#looked like a giant twisted monster dragging itself forward

[spookyboywhump]

i would love to lucid dream but at the same time having sleep paralysis will literally cause me to disintegrate

BRO SAME I once read that even thinking about sleep paralysis too much can cause it to happen and since then I’ve been living in fear. Even though I read that years ago and have never experienced it. So it was probably bullshit. But I still fear-

[revelboo]

what is your worst "hear me out" for transformers? mine is tarantulas like a spider in irl hell no… but a big robot spider thats hot

Probably Tarantulas (I love his Earthspark design) or IDW Waspinator.

I read Windblade for Metroplex lore and it reminded me of this messed up, fatally gullible mech that is everyone’s punching bag and just knows it.

Worker Bee

IDW Waspinator x Reader

• Dragging his broken body, his alt mode scrabbles for purchase in the leaf litter. It’s hard to focus on much besides the pain and finding somewhere safe to hide and heal. He’s not even sure what he did, only that Skywarp had pointed at him right before Megatron went ballistic on him and the two other Decepticons that had been close by. Maybe he had done something wrong. He must have. “Waspinator’s fault,” he rasps, antenna flicking because there’s light up ahead, a building where he’ll be out of the snow just beginning to fall. Leaving the tree line, he drags himself inside, legs scrabbling and knocking over a metal can that clatters as it goes rolling and he collapses on the straw inside. So tired, burrowing in.

• Looking up from your book at the noise, you groan because the raccoons are back and they’ve tipped over the trash can. It’s late and you just want to ignore it and deal with it in the morning, but there might be garbage strewn across the yard by then. Standing, you tug on a coat, grab a flashlight, and a rifle just in case it’s a bear, not cute little trash pandas raiding your garbage. You’d left the barn door open apparently and you find the can turned over, but its contents not scattered everywhere. Maybe the sound scared them off? Setting the gun down, you right the can and turn as something shifts within the hay, rising slowly to tower over you.

• There’s a human with a weapon. Here to hurt him, because everyone does. They always do. It hurts to transform and reach for the human, but his injuries throw him off balance and he crashes down, knocking the little organic sprawling with him. And you’re screaming at him, your fear jangling through him making him curl forward, servos over his head. Waiting for a blow that doesn’t come. “Not hurt Waspinator?”

• Hyperventilating as the monster lifts its big head slightly, you can’t even scream. Voice overlayed with slow buzz, the thing had spoken. It’s gigantic, seizing your ankle when you try to crawl away and dragging you back, looming over you. All you can do is hold up your hands in supplication as those awful mandibles work and those glowing optics stare. “Don’t hurt me.”

• This is new. Someone afraid of him? It should make him feel powerful to be the one feared for once, but it just makes him oddly ill. Sitting up and gingerly touching the wound in his torso sluggishly bleeding energon, he makes a buzzing click of his mandibles. “No hurt,” he says as you scramble to your hands and knees to put some distance between you. “Already hurt,” he adds tiredly, and you hesitate in your retreat. Staring at the energon welling through his servos. You take a hand through your hair, expression twisting.

• All you have to do is run like hell. That thing, Waspinator it had called itself, is hurt too badly to chase you. But there’s something about its defeated tone that makes you feel guilty. This isn’t your problem. Big and scary was already hurt when he crashed in your barn. So why do you go over to the workbench and retrieve a roll of duct tape? He hisses at you, rearing back when you try to touch him and you freeze. “Cut that out,” you snap and his antenna flatten back. Not hurt Waspinator? You’d guessed with the way he’d worded that question that maybe he’s used to being hurt. That he’d fold if you acted aggressive and you were right. It’s unsettling to see a giant, metal death bug cringe like a puppy being scolded. But he doesn’t make a peep as you find the hole in his metal side and gingerly tape the leaking lines, trying to not think too closely on what you’re touching or that your hands are inside him rooting around. “Waspinator, right?” The way he’s just staring down at you with those wide glowing optics just cements in your head that he’s a big, really ugly puppy.

Next

[supernatural9000]

It was supposed to be a quiet night.

