless request to feed him. Peculiar, that even when you were the one shaken in spirit and hurt physically, you thought about his well-being. It was nowhere near the time he had his lunch. He knew it, and he knew that you did as well. But, he decided to indulge you, letting you feed him and yourself, while he used his magic to counter the spell cast on you and speed up your healing process.

Lucifer escorted you back to the HOL, his hand on the small of your back as he assured you that Levi would get you your supplies from Akuzon. As you neared the house, you could make out Satan standing at the door, a serious look on his face that melted into a gentle smile the moment your eyes met. Lucifer handed you over to Satan after pressing a gentle kiss on your forehead. "Rest, my dear. I have some business to attend to, but I should be home before dinner." He looked as Satan ushered you inside, Asmo's fussing over you audible through the closed doors. Lucifer turned and walked away, eager to see who were foolish enough to try to harm his human, his master.

Mammon

"MAMMON!"

"Who- MC?!?!"

Mammon nearly had a heart attack when you yelled his name. When he turned and saw you sprinting toward him with no sign of slowing down? He was scared out of his mind. Before he knew it, he had rushed forward to meet you halfway, causing the two of you to collide fairly painfully. You didn't fall over like most would think. Unfortunately, in his well meaning attempt to stabilize you, Mammon accidently squeezed right on your bruise, causing you to jolt away from him with a pained yelp. "Woah- Are ya okay?!" he asked, face concerned as his eyes jumped from looking you up and down to scanning the crowd for any possible dangers.

You desperately tried to stop yourself from crying as you quickly gave him a brief summary of what had happened to you. His eyes darkened at the mention of the bruise, muttering apologies and incoherent swears as he pulled you into his embrace.

Mammon let out a low whistle, and the next thing you knew, there was a crow sitting on his shoulder. You could swear it looked sad as it saw you clutching onto Mammon, who spoke to you in a calming manner. "Look, I know ya probably don't want to talk about this, and I really don't blame ya... but do you remember anything about those... vermin that dared to hurt you?" he asked you, one hand rubbing your back ad he glared at any demon that stared at the two of you. His cheeks were darkened slightly, though whether that was from anger or holding you so close, you didn't know. Still, you answered his question to the best of your ability, while Mammon and his familiar listened attentively. After you were done, Mammon decided it was time to go back home, giving his familiar some instructions before letting it go.

Mammon refused to let go of you the entire walk back to the HOL. Once you reached home, he walked past all of his brothers, ignoring them till they two of you reached his room. Opening the door, he murmured for you to go in and rest while he talked to his brothers.

It took him a while before he came back to you. You were sitting on the couch staring off into nothing. Mammon sighed as he walked over to you, sitting beside you. His arm came around your shoulders, pulling you in close. "Whatcha thinking 'bout, Treasure?"

You let out a shaky sigh, pushing yourself back into Mammon like he was the only thing keeping you from completely coming undone. Mammon worried at the lack of response from you as he brought his other hand to hold you properly. "You're safe now, MC. Lucifer'll take care of everything once the kids find them," he said, smiling when you chuckled at him referring to his crows as his kids. That's how the two of you stayed, till Levi came to inform him that the demons to tried to hurt you were caught.

You had fallen asleep a while back, so Mammon picked you up, careful not to wake you, and placed you on his bed. After tucking you in properly and making sure you were as comfortable as possible, he followed Levi out of his room. It was time to teach a lesson to the ones who dared to take his human from him.

Leviathan

"LEVI!"

Levi had not anticipated leaving the house would result in you barreling into him in one of Devildom's busiest streets. In his surprise at your shout, he transformed into his demon form, his tail wrapping around you securely as you both fell onto the ground.

"Ouch... M-Mc? Are you okay?" Levi asked, his voice slightly shaky as his heart raced inside his chest. You laid on top of him, unmoving, which concerned him more than anything else. He lightly shook you, hoping to get a reaction out of you, "Mc?"

His heart calmed a bit when he felt you tightening your hold on his clothes, but immediately started racing at twice the previous speed when he saw you shaking in his arms. Gently, he pried your face away from its hiding spot on his chest, hands shaking as he tilted your face up to look at you.

Levi stopped breathing when he saw your eyes filled with tears, his mind blanking out on everything else as his gaze narrowed in on your face; more specifically, the little cut you had gotten on your bottom lip.

"Who... who dared to put their filthy hands on you?" he asked, in a low and dangerous voice. He wasn't the otaku Levi you knew and loved anymore. Right now, he was Leviathan, the third of the Seven Deadly Sins, and the General of Hell's Navy. But he made you feel incredibly safe as he tenderly cupped your face in his hands, as if he was handling one of his beloved figurines.

As you narrated the entire incident, Levi began to grow more and more agitated. In between hissing that this is why he prefers to shop online and fretting over your well-being, he somehow managed to flood the market square and summon Lotan.

Lotan, ever in tune with his master's wishes and emotions, sensed the demonic trails left on you by the spell, and went off to hunt the demons down, while Levi stayed behind with you.

Once Levi calmed down a little, he insisted on taking you back to the House of Lamentation. He knew Lotan would find the demons for him, toying with them to keep itself occupied while waiting for further instructions from its master. As he walked you home, he was quiet. In his mind, he was thinking of the ways he could inflict the most gruesome of pain on those that sought to harm his Henry.

Maybe he could convince you to move into his room with him. That way, he would be able to keep an eye on you better...

For now, though, he would stick to taking you home, and buying you whatever you needed off of Akuzon.

Satan and Asmodeus

"ASMO!"

Asmo turned at the sound of your voice, an excited smile on his face that dropped the second he saw the panic on yours as you rushed into his open arms. He let out an oof, the force from your throwing yourself at him making him lose his footing and stumble, only to be saved by Satan standing behind him.

"Mc, darling!" "Mc, are you alright?" Both the demons spoke at once, two pairs of eyes trained on your figure as they both sensed the panic lingering in you. Asmo lightly trailed his hand over your back, pressing you close to his chest as he asked, "What happened, darling?"

Through stuttered breaths and coughs you told them that you were being pursued by some demons, mentioning the bruise and the fact that they cast a spell on you to leave you helpless. You watched as something dark and lethal flashed in Asmodeus' eyes before your attention was captured by Satan abruptly leaving your side.

Before you could go after him, Asmo placed a hand on your shoulder. "Let him take care of this, darling. Why don't I take you back home and help you relax? You've had a very difficult day, after all." When you hesitated, he gave you a small pout, his eyes shining brightly in a way that reminded you of a puppy. "Please~ Let me pamper you, help you forget all of this? Satan will be fine..." he said, voice slightly whiny as he clung to your arm, careful not to aggravate any of your injuries.

When you finally relented and let him walk you back to the House of Lamentation, you missed the way Asmo looked off into the direction Satan had left for a brief moment, a cruel fascination in his eyes.

Once home, he quickly ushered you into his private bathroom, running a warm bath for you and adding the scents he knew you preferred. He left you alone in the bathroom after ensuring you had everything you needed, and telling you to call for him if you wanted his company as he shut the door behind him.

Asmo thoroughly pampered you when you walked out of the bathroom, refreshed and somewhat relaxed after your bath. He smothered you with his affection, but you didn't mind. You never did.

It was quite late when Satan returned, walking into Asmo's room to find you sleeping peacefully, your head on Asmo's lap as the demon ran his fingers through your soft hair. Satan smiled, his hand almost resting on your cheek, when Asmo smacked his hand away. "Don't get that filthy blood on them," he said, his usual bubbly nature nowhere to be found as he glared at the blood decorating Satan's hands. Satan nodded in understanding, before leaving the room to get cleaned up.

When he returned, he saw Asmo gently setting a pillow under your head and tucking you in his bed. The Avatar of Lust stood straight after ensuring you were still sleeping, before turning to his brother. "I hope you left some for me?~"

Satan smirked. "I did. I even went ahead and strapped them into those machines you like to use." Asmo giggled, the sound tainted with a sadistic sort of glee.

"This will be fun~"

Beelzebub and Belphegor

"BEEL!"

Beel let out a confused hum as he turned. His eyes widened, protective instincts rampant as he saw you running towards him, and the bag of chips in his hand fell to the ground as he moved to get to you first.

You crashed into him, his arms winding around your back to keep you from falling. "Mc?" came Belphie's voice, as he looked over to where you and Beel were standing. The youngest demon's eyes narrowed in on the slight trembling of your body as you caught your breath in Beel's arms.

Beel looked down at you with a concerned look, then back at his twin. Belphie approached the two of you, gently touching your back and providing the comfort that you so desperately needed. He observed you carefully, trying to pry out what had happened, while Beel scanned the surroundings for any threats.

Soon enough, you told them everything. Belphie's eyes hardened, causing you to flinch at the murderous glint in his eyes. Unbeknownst to you, Beel shared similar feelings with his twin.

"Let's get you home," Belphie said, his voice gentle when he addressed you, with his words making it clear it was not a suggestion he would let you talk him out of. Beel nodded, and the three of you started the journey home.

The entire walk home, Beel did most of the talking, telling you of the doughnuts he and Belphie had gotten from Uncle Demon's. Belphie was content with mostly listening, adding his two cents whenever Beel asked him something.

As soon as you guys reached the House of Lamentation, you were pulled into the attic for a nap by the Avatar of Sloth, while his twin went and informed Lucifer of everything.

When Beel came up to the attic, he found you peacefully sleeping, your head on Belphie's arm and your legs tangled with the youngest. Belphie lay awake, his vibrant eyes watching over your sleeping figure vigilantly.

Beel got into the bed as well, protectively curling around your back as his hand rested on your hip. No words needed to be exchanged between the two of them; they knew that they would soon have the people who tried to harm their human in their grasp.

And once they did, they would not hesitate to show exactly why they were lauded as two of the seven rulers of the devildom.

[morverenmaybewrites]

His Father's Son

Chapter 1: A Home Half in Ruins

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

CW: Major Character Death, Graphic Depictions of Violence

Tags: Alternative Universe: Dark Fantasy Gotham City, Hanahaki Disease, Childhood Friends to Lovers

Synopsis:

Gotham City: the world’s last and greatest bastion of magic. A city made out of spells and twisting steel.

And the only place where the dead can be brought back to life.

After Jason Todd had been forcibly resurrected by his father, he left Gotham City in search of a new life. One where he did not have to be constantly reminded that he now sits on the border between the monstrous and the miraculous. One where he could forget that no longer quite belongs in the world of the living.

But when a strange new curse surfaces, one that causes plants to take root inside of living people and leaving flowering corpses in its wake, Jason finds that he must come back and help solve the case before it devours the city whole.

Read on AO3

Preview:

Jason Todd hated taking the bus. 

He hated the fact that there was only one exit–one escape route, and that he was almost always seated too far from it. He hated the constant contact with strangers, any one of whom could be carrying a gun or a bomb or a knife, never mind the fact that Jason himself had all three on his person at any given time. 

He hated where this particular bus had been taking him, right before it had come to a screeching halt in the middle of the road.

The thing that had somehow snuck aboard, ripped off the driver’s left arm, and curled up above the glass doors did not help improve this sentiment. 

It had a man’s head, its once-blue pupils now milky with death, sitting on top of a writhing mass of arms. Some of its hands scrabbled at the glass windows, fingernails tapping out a meaningless rhythm that made Jason’s s head ache. Others were grasping blindly at the steering wheel.

Its mouth opened, once, twice, as if trying to speak. But no sound came out. A quarter-sized hole, neatly slotted in the center of its forehead, sluggishly oozed out blood. 

Jason’s gun was still smoking. 

Someone behind him spoke in a shaking voice. Jason could smell the stink of urine. 

“Is it dead?”

The head twitched, when it heard the woman’s voice.  

Then it smiled, showing far too many teeth, yellowed and cracked like old tombstones. Its arms stilled their distracted movements, muscles cording underneath gray skin. 

Though its eyes didn’t move, Jason knew that the thing’s attention was focused solely on him. 

He reached for his other gun. 

“No.” 

[badperson-8]

Butting In (Part 2) Satan and Asmodeus

Male/AMAB MC finds an intriguing sex toy – a magical fleshlight, which is automatically connected to the body of whoever haunts their sexual fantasies. How will each brother react if MC succumbs to the temptation and uses the device?

amabMC x Satan | amabMC x Asmo

2.7k words | NSFW | Porn without plot | gn!pronouns MC | AO3 link

Content Warnings: Dub-con | Anal Sex | Mentions of Blood and Violence (not during sex)

Part 1 (Lucifer, Mammon, Levi) Part 3 (Beel, Belphie) Part 4 (Diavolo)

Satan

Satan breathes heavily as he opens his eyes and looks around. There are three unconscious bodies (maybe even corpses) lying at his feet. Their flesh is all torn up, lacking either an arm or a leg. Satan stares at his hands, covered in blood, trying to remember how he got to this point. As the red liquid dries up and loses its pleasant warmth, he recalls what exactly happened.

Satan was on his way to the bookstore to find a book from the Human world MC mentioned earlier, when he heard a strange commotion in the alley nearby. He had some spare time, so he decided to check what was going on. There he found three young demons who were having fun by torturing a cat. The poor creature had multiple wounds all over its body.

The next second, Satan was standing in his demon form with blood on his hands. Well, that certainly explains things. It’s a relief that the reason for his temporary memory loss was rage. It would be unfortunate if he started having memory problems; his brain is an important storage of countless useful pieces of information after all.

Satan ignores the quiet whining of one of the demons - torturers of cats don’t deserve life in his book. It’s much more important to find the wounded kitten. It is known that cats have some mysterious connection to the Devildom, the land itself protects them, granting magical abilities that also include fast regeneration. They are much more vulnerable in the Human world than here, but still. It’s important to check this cat just in case, and maybe carry it to the vet clinic.

Satan takes a few steps further to the alley when he suddenly feels the overwhelming pleasure spreading across his whole body. The demon stops in shock, trying to analyze what provoked this reaction. Definitely not the recent massacre; Satan knows himself well enough to know that while violence satisfies his needs as the Avatar of Wrath, it doesn’t turn him on. Maybe the reason for such a reaction is the fact that it’s a rare occasion when he almost feels like a hero? Sexual arousal has a strong emotional component, after all. Even simple feelings like happiness or excitement can become erotic stimuli under certain circumstances…

The second wave of pleasure feels less overwhelming, because Satan was mentally ready for it. And he got a chance to examine the reaction of his organism more attentively. He notices a pattern, which leads him to believe that the source of these disturbances is…

His own backside. Satan shakes his head, his mind refuses to accept this information. It is indeed a delicate place with lots of nerve endings, but it can’t produce such… reactions on its own, without any stimulation.

Satan frowns and closes his eyes, examining his magical energy. Just as he thought, there are faint traces of the curse on him. The demon growls when he feels how invisible touches slowly move past his anal sphincters and get into his rectum. He has never understood why nature decided to make this particular place so sensitive. And now he has to endure such humiliation because of this. Satan’s pupils become narrow slits as he sinks into pure wrath.  

Satan snarls as he tries to ignore the distracting sensations and concentrate on the source of the curse. He can’t discover the essence of this spell or artifact, but he got something even better: a destination. Satan bares his fangs in something that almost looks like a victorious smile. His demon form makes him fast and efficient, so he jumps as high as he can and digs his claws into the brick wall, climbing up.  

Satan reaches the roof and starts running towards the source of the curse, imagining how he will rip out the intestines of the one who is behind all this. The sudden feeling of something wet inside him makes the demon trip off, but he grabs the side of the building just in time to save himself from a nasty fall. Satan roars, feeling his blood boil from fury. He jumps back on the roof, but this time he gets on all fours and starts sprinting as fast as he can.

The desire to tear apart the fool who dares to do this to him overtakes his brain. Satan can only concentrate on the magical trail and annoying boner that makes the way more difficult and longer than it should be. He doesn’t even realize where he’s sprinting. His eyes no longer see the road, as he feels something hot and heavy pushing past the tightened rings of muscle. Satan can only hear his own heartbeat and the blood pumping in his head as he gets closer to his goal.

Roof. Long jump. Concrete. Porch. Door. Fuck the door. Window. Jump…

The window shatters loudly, scratching the demon, but he couldn’t care less. Satan jumps straight at the target, dropping them on the floor and climbing on top of them. He swings his arm forward, ready to dig his long claws into the flesh…

But as he sees MC’s face, he redirects his hand to the side, scratching the floor right next to their face. They stare at each other in shock, unable to understand what is happening.

Satan silently turns his head around and sees some kind of artifact attached to MC’s hard dick. Even his monstrous face, covered in blood, and sudden attack didn’t kill their arousal. In fact, it seems they’re getting even harder…

Satan immediately looks back at MC, his eyes widening even more. MC just lays under him silently, their brain is completely shut down. Satan also has to gather all his strength to be able to think somewhat rationally. So, they find him… attractive? Even in his demon form? Even when he looks like… this? And it was them the whole time? They are… inside him?

A sudden moan from MC makes Satan almost jump to the ceiling like a scared cat. He only now realizes how fast his body relaxed as soon as he realized that MC was the cause of this… misunderstanding. His muscles stopped violently squeezing MC’s dick, so now the human must experience whole new sensations. Satan’s body feels it as well. Now, when his mind is not against the sudden intrusion, he starts to… enjoy it.

Satan tilts his head in curiosity, examining the human. His pupils slowly dilate as his shiny, green eyes absorb every hint of pleasure on MC’s face. His sharp, spiky tail carefully slides along MC’s body, stopping its tip near the artifact. It slowly wraps around the device, grabbing it tightly. Satan finds himself smirking when he sees the confused reaction of the human beneath him.

His tail gently moves the artifact up, along the hardened dick of MC. His claws uncontrollably rupture the floor near the human’s head as he feels the resumed movement inside. Satan and MC moan synchronically as the tail starts moving the artifact up and down, bringing them both immense pleasure.

Satan feels the human’s hands on his hips. Their trembling fingers attempt to unzip his pants and get to his dick. It takes them several tries, but they prevail in the end. MC starts massaging Satan’s cock, pumping it to the pace of their thrusts into the artifact. The demon growls in approval and satisfaction, quickening the movements on his tail.

The tempo of the pushes becomes intense and uncontrollably rough. Satan doesn’t dare put his hands or lips on the human, fearing to injure them with his sharp claws and fangs. MC doesn’t have such a problem, though, so they use this advantage to tease the mighty demon. Satan grumbles, but it feels too good, so he allows MC to do everything they want.

It doesn’t take long for them to reach their peak. Satan comes on top of his human, shivering with his whole body. He inhales deeply the smell of sex and pleasure that fills the whole room. Satan can’t hold in a soft purr as he settles on top of MC, not intending to get up anytime soon.

…Later that day, when Satan decided to finally release MC, they both visited the infamous alley. Bodies were nowhere to be seen, but they found a completely healthy cat, who ate all the treats they brought. It seems, the Devildom’s magic treats cats even kinder than it’s described in books. And demolishes everyone who tries to disturb the peace, one way or another.

Asmodeus

Today is a big day. Asmo has been chasing this opportunity for several months. He finally became the new face of Goetia Cosmetics. This company primarily specializes in hair products, but after a recent rebranding, they decided to start releasing makeup kits. It was a huge deal ever since they announced it, and every model, influencer, and actor wanted to be the ambassador of the new cosmetic line.

Asmodeus wasn’t so desperate, of course. Well, at least he hid it very well. In truth, he wanted this job just as much as everybody else. It was quite overhyped, true, and he totally understood it. But even MC, who wasn’t very knowledgeable about the fashion world of the Devildom, heard about this advertisement campaign. The second MC mentioned Goetia Cosmetics in a casual conversation with him, Asmodeus knew that he couldn’t let some second-rate model steal the spotlight. Not when MC had their eyes on this campaign.

The only problem was that Goetia Cosmetics didn’t want to hire well-established and popular celebrities. They were looking for a new face, someone fresh and unique. So they dared to refuse Asmo when he graciously offered his services.

But Asmo was in the business for too long to let this little unpleasant episode stop him. So, after a couple of polite, professional meetings and death threats, the company quicklyunderstood how foolish it was to refuse the most beautiful and popular demon in the whole Devildom. They even raised the fee for modeling in their campaign after Asmo semi-publicly assumed that they were looking for a new face purely to pay less to a presumed young and gullible model.