Jason Todd hated when things didn’t go according to plan. He had been looking forward to the break—Arkham was quiet for once, most of Gotham's rogues locked up or occupied elsewhere. Scarecrow was being handled by the others, and Penguin, for once, wasn’t causing a headache, tucked away in his club doing whatever legal business he liked to pretend he was invested in. So why in the ever-loving hell was there something crawling out of the sewers that could give Solomon Grundy nightmares?

“Fucking Christ,” Jason muttered under his breath, pressing his binoculars harder against his eyes as if the action might make the scene in front of him make more sense.

The… thing, because calling it anything else would just be inaccurate, was half-crawling, half-dragging itself out of the sewers. Blood and who-knew-what-else soaked through filthy bandages that wrapped around its arms, which—now that he stared longer—looked unnervingly long. Its limbs had that grotesque wrongness to them, like they had been pulled and twisted, with fingers ending in claws that scraped the concrete, leaving gouges as it moved.

Even worse, the thing was glowing a sickly green that made Jason’s stomach turn. The Lazarus Pits always left him on edge, but this? This was different, a hue that was both familiar and alien, somehow alive in ways that made him think of curses and ancient, buried things.

And the mouth. Jason gagged slightly. It was the only visible part of the creature’s face beneath the wild, blood-matted mane of hair. Stretched far too wide, lips cracking around what looked like—were those fangs?—it leered, a nightmarish grin carved into its features.

If that wasn’t bad enough, the thing wore a cloak. A black, swirling cloak that Jason almost mistook for fabric, but now that he stared longer, he swore it moved on its own. Tendrils, like living shadows, licked at the air, twisting in patterns like Ivy’s vines but more… sentient. It was a dark mimicry of Batman’s own cape, but there was something much older, more primal about it.

And because this night wasn’t horrifying enough, a giant sword hung from its back, gleaming in the dim streetlight as the creature pulled itself fully out of the tunnel.

Jason cursed, ready to pull out his guns when he spotted it—the small child sitting on the thing’s shoulder.

Jason blinked.

The kid—maybe six or seven, eight at most—sat happily on top of the nightmare, clutching something small and shiny. There was no fear, no hesitation, not even a glimmer of concern. The little boy—because yeah, that was a boy, despite the short black hair that could’ve gone either way—was actually swinging his legs back and forth, humming something Jason couldn’t make out. The boy’s tiny legs didn’t even reach halfway down the monster’s chest, and Jason could see a small sword strapped to his back like he was some kind of mini-knight.

Jason, still in partial disbelief at what he was seeing, made out the details of the boy’s outfit—something in blue and black, with what looked like… stars on his jacket? It didn’t matter. What mattered was why this kid didn’t seem to realize he was sitting on the shoulder of a walking horror that made Grundy look like a kitten. And more importantly, what the hell was he doing here?

Jason flicked on his comms.

“Uh, B? Got a situation here.”

A gruff voice answered after a moment. “Report.”

Jason sighed, feeling the urge to rub his temples but resisting. “You’re not gonna believe me. I don’t even believe me.”

“Spit it out, Todd.”

“Okay, so I’ve got a walking corpse thing crawling out of the sewers. It’s got claws, glowing green, bandages everywhere like some kind of undead mummy from hell, and—oh yeah—it’s carrying a child.”

There was a pause on the other end.

“… Are you sure?”

“Am I sure?” Jason hissed. “Bruce, I’m staring right at it. It’s got a mouth like a goddamn shark, a sword that looks like it could cleave a tank in two, and the kid’s just chilling there, having the time of his life!”

Jason pulled the binoculars down again, his gaze flicking from the creature to the kid. He felt his stomach churn, though whether from the glowing green that reminded him too much of the Lazarus Pit or the eerie calmness of the whole scene, he wasn’t sure. Either way, it didn’t sit right.

“Does the child seem in danger?” Bruce’s voice asked over the comms, sharp as always.

Jason hesitated, biting back his immediate response. “No, but—B, you should see this thing. It’s—” He stopped short when the child suddenly hopped down from the creature’s shoulder, landing lightly on the cracked pavement. Jason tensed, his body coiled to jump in if the kid so much as made a wrong move, but to his disbelief, the boy ran over to the sewer opening and pulled something out.