But Asmo is already regretting his decision to join this campaign. Deadlines are always brutal in this sort of business, but this is a new level of incompetence. Asmodeus sighs, checking his look in the mirror one last time. The company managed to do wonders from a marketing standpoint. But when it came to creating the actual material for the campaign, it became clear that the people in charge weren’t ready for a project of such scale. Deadlines were moved and missed multiple times on each stage of the project, and now they’ve reached a critical point. His photos were supposed to be published long ago, but they didn’t even start shooting them.

So now, it seems like the whole photoshoot will last for only one day. Asmo has no right to make a single mistake, he can’t feel ill or tired. He needs to deal with it like always, professionally.

Even if he feels suspiciously pleasant sensations in the area of his butthole. Asmo sighs once again, not sure if he should be pissed off or happy. MC chose literally the worst time to find the little present Asmo left for them. Asmodeus thought that it would make for a thrilling little game. He had no doubts about who would be in MC’s sexual fantasies. So he waited. And waited. And waited. But MC took their sweet time.

Okay, Asmodeus didn’t explain what this device was made for, and he simply left it in MC’s bedroom as a surprise. Maybe he chose a not so obvious spot, but still. MC should’ve figured out what this thing does long ago. And they finally did it. Fantastic.

“Mr. Asmodeus, sir. We’re starting in five minutes. Are you ready?” A little, round demon with impressive horns squeaks at Asmo, trembling slightly.

“Yes.” Asmo simply responds, wincing as MC’s fingers gently penetrate his hole. The little demon decides that Mr. Asmodeus doesn’t want to be disturbed, so they quickly run away.

Asmo examines his face in the mirror, wondering whether he’ll manage to hide his growing erection and unavoidable moans, sitting under the spotlight in front of several cameras. He’s quite good at being sneaky and masking naughty activities in public. But this is too public for his liking.

MC’s fingers gently play with his hole and move deeper, no doubt feeling Asmo’s warmth inside the artifact. They’re taking their sweet time again; they clearly don’t intend to finish in the next five minutes. Such delicious torture. Asmo smiles softly, teasingly squeezing the fingers with his muscles…

“Mr. Asmodeus, sir! We’re ready to start!” The same round demon returns, interrupting Asmo’s thoughts. Have five minutes already passed? Preposterous. So he was glued to the mirror this whole time, lost in the sensations from MC’s skilled fingers. A new wave of rumors about Asmo’s narcissism will certainly start after this, but he couldn’t care less.

Asmo straightens up and pridefully walks towards the chair on which he’ll spend the next several hours. At least he doesn’t have to advertise clothes, only the makeup on his face. He crosses his legs and casually places his hands in the area of his groin, attempting to hide his quite visible erection.

A lovely makeup artist runs towards him, fixing the last minor details on his face before the photoshoot starts. This is the exact moment MC chooses to apply some lube inside the artifact, making Asmo shiver and passionately breathe out on the verge of a moan right into the makeup artist’s face. Needless to say, the artist runs away immediately, blushing and stumbling. Well, at least the whole predicament is entertaining. But Asmo needs to control himself better to avoid harassment lawsuits.

And MC definitely doesn’t make it easier for him. He feels how their hard dick thrusts inside, going all the way in in one motion. The camera clicks right in front of Asmo’s face, capturing all the little details. The demon clenches his fists, doing his best to maintain a joyful smile, but it’s hard when MC immediately takes the crazy pace and pushes inside him at tremendous speed. Asmo is well aware of how mind-blowing his ass can be. He’s the Avatar of Lust, after all. But he never knew he would wish to be a little less perfect.

Because MC on the other side simply loses their mind, ramming the artifact with all their might. Asmodeus has to utilize every last piece of his acting skills to not show what he actually feels. He desires to spread his legs and take the whole length of MC’s dick, over and over. He wants to milk the damn thing, absorbing every last drop of MC’s cum. He wishes he could whimper and scream from pleasure as loud as he wants.

But he calmly sits on the chair, politely smiling and obediently turning his head 10 degrees to the side, so that the lighting illuminates his features better, just as the photographer wants it. Asmo’s boner leaves prominent wet stains on the fabric of his pants. He can feel it as he tries to stop his legs from shaking.

Asmo feels MC coming inside him, holding in a sigh of relief and smiling more brightly than ever. Finally, he gets a chance to take a break. Maybe he’ll even manage to make the boner go away if he concentrates on the photographer’s large pimple, which shines provokingly on his nose.

But the bright smile instantly disappears, as he feels MC going for the second round. Such stamina is quite admirable, but not in this situation.

“Asmo? What happened?” The photographer worryingly asks, noticing the disappearance of the smile.

“…Nothing. Please, continue.” Asmo smiles once again, bracing himself for a very long photoshoot.

…The campaign was a tremendous success, despite all the little problems during the production period. Asmodeus managed to make a ton of high-quality photos for the ad. But there was one particular picture that was used the most and became the official photo of the whole campaign.

That photo pictured Asmo’s most genuine and happiest smile the world has ever seen. It was the exact moment when, after several hours of sweet torture and several rounds of getting his ass destroyed by MC’s dick, Asmodeus gave up and let himself come right in front of the whole filming crew and a dozen cameras. All while keeping his cheerful smile on. Because that’s what being a professional means.

Part 1 (Lucifer, Mammon, Levi) Part 3 (Beel, Belphie) Part 4 (Diavolo)

P.S. The art doesn't belong to me, it's an official art from Shall We Date: Obey Me! (The Mysterious Box card)

[cherryslyce]

Second Son (V) | Regulus Black

Series Synopsis: Forbidden from contacting Harry over the summer, you opt to explore the eerie halls of Grimmauld Place where you stumble upon a lonely portrait of the House's second son.

— Chapter Synopsis: Dumbledore's Army serves their detention with Umbridge. Y/N figures out the communication charm dilemma, and Regulus is unhappy with Y/N.

Part IV / Part VI / Series Masterlist

Pairing: Regulus Black x GN!Reader

Notes: Not canon compliant. More magic lore. Buckle up for some trouble.

You barely had half the mind to cast a muffliato over Regulus’ portrait to prevent him from hearing the chaos around you before you were crowded with a few other D.A. members by Draco. The Inquisitorial Squad surrounds you all, penning you in, as Umbridge continues to walk ahead, a pleased smile painting her face. 

As soon as you’re through the threshold of the DADA classroom, Goyle slams the doors closed, leaving your group of troublemakers with a gleeful Umbridge. 

Her grins grow impossibly wider, as she happily begins talking, “Now, now students. Take a seat. Today, you will be writing lines as a punishment for your insubordinate behavior.” 

You see Harry cringe at her words and the blood starts to drain from your face. You had heard whispers in dark alcoves of the castle about her barbarous detentions, and now it seemed you would be experiencing it firsthand. 

Good thing you decided to keep Regulus in the dark about this. You would have liked to leave him in your dorm like you usually did when you went to class, but Umbridge did not delay in bringing down her iron fist. 

Bloody sadist.  

You felt one of the twins place their hands on your shoulders, steering you towards a desk, only dropping down defiantly in the seat next to yours once you were sat.

Still dazed, you foggily make out how Umbridge levitates numerous quills onto all the desks, followed by a small cut of parchment. Regulus’ portrait seemed to almost burn in your pocket as you could feel the faint stinging of panic cut through your nerves. 

Satisfied with everyone’s complacency, Umbridge rests atop an ornate chair before chirping out your directions, “Now, you will all write ‘I must obey the rules’ until the words sink in.”

The cold sweat that breaks out on your body makes the room spin impossibly faster. Everyone was tense in their seats, a mixture of fury and fear permeating through the air. 

You didn’t know why you were panicking. You had faced far worse in the past. But, in a way, you were almost ashamed. You were going to be marked. Tainted. Tainted by someone as weak as Umbridge. You were at the complete mercy of a foe you and your friends underestimated. 

You all became too sloppy, careless. You were too comfortable, too naive. You would be sure to never make that mistake again.  

Taking in a deep breath, you picked up the quill that felt three times its normal weight in your hand, and began to write. The room began to fill with quiet hisses and muffled exclamations of surprise by those who were not quite aware of the darker nature of the punishment. 

This was definitely illegal. 

Your grip on the quill tightened impossibly, but the cursed object remained firm, unwilling to bend or break. As you continued writing, your rested hand began to burn as the words started to carve themselves into your flesh. 

The penmanship was unmistakably yours, and in a weird way it was relieving. You were being marked, but at least it wouldn’t be by Umbridge’s swirly penmanship. 

Steeling your nerves, you risk a glance at the front of the classroom, your hand stinging more at the sight of a pleased Umbridge enjoying a cup of tea on her throne. Feeling a stare aimed at the side of your head, you glance over and make eye contact with George who seems to see something on your face that has him shooting a scowl at the pink toad. 

Feeling reassured by your friend’s unrelenting bravery, you continue to write, finally finishing off the phrase. A drop of blood dribbles from around the word ‘obey’, the word carved slightly deeper in your skin than the rest. It appeared that in your stupor of staring at Umbridge, you slowed down in your writing. 

Placing the quill down, you shakingly bring your injured hand towards your chest, cradling it gently. Soon, everyone was finished writing and you were all promptly dismissed with a final warning. 

The trek back to your dorm room seemed to fly by in a blur, a fragile feeling of disorientation bouncing around your head the whole time. It felt like even the slightest disturbance could cause you to crumble in the middle of the walkway. 

No more D.A. meetings. No more practicing spells with the others. What’ll happen now? War was surely on the horizon, but there was nothing you could do now.

Umbridge would certainly report her findings to Fudge. Dumbledore's credibility would once again be put under the hot lamp by the Ministry. You all had severely underestimated Umbridge’s ferocity. 

Quietly closing the door to your dorm room, you make your way to your bed, robotically pulling the curtains closed. 

There’s no use dwelling on it anymore. You’d have to deal with the repercussions as they come. Instead, you shook your head and reached over to your bedside to look for your first-aid supplies. Pulling out your jar of murtlap essence and some bandage wraps, you carefully begin to apply the solution to your cuts, gingerly wrapping the bandage to avoid rubbing the wound too much. 

The stinging gradually faded and you let out a small breath in relief. As long as you kept cleaning it and wrapping it, it could possibly heal over nicely and perhaps even fade a bit. 

Quickly cleaning up, you realize that you could get your mind off of the day’s events by continuing to read Regulus’ charm books. The last time you had read through it with him, you had found a particular charm that seemed suitable, but you weren’t able to completely finish reading as you succumbed to sleep. 

Hurriedly flipping through the heavy book, you immediately delve into your research as soon as you find the marked page. 

Tacet Loquitur. A charm used most famously by wizarding scholar Cornelius Agrippa, the charm allows the caster to begin engaging in discreet conversation with the person of their choosing. The charm not only muffles and drastically silences conversation, but it can move sound to a distant perimeter without conflicting with the caster and converser. This displacement of sound may allow outsiders to attribute inklings of conversation to another source. The charm does not wear off and may only be negated by the caster or in the event that one member of the party dies. 

It was nearly perfect. You weren’t sure why such a charm wasn’t as popularized at first, but Regulus had told you it was a charm invented around the 1400s and became taboo due to public reaction. Apparently, the charm got Agrippa a hefty prison sentence in the muggle world, and ever since then it's been lost in history. 

However, even such a unique charm had its pitfalls. You wouldn’t be able to converse with Regulus depending on the situation because it seldom actually completely silenced the conversation. 

Leaving a bookmark in the page, you continued to flip through the book with your uninjured hand. You were growing a little worried, this book showed the most promise, but you were quickly nearing the end of it and you weren’t sure what’d you do if you finished without finding something perfect.

Suddenly, another charm had your hand pausing in place. 

Mens est Oculus. The Mind’s Eye charm, a charm used to project images and thoughts into the mind of a willing recipient. Briefly studied by Merlin, research came to a halt as individuals who abused this charm quickly were driven into madness from a cacophony of thoughts and voices. The charm's possible side effect of tearing open the mind’s veil of protection caused its use to be condemned greatly by the wizarding community. 

Oh. Perfect.

Nodding a little to yourself, you carefully pull out Regulus’ portrait from your pocket and prop him up against your pillow. Tucking your injured hand under the adjacent pillow, you sheepishly cast the counter spell for the muffliato you placed around him.  

Regulus looks severely unimpressed by you, so you break the silence first, “Hey, Reg.” 

Bringing a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, he releases a deep exhale from his nose, “Hey? That’s the first thing you’re going to say to me?” 

You were slowly becoming unnerved by his tone, unable to really pinpoint the extent of his frustration. Hopefully, he would have some mercy on you, even if he was unaware of your injury. 

Nodding slowly like a scolded child, you decide to try and placate him, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have casted a muffliato so suddenly, but I just didn’t want you to have to hear Umbridge and her gloating. Besides, detention was boring, we were just writing lines.”

Which is not totally a lie, it just wasn't exactly the whole truth.

He doesn’t seem all too convinced so you quickly reaffirm your previous words, “I’m being serious, Reg. Plus, I was honestly a little embarrassed."

He seems confused by your admittance so you slowly elaborate, "I mean you warned me after all that the whole D.A. thing wasn’t a good idea, and you were right…we did end up getting caught.” 

Also not a lie. A part of the reason you barred him from hearing everything, was because you were embarrassed about being caught. 

Regulus seems to have aged from the stress of the conversation alone, but he hums in acceptance.

Seeing your relieved expression, he decides to shift the direction of the conversation, “Alright, I understand, just try not to do it again. Now, what are you up to?” 

Your face breaks into a grin as you remember your findings, “I was just reading for a bit, and I may have figured out a way for us to communicate with each other in public.” 

Tilting his head in interest, he imperceptibly leans forwards and gestures for you to continue. 

Perking up at his interest, you can't stop the enthusiasm from leaching into your explanation, “Well, I was thinking that we could possibly combine two charms that I found. The first one would allow us to have a quieter conversation where all noise would be displaced so it remains discreet... and the second can help us configure all of it so it remains in our heads.” 

Sensing the hesitation at the tailend of your explanation, he raises his eyebrows and prepares for the dilemma, “Okay, and I’m sensing a large but here.” 

Pursing your lips, you nod and carefully continue, “The second charm is well…slightly riskier than the first. There’s not a lot of solid research on it so information is very limited, but from what I can tell, a notable side effect of it is madness.” 

Slumping a little at the news, you can tell that he isn’t exactly thrilled by the prospect of potentially going insane. 

Right, you remember, of course he wouldn't be, Black Madness does run in his family.

Fiddling with the frame of his portrait, you hesitate before continuing, “But…I was hoping that if we combined the spells, we could dilute the effects of the second charm. After all, the second charm is really only riskier when you’re consistently casting it, but the first charm would mean we would only have to cast it once.” 

Considering your suggestion for a few moments, Regulus nods at the soundness of your statement, “And you said it could displace sound? Theoretically, that would work the same way with the mind link.”

Blinking at his words, your brain begins to scramble for a possible explanation for what he’s implying. 

“What would that mean?” You breathe out. 

His eyes twinkle a little, evidently having worked something out, “It would mean that anyone performing legilimency on you would be unable to pinpoint our conversation. Rather, they would attribute it to background noise in a memory.” 

Your eyes widen at his words, a small laugh of victory falling from your lips, “Regulus Black, you are a genius. Truly, the workings of your mind never ceases to amaze me.” 

You are so caught up in your celebration that you temporarily forgot to mind your injury, bringing your bandaged hand from under the pillow and to your sides as you swing your arms out in fatigued relief. 

The realization hits you almost immediately and the room seems to drop in warmth, a deafening silence blanketing over the both of you. 

Nervously bringing your gaze to meet Regulus’, a part of you hoped that maybe he had become temporarily blind in those few seconds, but the chilling way he was staring at you told you that you were in for it now. 

This time, he’s the first one to cut into the silence, “When were you going to bring that up?”

Your eyes flicker between your hand, now cradled in your lap, and Regulus’ eyes which could pierce through stone with how chilling they looked. 

You were certain that any way you answered his question would result in a magical smite through the portrait, so you opt to look apologetic instead. 

Regulus, realizing that you weren’t going to answer, quickly began to seethe, “Y/N. I can see the blood. What happened?” 

Merlin. You should have glamoured your hand. 

As if sensing your thoughts, Regulus’ eyes narrow and it’s enough to have you spilling the beans, “It’s okay, just a slight injury. Umbridge is old-fashioned that way, but it could be worse, you should see what she did to the wall.” 

Your attempt to lighten the mood is drowned out by Regulus’ unforgiving temper and your thoughts slip into confusion. 

Was it that big of a deal to him?

Sure, it was barbaric and illegal, but surely it was nothing compared to what Voldemort deemed as punishment.

Unable to match his unwavering gaze, you finally look away from him and out the window. It remains silent for a while before he interrupts with a whisper, “You should get some rest.” 

Snapping your attention towards him, a pang of guilt jolts through you as you take in just how exhausted he looked. You were wildly confused at his decision to drop the conversation, but realized that you were feeling quite fatigued.

He always knew how to read you.

Nodding mutely, you gently place Regulus’ portrait on your bedside and quickly peek out from behind your curtains and into your dorm room. 

It seemed that your dorm mates were currently out, so you were sure you had at least a few hours before dinner. 

Laying down, you smile unsurely at Regulus, who’s watching you steadily. 

“Goodnight, Reg.” 

You hear his faint reply, but you’re quickly absorbed by a wave of drowsiness and before you even have time to think, you’re falling into the void of sleep. 

The first feeling you’re astutely aware of as you peer into your dark room is the gentle pounding of your blood quill wound. Slowly shifting to sit up, you can’t seem to shake away the sinking feeling in your stomach. 

Gently rubbing your eyes, you decide to get ready to head down to the dining hall. You hoped that maybe after eating for a bit, you’d be in the right mind space to try and converse with Regulus. 

After slipping on your robe, and readjusting your tie, you reach down to grab Regulus’ portrait. 

As you peer down at the small object, you suddenly feel a gust of dread singe your every nerve. The pounding of your heart beats in your ears and you can’t help but fumble helplessly with your hands. 

Illuminated by the setting sun peering from the panes of your window, Regulus’ portrait sits empty. 

Regulus was gone.

tag list: @krazyk99 @venomsvl @valsarchives @bunny24sstuff @novella12nite @elia-the-bibliophile @txoru @surelysherly

[dean-winchesters-clit]

hold my hand until it bleeds

Story by: dean-winchesters-clit (night_belongs_to_us on AO3)

Art by: @chaoticmessofmymind

Rating: Explicit

Word count: ~40-50k

Tags/Archive Warnings: Castiel/Dean Winchester, trans!Dean Winchester, mentions of rape/non-con, self harm, suicide attempt, blood kink, canon-typical violence, canon divergence, post S14E10: Nihilism, psychological horror, psychological torment, intrusive thoughts, visual hallucinations, auditory hallucinations, Dean POV, Cas POV, Castiel and Dean Winchester have a profound bond, angel soul bonds, angel wings, wing fic

Summary: Michael stops pounding against the door of his cage almost immediately, deciding to take a more subtle approach in order to make Dean break. Visions, hallucinations, voices whispering in the back of his mind; Dean becomes paranoid and starts losing his grip on reality. With Rowena’s guidance, Sam and Castiel locate a cursed angelic artifact known by the Church as mani in fedé or ‘hands clasped in prayer’. The Church used it to subdue their enemies and keep their congregation in line, but it is rumored to have a different purpose that could destroy Michael and save Dean. With Dean rapidly running out of time, Castiel will do anything to save him, even if it means he will no longer be able to hide his feelings.

Preview:

Dean’s throat tightens into a vice, sucking in a gasp of air, and one of his whiskey fingers ends up on his sleeve at his sudden stop. He curses but ignores the soaked fabric in favor of focusing on the dark figure standing just around the hallway corner ahead of him. When he does, it vanishes. He blinks, shakes his head a couple times, looks again. It’s gone.

Dean sets the whiskey glass down and pulls his handgun from his waistband, quickly checking the clip before taking the weapon properly into his hands. He rounds the corner slowly, gun out in front of him, one hand on the grip and one supporting the base. The dark figure stands just down the hall from him, not even six yards away, but it vanishes again the moment his eyes and barrel are trained on it. Dean lowers the weapon and steps further down the hall.

Despite what Sam might say, Dean’s always been the quicker thinker and problem solver between the two of them. Sam may be a walking nerd-cyclepedia of lore and magic, but Dean has a finely sharpened sense of observation and a perfect score in pattern recognition.

He walks until he reaches a branching hallway, keeping his gun lowered but held tight in his hands. He stops just before the corner where the two halls meet and forces his gaze to fall to the floor. Dean allows his vision to blur, lets his eyes lose their focus and stare into nothing.

Then, in a shadow just around the corner, the figure reappears. Dean fights every instinct to immediately lock eyes with it and assess the danger, willing it to stay in the edge of his line of sight so he can figure out what the fuck it is.    

It doesn't move, doesn't take a single step, doesn't even seem to be looking at Dean.

It's humanoid and skeletal, wearing some sort of long crimson robe or dress that trails around and behind it in tatters. Even if his eyes were focused enough to make out any distinguishable features, its head and face are shrouded by the shadow it stands in. Creepiest of all is that it's familiar somehow, like something Dean once saw in a dream, and god does he hope that there's no way in hell his dreams could-

The sudden shiver that runs down his spine feels like frozen lightning in his nerves.Dean's dreams of hell went from a nightly occurrence to a weekly occasion to a monthly happenstance over the course of a few years. Nowadays, with a decade of distance between him and his time in the Pit, his nightmares of hell are more of a once-in-a-blue-moon chance meeting than a common happening. But when he does dream of fire and brimstone... he dreams of them.

Coming to Dean🔪Cas Horrorfest this October! @deancashorrorfest

Listen to the playlist while you wait!

[squeiky]

Currently in the works of revamping my old au (again) called UnderWild.

Here are some redesign concept designs (and lore drops in general) on how the monsters, humans and underground relatively look.

A brief explanation, this au takes place in a world where, the monsters are inflicted by a curse known as the “blood moon curse”. This curse was made as a “gotcha” tactic by the ancient sorcerers, who cared very little of the consequences it would have on monster society.

What does this curse do? It drains monsters of their magic.

Because magic, much like our souls, is the very essence that makes a monsters physical form, as well as their own personal expression- draining monsters of magic corrupts their minds and bodies to an almost zombie like form. Once bathed directly under the light of the red moon, monsters are only able to HUNGER for more magic to refill their gauge (aka, the amount of magic a monster needs to stay healthy.)

This means that, there are 3 ways to deal with cursed monster:

1.) refill their magic gauge by supplying them with your own magic via feeding them with your own attacks (health or damage, doesn’t matter.) this will essentially “heal them” from the curse as long as the supply is constant (just wait until the sun rises/the blood moon goes away and then your fully “cured”).

2.) be eaten by a cursed monster. Dust, magic attacks, monsters, human souls, all contain SOME form of magic. If it has magic, the cursed monster will be derived to consume its essence and refill their own gauge. Depending on how long they’ve been affected by the curse, or how much magic they need to refill, will justify the amount of magic they need to consume.

3.) kill the cursed monster. Because the blood moon affects all monsters, conserving magical resources is important to staying alive. In this world, it’s consume or be consumed. Which means you have to kill your cursed brother, because if you don’t you’ll end up just like him.

-----

If you want to ask questions, feel free to do so.

Askbox will be open for a limited time, but comment as much as you want.

Question: can a non-cursed monster consume a cursed monster if theyre running low on magic?

🐛<Probably. But by that point, theyre already on the brink of "curse" status.

Question: why are ghosts mostly unaffected by the curse?

🐛<They're uncoporeal, and i'm kind of unsure how to deal with that at the moment., especially with the whole "fuse with [__] object to become it" thing.

Question: why is flowey (Rosey??) Unaffected?

🐛<He's why curse is even there, so of course he wouldnt be affected. I mean, He IS the flower of LOVE afterall, haha.

Question: where is Rosey's eyes?

🐛<Doesnt have any. Completly blind. 👍

(P.S. He can figure his way around through touch via his extensive vines, but theres no like "secret ability" that lets him "see". Hes just blind.)

Question: why are souls symbolized by "jewels?"

🐛< its cooler that way.

Question: Who's "Integrity"?

🐛< =]

----- End-----

[cursedwithwords]

Teddy Lupin picrew dump because I'm in love with him.

I love to imagine him with pink or magenta eyes because it connects him to Tonks, but I also have this image of him having eyes that are in constant motion, always changing and never settling on one solid color, to show the internal chaos he battles with. I think he keeps his hair generally a solid blue because he likes the way it looks, and because his nan told him that his hair turned blue almost immediately after he was born, so a tiny piece of him is always thinking "well if it's blue my parents will recognize me" even though he knows they're gone and that's not gonna happen.

((Read more to see Cursed rambling about metamorph abilities ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ))

I have this theory about Metamorph abilities that's basically summed up as being a mutation of the individuals magic itself. It's born from decades of interfamilial inbreeding of a family that already has extremely powerful magic.

I see Metamorphmagus being in the same family of mutation as Obscurus, that being something uncontrollable that happens due to some form of magical backup. The only difference is Obscurus are psychologically self-made while Metamorphmagus are created genetically.

I've seen theories stating that House Black inter-marries because they're worried about their ancient magic being somehow corrupted by other family's blood. It basically said that the Black family has power/magic that lives up to its name, and I kind of love that, but power like that can't possibly come without consequences, and in their attempt to keep the purity of their magic from being corrupted, they themselves became corrupted by their magic.

I mean the way I see it, ancient magic like that has to be chaotic and untamable, something incredibly feral and wild. The more "pure" it is, the more uncontrollable.

Because of that, I think Andromeda marrying and having a child with a muggleborn more or less stabilized the Black family magic in a body far more capable of containing it. But the magic itself is still extremely volatile, so it manifested as metamorph abilities, and I think that in itself would have some unique manifestations.

I think Teddy is immune to most magical ailments, including hexes and curses. His body kind of just deflects it because his magic is able to cancel it out. I think that's probably why Remus' Lycanthropy also passed him over.

At the same time, I think he's pretty susceptible to Muggle illnesses like the flu or the common cold, and I've always headcanoned that he had chronic migraines because though the Lycanthropy disease was fended off through his mutated magic, it's still an insanely brutal illness in and of itself, and some piece of it lingers in him. So around the full moon he tends to get migraines. Proof that he's not invincible I guess.

I have so many thoughts about Teddy tbh, he's always been outrageously powerful in my mind, and the only reason his magic hasn't consumed him and driven him crazy like so many of the Black family is because he isn't a pureblood. It makes him even more formidable as an enemy, though I don't see him being super aware of his own abilities.

Like he knows he's an alright wizard, he just doesn't realize he's THAT powerful, cuz why would he??

[silvrash-797]

@milkyplier Happy birthday Mama! You ordered Legend whump; I hope this delivers!

Brothers (pt 2)

Part 1

Read on ao3

“Help is coming, just stay awake a bit longer, please don’t fall asleep!”

Wild's voice echoed faintly in his ears, coming as if from the end of a long tunnel. Each of Legend's limbs was a white-hot fire, searing body and soul. Shock threaded its way through the flames like a piranha, persistent and deadly.

The flames licked higher.

Legend shuddered, panting shallowly. He grimaced as Wild put more pressure on the gash across his stomach. The pressure shifted a rib he knew was fractured, which in turn poked a little further towards his lungs.

Blood suddenly bubbled up in his throat, cutting off his air and making him choke. Despite the fuzzy floatiness of impending shock and lack of air Legend fought through the fit of breathlessness until his airway cleared.

Legend smirked faintly at Wild's choice of words. Don’t fall asleep. There was a certain poetry to it, considering the place his thoughts had been just a moment ago. It echoed through his skull in Wild and Marin's voices.

He caught Wild's terrified gaze, the blue shining with the same intensity and worry Marin's always did. His whispered reply was aimed at them both. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The Slate crackled to life once more, and, despite his promise, Legend zoned out as Wind informed them of Warriors and Hyrule’s approach. Through sheer force of will he contained a flinch as Wild shouted desperately to guide their brothers over.

Hurrying footsteps approached, but his thoughts were slippery with pain and fatigue, and he found he couldn’t focus on the urgent drumming.

They took him instead to the end of the battle.

When that Darknut launched him off the cliff, terror and agony were the only things Legend was aware of. He remembered meeting Wild's eyes as he slipped below the edge.

He knew he could survive a fall from some distance – he’d done it before and taken only minimal damage – but, looking over his shoulder as he fell, he realized that this…this was much farther of a fall than onto a hidden ledge on Death Mountain, or falling through the floor in some of his dungeons.

He remembered bemoaning the fact that, for as much stuff as he had, he didn’t have anything like Wild's paraglider to help stop his fall.

Pegasus boots? Nothing to push off of, and would only make him faster anyway.

Roc's feather? Only aided him in jumping and he didn’t need more of that, thank you.

Roc's cape? Magic cape? Would almost certainly be torn from his numbing fingers and lost to the wind rushing about him.

He remembers his fingers closing around a smooth, polished shaft of wood, realizing it might be his only chance.

He remembers struggling to shift his aching body into optimal position for surviving a long fall.

He remembers activating the Cane of Byrna.

Then…nothing. Not until Wild's call brought him back to consciousness.

Hyrule and Warriors crashed to their knees beside Legend, sending tremors through the soft ground beneath his back. Legend clenched his teeth against the pain and tried to crack open one bleary eye. Everything hurt; he could almost feel Marin's fingers, tangling in his hair, calling him home. But he’d promised Wind he’d try to hold on, and what good was a hero who couldn’t keep his promise?

Warriors cursed under his breath as he took stock of Legend’s injuries, and Legend could sense Hyrule's magic fluttering frantically through the air between the heroes, desperate to heal.

“What happened?” Rulie asked, shocked.

Legend twitched his undamaged hand towards the Cane of Byrna, lying discarded a few feet from where he fell. He took one careful breath, mindful of his ribs and the attack on his airway.

“Tried t' use that t' break m' fall…” he rasped, throat thick with what he hoped was just pain. “’S’posta protec me from attacks…Must'a run outta magic…passed out…” He grimaced as the flames roaring throughout his body rose higher.

He could hardly hear his heartbeat fluttering in his ears, and black spots crowded his vision. The coppery iron tang of blood coated his mouth, at odds with the musty scent of earth and dead leaves beneath him.

Legend took another handful of small, panting breaths, curling his fingers into the dirt to ground himself. Wars was talking above him, Hyrule had taken over the wound in his abdomen, slowly sealing it with his Life spell. Wild’s fingers stroked gently though his hair, alleviating the shock and low blood pressure headache that was forming.

Someone tapped his cheek to get his attention – when had his eyes closed, he promised he’d stay awake – and an involuntary whimper eeked from his throat as he shifted to glance at…that was Wars, the Captain leaning over him with a grim look in his eye.

Wars, who was holding a belt in one hand, still tapping his cheek with the other.

Oh…yeah, that’s a good idea.

Legend groaned and coughed, gasping faintly, but pried his mouth open to accept the belt; the leather was strong and supple, but did little to dispel the taste of blood.

Legend felt hands on his shoulders and hips, pinning him in place. He shouted and clamped down on the belt as hands prodded at his ribs, stoking the fire impossibly higher. Something shifted, though, and the localized fire died as his fractured rib was realigned.

Legend took a deep breath through his nose, silently thanking the goddess for skilled hands and healing magic. Tears welled in his eyes but he refused to let them fall.

They still had more to fix, after all.

Distantly, giddily, he hoped Hyrule wasn’t using too much of his magic. Didn’t Wild mention he had fairies?

Legend contemplated spitting out the belt to preemptively tell Rulie off, but screamed and bit down again as the gentle probing fingers around his arm manipulated the bones back into their places. This time he couldn’t stop the tears from falling, or the low sob that rose in his throat.

“Sorry, sorry, hang on Lege we’re almost done…”

He didn’t know who said it, but the litany of words helped him remember his promise. Have to stay awake.

“Vet, we need to take off your boots to fix your legs. Are you ready?” Two pairs of hands gently cradled his heels, waiting for his signal.

Legend sniffled, then gritted his teeth and gave a firm – he hoped, anyway – nod.

“On three.” Warriors paused briefly as they adjusted their grip. “Ready? One…two…”

The hands moved in unison before the count of three, and Legend's mind gave up on consciousness.

-----

When Legend woke, night had fallen. He could still taste the pink tingle of fairy healing in the air around him, mixed with the golden blue-green aura of Hyrule's magic.

His eyes and limbs felt leaden, burdened by fatigue and something else he couldn’t quite place. He shifted just enough to glance down – not only his bedroll, but also Sky's sailcloth and Twilight's pelt were piled on top of him. That would explain it.

Legend looked around himself, noting with interest that he wasn’t too far from where he’d originally fallen, and that camp seemed to have sprung up around him. He wondered how long it took the rest of the Chain to make it down the cliff.

Legend closed his eyes and focused inward, feeling out his magic and previous injuries. As with all Fae healing, nothing was out of place. He was still a bit faint from blood loss, but that would replenish with time.

And something to drink. Why did Fae healing always leave him so thirsty?

Carefully, he sat up, looking around the camp for whoever was on watch. He found Wild already picking his way through the sleeping heroes.

“You’re awake!” Wild whispered happily, crouching next to Legend’s bedroll. “Can I get you anything? Water? Food?”

Legend considered briefly, then said, “Maybe some milk, if we can spare it?”

Wild’s teeth gleamed in the firelight as he grinned. “Of course! Be right back.”

Within a minute Wild had returned, a bottle of cold milk firmly in hand.

Legend accepted it gratefully, letting the creamy liquid soothe his throat and stomach. “Thank you, Wild.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it.” Wild was chatty for so late at night. “Honestly, I didn’t even have to borrow from Time this time, I already –”

“No,” Legend interrupted, “that’s not what I…” he broke off at Wild's hurt expression. “I mean, yes thank you for the milk, but also…y'know…” He cleared his throat. “for earlier.”

Wild’s mouth formed an oh in understanding, but he didn’t say anything, waiting for Legend to continue.

“I would have died if you hadn’t jumped after me. Goddesses know I was ready to. But, you kept me here and got help. So, thanks.”

Wild's smile was small and fragile, but no less blinding for the fact. “We’re family, Vet, brothers,” he said plainly. “What else was I supposed to do?”

[sparrowrye]

Demi Demon || Alastor x Reader, A3 part 8

Synopsis: Alastor disappeared for 8 years, leaving you confused, crushed, and angry. You spent those years building up your new self and protecting the haven from dangers left and right. What will happen when he returns to the new changes? Will he return anytime soon? Could you even go back to the way things were?

Previous part

Part 8: the last traces

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Charlie! It's so good to see--what are you doing here?" The King of Hell stopped mid-stride to send an accusatory glare at the Radio Demon.

"Just ensuring dear Charlie here made it back safely," Alastor answered in his usual chipper tone.

"Even though she's done it countless times before?" Lucifer crossed his arms as he finished walking up to the pair. He wasn't buying Alastor's sly act.

"Call it my intuition. I had the strong urge to ensure she was safe."

"That's awfully nice of you. Too nice." Lucifer's glare didn't lessen.

"Well, either way," Charlie interfered before it grew worse, "thank you making sure I got--"

"Alastor!"

The Radio Demon froze on the spot at your angry call. He had kept his mind closed off to you but clearly he had forgotten you could see through his eyes. How had he not felt you do that?

"Well, looks like I should be getting out of your hair now." His voice was the exact opposite of what his rigid posture was suggesting. He melted into his shadows right as you burst through the grand doors to the usual Overlord meeting room, Lucifer's guards close behind.

"What happened?" Charlie asked. It fell on deaf ears as you watched Alastor's shadow thread up the nearest pillar. You teleported yourself up to the balcony and reached for him. Your fingers brushed against the dark shadow but it was enough to let you sink into the dark realm with him. Your mind wrestled with his as you drew him out of the shadow realm and back into the physical one.

He finally gave in and shoved you out of the wall first. You were on your feet in an instant as he brushed off supposed dust on his sleeve. "What ever is the reason for this behavior, my lov--" His words were cut off as you grabbed hold of his antler and yanked his face down to be level with you.

"What the Hell did you do to the children?" I demanded. He grabbed my wrist but I was quick to use my other hand and squeeze his red ear. A strangled yelp left his mouth as I pulled him all the way down. His knees hit the floor, his cane clattering to the side, as he grabbed my arm. "Tell me, Alastor!"

"I have not touched the little devils," he remarked, eyes black and magic gathering. I clamped my own shield around his mind, discovering almost immediately that it was how he had managed to keep my own magic at bay in past instances.

"What did you just call them?" I pulled his ear up, squeezing tighter. His other ear fell flat as he went with the motion in an effort to stop the pain. He failed to swallow a strangled deer noise.

"Release me."

"No."

His grip was painfully tight on my arm as he pushed himself up to his feet. I grabbed his antler and stepped back, bringing him back to his knees once again. His claws were daring to draw blood through my maroon jacket.

"They refuse to tell me what happened. So start talking, Alastor."

His dark gaze was glaring up at me, teeth in a wide, ugly snarl. He was keeping his magic pressed against my shield but not yet trying to push all the way through.

There was something else in his mind that I could sense but not understand. He was choosing not to attack me. He was fully capable but he was withdrawing, holding and waiting.

"I ensured your precious children stayed in the haven boundaries," he finally answered. One eye had returned to its normal color to look at me properly.

"How?" I pressed.

"I returned them through the shadows."

"Bullshit."

His eye went black again at the curse. It was the first curse I had used since he had given me that stupid rule way back then.

A chuckle drew both of our attention. Lucifer and Charlie had teleported up to the balcony but we're keeping enough distance to watch the show.

Something sharp like electricity went through my hands. I jerked my hands away and he finally stepped to his feet. He hooked his toe under his cane and tossed it up to his hands. "If you'd like to know the extent of what transpired, we can have a civil conversation."

I crossed my arms. "Oh because you were so civil with Nym and Thatcher?"

"A little scare never hurt anyone."

"You terrified them!"

"Nym didn't seem so terrified. In fact, she seemed quite angry. She must've learned that from you."

"Don't attempt to flatter me, Alastor. Thatcher refuses to come out of the cupboard he hid himself in."

"What I did was a fickle. It is not my fault he scares easily."

I let out a groan and turned away, running my hands through my hair and gripping my black horns. I wanted to do more. I wanted to throw him off the balcony and let him hit the floor hard—but I knew that would never happen.

My phone in my pants pocket began to ring. I heard Alastor's staticky snarl as I answered it. I returned his annoyed glare as Vox gave me the word that there were no more trucks heading to the factory.

I ended the call and stuffed it back in my pocket. "I'll be back soon."

"Where are you going?" He grabbed my arm to stop me.

"To finish off Blackwater once and for all." I attempted to pull my arm out but he wouldn't let go.

"What does that mean?" Lucifer asked, him and Charlie walking up now that the show was over and it was safe to be close.

"It means I'm sinking his last factory." My mind had subconsciously melted with Alastor's and I heard what he wanted to do. So I turned on him, "And you will remain in the haven."

"Excuse me?" he hissed. He slammed his cane on the floor. "Since when do I take orders from you?"

"Since now. The children are under my protection and Blackwater's legacy is under my watch. I killed him so I get to finish the last traces of him. You will not take that away from me."

Alastor opened his mouth to make a retort but he fell silent as I drew him into my memories. I showed him the conversation with Vox a few weeks ago.

"Tell me, dear, how's it feel to know that all your hard work will be for nothing?" He went on, "No one will challenge your haven now that he's back and defending it. You won't need our deal anymore but you're still bound to it. You might even be forgotten as news picks up on his return," he reached a blue claw towards my face, "after all, who can trump the Radio Demon?"

"I get to do this," I said in a more calm, firm tone. His red eyes looked me over as a strange, unfamiliar feeling ebbed from his mind into mine.

"Of course my dear." He gave a slight bow of his head and held out his red claw. I placed my hand in it and he placed a gentle kiss on the back. "I understand."

A swell of that same something flushed through me. He suddenly looked very appealing to look at it. His clothes sat perfectly on his shoulders, his smile twerked in a genuine one, his hair falling perfectly on either side of his face, and his red eyes not holding an ounce of ill will.

I withdrew my hand and turned to Lucifer, bowing deeply and apologizing.

"Nonsense dear, this was quite interesting to watch," Lucifer said. His black hand touched the side of his face and Charlie had her hands clasped in front of her.

"We should hold a gala to celebrate," Charlie announced, eyes lighting up with the idea.

"That won't be necessary," I tried.

"You've done a lot for both of us," Lucifer agreed with his daughter. "It's the least we could do. Besides, we'll want the Overlords to see you after you've rid Blackwater from the surface."

I had spoken to Lucifer on many occasions. He had given me lessons on Angelic magic while I was an ear to listen to some of his problems. Only recently had I started to actually give advice to the ruler of Hell—both of us being in similar situations.

Lucifer's point of the Overlords was because of their growing apprehension about the Hazbin Haven, my acquaintances with Hell's royalty, and the disappearance and arrival of my soulmate. I had been challenged time and time again while Alastor was gon. It stopped only in the past two years. Now that he was back, rumors began fluttering around (mostly over the Internet) about challenging me again in an attempt to rid the realms of the Radio Demon.

Me. A weak link, yet again.

So I gave into their idea and allowed the two of them to plan it out. Alastor and I took our leave outside the palace doors and teleported back to the nightly surface. I turned to face him as soon as we manifested completely.

"I want you to remedy what you did with the children while I'm gone," I demanded gently. I didn't want to start another fight.

"Why should I?" he naturally returned.

"Because when I return I don't want to take the time to coax him out of his hiding place. Unless of course you don't want to spend any time with me tonight." I turned towards the house with a dismissive wave over my shoulder.

"We usually spend the night together," he said nonchalantly, following after me.

"That's a shame you feel that way," I turned to walk backwards along the side of the house, "because I was hoping to spend some...quality time with you." My palms were sweaty and I worried I would trip on my wobbly legs.

"What are you implying, dear?" His smile turned smug as he picked up his pace to walk closer to me.

"You didn't seem interested though, so there's no use in explaining."

He was quick to wrap an arm around my back to bring us to a stop. His claws tapped his cane as he leaned down close to my face. "I am thoroughly interested now."

I reached up to hook a claw on his bow tie. It wasn't to pull him in, just a weight on his neck. "I guess you'll have to find out when I come back."

His hand pushed into my back so he could kiss me. I closed my eyes as I reached my hand up to sit comfortably on the side of his neck. I felt him sigh into the kiss.

"Only," I pushed his chest away, "when you've gotten Thatcher out of the cupboard.

He straightened up with an irked smile. "Very well." I turned away and let my tail brush against his hand.

****

What would the me twelve years ago think if she saw me walking into a factory full of enemies?

My magic was suffering no issues as I walked through the thick snow. As figured, the last factory was somewhere cold. It wasn't on the frozen ice land like it predecessor, but it was cold enough to deter any Demons from trying to get through. It made even more sense as I passed machines that were shaving ice into snow and blasting them into the air.

Smart.

I continued to trudge through the snow. I made it through the horrid snowstorm as I passed the third row of snow machines. The factory was in sight, as were the guards. They were quick to pull the trigger.

The bullets barely came within a foot of me, casually flying off to the sides when it hit my air shield. I kept my hands clasped behind my back as I stepped through. The bullets went right back to their owners.

My magic energy went up as their souls wound their way into my claws.

I casted wind into the heavy metal doors and send freezing cold air through the entirety of the building. It froze gears and shriveled wires. The workers ducked under machines but it would be of no use. I sent Alcine to find the gas lines just as I had done before.

My eyes scanned the scenery for movement—for the owner of the operation. I felt the air displace behind me and spun to find a man dressed in all black with a gas mask. Its big red eyes glowed at me.

"Who are you?" I demanded. My tail whipped behind my back. I loved fighting with it and part of me hoped he would attempt hand-to-hand combat with me.

He never answered me. He brought his hand to his hip to withdraw a katana, its blade shimmering in the artificial lights. Disappointment filled my chest at the prospect of using magic instead.

A gunshot went off. My reactions were too slow.

Pain jolted through my knee and sent me to the floor. I attempted to shield myself but my magic was wobbly in my hands.

Another gunshot went off. This time it hit the floor a centimeter from my head. I saw the flurry of movement and rolled to the side as sparks from the first man's katana skidded across the floor.

I grabbed the closest worker and yanked them over me. The two men stopped.

"The infamous Dragon Demon. Alastor's soulmate." A machine coated voice echoed off the metal. I couldn't tell who was talking.

"We are Azrael and Esdras. Unpleasant to meet you."

My knee was in so much pain. "Likewise."

My magic was gone but this wasn't the first time I needed to piece it back together. I felt Alastor attempt to teleport to me but I kept him away.

Not yet. Please not yet.

This was my battle.

I held the worker, an older woman in her late thirties, in front of me so that her head covered most of my face. I had no idea how accurate the man with the pistol was with his weapon. I noticed a strange glow along the edges.

Angelic weapons.

I hated those things.

"It's time to let Blackwater go," I said. I kept my eyes open as I searched for the pieces of my magic. I could feel them gravitating back towards me, meaning the effects of an angelic bullet only lasted so long.

"He will never truly die," the robotic voice answered. "His legacy will carry on. No matter how times we are suppressed."

"You are attempting to suppress and hunt another species to extinction." The woman shifted uncomfortably in my hold.

"A species that doesn't belong in this realm."

"Even the children who were born here? Who have no idea of their ancestry and history?"

"Blackwater has given many warnings to allow the smart and innocent to retreat back where they came from."

I got a grip on air. "I am giving you one now." The pair fell back as I casted my wind into their stomachs. I dragged the woman with me as I half transformed into my Dragon form. I clambered past the cowering workers and jumped up to the second level.

A faint smell of gas told me Alcine had found the right pipeline.

Another gunshot.

The woman fell limp in my arms.

A third one.

This time I fell.

My hand clasped over my face as my magic disappeared again. I scrambled into the nearest room, an empty one with nothing in it, and cowered in the corner next to the door. I shrank back to my normal size and waited for them to come up. My nose was dripping blood all over my maroon jacket. Thankfully it wasn't white.

My natural ears picked up their footsteps with ease. I dug my claws into the wall and pressed my back into the ceiling corner like a spider. The man holding the pistol entered first, pulling the trigger as soon as he came around the door.

I slammed my tail into his face and sent him sprawling back. I dropped onto his chest, my footclaw pining his arm to the ground and wrenching his weapon out of his grip.

Footsteps caught my attention. I turned as the sword nearly grazed my shoulder. I rammed the top of my head into his mask, effectively shattering the oxygen cap on the front nose. I slashed my tail into his ankles to take his feet out from under him.

The smell of gas was getting stronger.

Taking the pistol with me, I slithered out of the room and down the stairs to the main floor. It was much stronger here.

It took me significantly less time to take back my magic. I ran to the front doors and casted the runaways back into the factory. These people needed to die with their cause.

Alcine came back and melted into my normal shadow. I shifted past the walls and stood at a safe distance in the cold snowy landscape. I turned my palms to the sky, my earth magic returning first and allowing me to create a cavern for which it to fall into.

It fell sideways into the ditch with a horrible groan that could be heard for miles. Next, I brought my fire back and ignited the gas. It sunk further into the ground.

Plain. Simple. Easy. Bloodless.

My hands had gotten only slightly dirty. I pulled out the angelic pistol and examined it as the factory continued to sink. Why was Carmilla selling angelic weapons to Humans? Was she even doing that on purpose? I would need to ask her the next time we spoke.

An annoyingly familiar whirring sound caught my attention. I tilted my head back to see Vox's stupid drone coming closer. I stuffed a hand in my pocket to look nonchalant and healed the injury on my nose. I then finished the last healing of my knee.

I looked down at the pistol. Would breaking it do anything? Could I even break it? I was half angel.

I tossed it in the snow then turned away. It would be smart to try something like that on camera if I didn't know the outcome. I had just sunk the last traces of Blackwater. If his people ever did resurfaced, we knew how to keep them down. I had the power to do that.

Alastor was strong but so was I — we were a match made in Heaven (pun intended). People shouldn't want to mess with us because of our combined power, not just because Alastor was a ruthless killer. Hopefully this proved it.

I let the ground eat the pistol as I covered up the cavern that had swallowed the factory. Good riddance, Blackwater.

Now, it was time to return to my family. To Alastor.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author's Note:

Y'all better have a fork and knife for the next part 'cause it's gonna be delicious. I'm going to try my hardest to get it posted on Wednesday

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist:

@wendigonamecaller @saccharine-nectarine @thesimpybitch @papas-ghoulette @masochist-downfall

[acetolightning]

Headcanons of who is the easiest to corrupt to hardest

Four

While he is a calm and collected individual with a heart for heroism, the scars of the Four Sword has left its mark on his soul. Cracks that have never been filled make corruption pretty easy to happen. Hence, his hesitance for dark magic.

The Colors can help keep evil at bay, but having something full in the cracked soul is relieving, no matter how much darkness it contains.

The curiosity Four has with dark magic, even if he hates it, is another reason for his placement. I mean, part of him did betray other parts of himself! That along with the interest that Four likes to claim isn’t there anymore is a breeding ground for dark thoughts and influence.

Hyrule

Having been cursed definitely doesn’t help Hyrule’s placement. Having the blood and curse of Ganon running through your veins means a stronger connection to all dark magic and corruption.

One would think being part fairy would stave off corruption or dark influence and, granted, it does somewhat. However, even the lightest of beings can have evil change their light.

Of course, my headcanon of Hyrule being controlled by Ganon because of evil’s blood also is why he placed very high here.

Wild

Ah, the champion. His was difficult to place, but I did see it in two ways. Right after he woke up, he was very susceptible to malice and darkness, even if it wasn’t able to reach him as easily up on the plateau. Gaining some memories back throughout his adventure did help with a stronger soul.

Resentment from his growing up still stays, causing dark thoughts and corruption to try and make a home within him. Luckily, thinking of the Champions helps keep darker thoughts at bay.

Twilight

Dark crystal and shadow magic. Though shadow magic isn’t exactly the same, it still is a cousin of the more well known dark magic. It takes a significant more amount of dark magic to try to corrupt, as he has dealt with its cousin.

Using shadow magic does mean that when he gets hurt by dark magic, injuries are harder to heal from. The cousins don’t like each other much.

Legend

The man, the myth, the Legend. Having many magical items is a sure way to keep anything related to evil at bay, must I say. While constant adventures for Hylia isn’t something he enjoys, it’s not like he’ll betray his duty….right?

No, nothing to worry about! No matter if he cursed out Hylia when he’s alone, or has thoughts of extreme hatred for destiny and the likes. He’s someone who evil can’t quite get its hands on.

Warriors

This is a guy who knows who he is (does he?) and what he needs to do. Though war is not pretty, Warriors has used his encounter with enemies and evil alike to shape his person. He keeps core values close to his chest, no matter the situation or people involved.

Does this mean perfection? Not quite, no. Fears of failure, death, and obsession have been and perhaps always will be within himself. It’s something that could be used to corrupt the captain, but would be hard to do nevertheless.

Time

Perhaps it’s the influence of the Deity, but it’s almost like a protection from evil stays around his whole body. Being raised by the Great Deku Tree could also be why evil barely attempts to sway his hardened soul. It sees attempts as frustrating at the least and near impossible at the most.

Time is the one who would help his brother in arms more than be the one in need of help. Having to experience the Deity has made him well aware of possession and the feeling of power right under your fingertips.

Wind

Mischievous but kind, Wind has too bright of a soul for evil to even look his way. His love of family and need for adventure keeps influences of the darker variety not even try. It knows that trying to corrupt someone so bright would result in failure.

Though, thoughts of inadequacy brush his mind’s forefront, often with the goal of making him feel weaker than the rest. Sometimes it works, though not for long. After all, he’s the youngest and can already keep up with a lot of the heroes!

Sky

The original, the one to start it all. His love for Sun is as pure as love can be, and he is Hylia’s original chosen. Trying to corrupt him is asking for trouble. He knows his loyalty, his goal, his love.

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

A Moth To A Flame

Synopsis: The Abyss takes and takes, leaving Tartaglia alone and hurting until you appear to ward off his suffering.

Foul Legacy Childe x Reader Pronouns: Gender Neutral (no pronouns mentioned) Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Fluffy ending Warnings: Mentions of blood, pain, body horror, allusions to gore, crying, mentions of suffocating and drowning

Requested by @crystalheartzzz and anon: “Hiii, this is my first request so idk howq to do it??😭 so ig I'll go straight to the point?😧May I request for childe with a s/o who has an abbysal form too but its more like a butterfly??? And reader didn't fell to the abbys they just stumble upon a book that explained how to summon a abbysal creature when they was a child??? Or something like thst idk you can just ignore me if this is dumb💀” “Ok imagine Foul legacy with a monster! reader. They didn’t fall into the abyss but they had a curse put on them and were locked away for years and their form has torn butterfly wings and overall some sort of butterfly concept(like how FL’s concept takes more after a moth) FL finds reader in a cave and panics because theres someone right in front of him that has a similar form to him. I wonder how he’d react”

~ * ~ Abyssal monsters attract one another. To them, the taint of dark, starry magic is almost tangible, urging and whispering to return to the watery depths. It worms into their hearts, settling and rotting into wishes of battle and bloodshed, only quelled by the sharp tang of iron in the air, eating away at their sense of self until all that remains is a hollow husk hungry for something, anything to fill the emptiness. That is how Tartaglia lives, with blood on his hands and a cheerful smile on his face, as the corruption tears away bits of his mind every day. His subordinates praise him, behind his back, as the most amiable Harbinger to work under, other than perhaps Pulcinella, but they’re blessed to have never seen him in the midst of a fight- with a twisted grin and blades almost dancing in his hands, it’s little wonder Tartaglia’s name has become known and feared on the battlefield. It does little to satiate the constant thrum of the Abyss in the back of his head, however, and little by little his breezy confidence and upbeat demeanor become more and more forced, cracking whenever those horrible voices hiss their dreaded desires. Perhaps it was fate, then, that he met you on the same day he nearly succumbed to the raging, stellar waves. You had crept into the bank, quiet as can be, standing stiffly beside the door and observing the elegant room. It was your first time making a deposit- terrible timing, as your nerves were thoroughly frazzled by how many warnings you received from passersby about the Fatui agents and their Harbinger, the worst of all- and your hands had been shaking as you forced yourself to put one foot in front of the other and approach the front desk. The receptionist greeted you politely, but didn’t manage to get through a few words before being interrupted by a boisterous laugh, a young man with ginger hair striding through the door and up to the desk. With a flourish he drops a bag of mora onto the counter, coins clinking against wood and fabric as you hastily step aside. The man makes rapid smalltalk with the receptionist, who simply picks up the bag and transfers it to the back, apparently used to his behavior, and the man takes a moment to sweep his gaze over the bank with a satisfied smirk. Your eyes meet lightless ocean blue, and his confident grin fades into surprise and intrigue. Tartaglia stares at you, entranced, head tilted ever-so-slightly as the tendrils strangling his heart begin to loosen, Abyssal darkness shrieking and retreating back into the far recesses of his mind. The Harbinger staggers when he inhales, the air filling his lungs making his head spin as he’s finally able to breathe again. But Ekaterina returns to her position and beckons you forward, and as you move away Tartaglia’s chest clouds with sickening stars, world dulling until it’s faded and washed out and Tartaglia feels like he’s suffocating from an ocean’s weight. You bow to Ekaterina and the Harbinger beside you slouches in a chair, body trembling in an effort to stay sitting upright. The clack of footsteps on tile makes their way over to him, slowly, and the Young Lord glances up and meets your bright, now-curious eyes for the second time today. Tartaglia’s deadened heart beats, once, then speeds up as you stick out a hand and give him a hesitant smile. “Hello.” Tartaglia’s shaking hand slips into yours, and the Abyss fades away once more. The next weeks are filled with bliss as he seeks you out again and again; a Harbor newcomer and the Eleventh Fatui Harbinger are quite the sight to see in the evening. He learns and learns and learns- your name, your job, your favorite food, your favorite color, your homeland- everything coming together into a beautiful, multifaceted existence, and Tartaglia finds himself genuinely laughing and smiling more with every hour you spend together, heart fluttering in his chest at the mere sight of you. Is he falling in love? Perhaps. But he doesn’t stop himself, because to you, he’s Ajax. Maybe it was foolish of him to tell you, a stranger not a few weeks ago, his true name, but when he sees the slow, ecstatic smile spread across your face and the gleam of affection in your eyes, he feels like anything but a fool. In the years since he turned 14, the time since he fell through that crack in the earth, it seemed like he’d forgotten what true warmth was until he met you- and now his heart was set ablaze, a bright spark burning away the thorned roots of Abyssal corruption. He hugs you, a little too tightly, when you call him Ajax, because that’s all he wants to be- just Ajax, without any fancy titles or ranks or responsibilities other than being yours, and when he sees your smile or hears your laugh it almost feels like he never fell into the Abyss in the first place, drawn to your presence and being like a moth to a flame. But the stars, whether in the sky or the sea, despise being ignored. He’s almost forgotten what it feels like- what it’s like to not be able to breathe, to suffocate from sheer pain encapsulating your entire body- until the day he wakes up with a pounding headache and the sound of his own wheezing. Tears spring to Tartaglia’s eyes, his lungs being stabbed and torn apart by night-stained thorns winding around his throat. It hurts to speak, so he can only weep, each inhale sending another wave of pain through his body and ripping another sob from his chest. His skin stings, burns, bright dots dancing in his vision as he helplessly watches his hands darken and crackle, claws piercing the fingertips as they grow. Thick, starry blood drips and stains the covers, and Tartaglia manages to let out a scream of agony before the darkness forces him under and all turns to black. Your walks to the Northland Bank have become routine now, so often do you visit your new love- friend, and the moment you step inside the receptionist- Ekaterina- looks up and nods. But your face falls when you glance around the room and don’t see Ajax, the fluffy head of fluffy ginger hair nowhere in sight. Ekaterina gestures upstairs, waving you away with a tiny smile at the singular flower grasped in your hands, the glaze lily blooming a gorgeous shade of familiar blue. With your cheer restored you jog up the stairs, the spring in your step harmonizing with your idle hums as you stop outside the door marked with an elegantly-carved star- the sigil of the Harbingers, raising your hand to knock. A harrowing shriek pierces your ears and echoes through the hall and you freeze, blood turning to ice from pure terror, the flower slipping from your fingers to the ground. Then without thinking you fling the door open and rush inside, thoughts racing because oh Archons, what happened- it couldn’t be- please, love, don’t be- “Ajax?! Are you okay?!” A monster screeches in his place, pressing itself into a corner and curling into a ball, trying to disappear from view as it covers its face with razor-sharp claws, letting out heart-wrenching wails and sobs. All you can do is step closer, astonishment glittering in your eyes because that’s Ajax, isn’t it? The Abyssal creature awkwardly shoved against the wall is your love, isn’t it? Tartaglia- no, Ajax, the terrified young man from Morepesok- whimpers, the blood from his Foul Legacy transformation splattering from his mouth to the floor. It hurts it hurts it hurts so much- it’s never been this bad before, it’s almost like the Abyss is punishing him for defying it, drowning him, Ajax, in an ocean of stars so only Tartaglia remains. His talons snag on the dips in his mask-like face, an attempt to anchor him to reality as his head fills with eerie singing, everything bursting into fire before his eyes. Claws, gentle and delicate, wrap around his own and pull his hands away from his head, and the Abyss shrieks and recoils when Ajax shakily looks up at an otherworldly creature with eyes the exact same shade as ones he often found himself getting lost in for hours. Yours. Weak peeps and chirps slip from Ajax’s maw, seemingly in shock as you kneel before him and hold his limp hands, carefully tapping your sharp talons over their backs. You let out your own responding trill and brush your knuckles over his cheek, humming in delight when he leans heavily into your touch, crystalline blue eye fluttering shut. Purrs begin to filter from some soft, secret part of him, watching your magnificent form through a slitted eye, fingers trailing idly over your butterfly-like wings. You begin softly preening Ajax’s copper-colored hair, removing any dried blood and tangles until it’s soft as a cloud, and when your claws gently rake across his scalp Ajax croons, melting in your lap and nudging your hands so they’re scratching behind his twin horns. There’s barely even a flinch when you clean his wounds, so overcome with the comfort of you holding him in your arms, not even struggling from his size because you’re just like him- Abyss-touched and trying to survive in a world full of light. Ajax tugs on your claws when you’re finished, lightly at first, then more insistently as the instinct to cuddle and protect and comb your fluff with his talons grows stronger. When you dip your head he pulls you close against his chest, pain forgotten, and snuggles his cheek into your hair with a happy purr, careful to avoid your own horns. You simply slot yourself against him, hands soothingly rubbing the muscles around his cape-like wings, your gentle humming making Ajax yawn wide enough to see all his adorable fangs. Quietly you pluck the fallen glaze lily from the floor and tuck it into Ajax’s hair, and he lets out a flustered rumble, chirps and trills coming out stuttered and sleep-heavy. With a drowsy coo, Ajax gives you a small, affectionate lick on your cheek, and two Abyssal monsters drift into slumber as the sun sets over Liyue, a pocket of warmth against the cold darkness below.