A moment later, Jason saw it: another sword, tiny and glittering, perfectly sized for the child’s small hands.

The kid turned around, flashing a proud grin at the giant corpse-monster, and Jason nearly choked when the thing—actually smiled back.

“Bruce, what the fuck is going on?”

The monster—a twisted, hulking thing that Jason swore had no business existing outside of Arkham’s worst nightmares—was actually playful. He watched, stunned, as the kid gave a wave, then charged into the nearest alley, the giant undead creature lumbering after him, claws scraping against the concrete, cloak of shadows swirling around them.

And then it hit him.

The strange, twisted feeling in the air. That pull he hadn’t noticed before. It wasn’t just some random monster. This thing—whatever it was—was connected to the city. To Gotham.

A realization slammed into him, cold and hard, when he saw the twisted shadows that seemed almost… protective. Jason swallowed thickly.

Gotham wasn’t just a city tonight.

It was alive.

And the little boy? The one who looked like he couldn’t have cared less that he was hanging out with a horror show?

He was a part of it too.

Danny hummed softly, swinging his legs as he stared down at the little sword in his hand. He was having fun tonight. Grandma Gotham was always so sweet, letting him run around and play like this, especially since Mom was out with Mr. Bludhaven on their date.

It was nice having so many cities to visit.

Prompt 65

“Oh what the fuck-” It was supposed to be a quiet night- no breakouts in Arkham and for once the asylum is actually full of most of their rogues. And the others were already taking care of Scarecrow and Penguin was- as far as he knew- doing legal things at the lounge at the time. So somebody tell him why there’s this giant… thing that could give Grundy a run for his money in should be dead a thousand times over was pulling itself out of a sewer tunnel. Like seriously, he can see the blood and infection and whatever else dripping from honestly filthy bandages all on its arms that look a hint too long the more he looks through the binoculars, and it’s glowing this sickly green that reminds him way too much like the Pits. That isn’t even getting started on the mouth- the only part visible of their face due to the wild mane of what might be white hair but was hard to tell under the amount of blood- that stretched far too wide. He even swore he could see fangs! Not to mention the cloak that he wants to say is a knockoff of B’s, but honestly he can swear he sees it moving, twisting like lashing tails of shadow, or like Ivy’s vines. Its hands are long and gnarled, tipped in claws that dig into the concrete as it pushes itself to a frankly horrifying height. And oh fuck, not only did it have some sort of giant sword, but there was a small child sitting on its shoulder without any sign of realizing the danger they were in-

Danny is having fun, his ghost-mom Amity is out on a date with another city spirit, Mr Bludhaven- so he gets to hang out with grandma? grandpa? (honestly who has time for gender when there’s curses to beat back!) Gotham! It would perhaps be better if he wasn’t unknowingly making said city spirit visible to those who aren’t death-touched or liminal… Oh well! 

[writtentodeath]

heyyy! i love your work! would you be willing to write something about a hero begging their villain nemesis for help with someone/something? the villain initally laughs and refuses, but about a week later is confronted with the actual danger hero is in, and realizes that the situation is a lot worse than hero let on? villain somehow pushes their pride aside and rescues hero from the situation. thx!

Hero had swallowed their pride and everything, Villain could see that. Steeled their nerves, done everything short of physically prostrating themselves into front of Villain, but...

Well. Villain certainly wasn't an idiot, and they certainly weren't in the business of helping idiot heroes with problems them got themselves into. Their style was more filling the pool that Hero was trying to claw their way out of than offering a helpful hand.

Still, seeing Hero all teary-eyed and pleading wasn't a bad end to a day.

"Please," Hero repeated, all sincerity and seriousness. "I can't do this without you- you're the only one who can help, I'm begging you, please help me."

Villain leaned forward, placing their hand ever so gently over Hero's on the table. “This must be truly serious, if you’re coming to me.”

Hero almost pulled away at the contact, but their eyes lit up when Villain said  that. “It is,” they said. “you have no idea- the things I’ve seen, they would tear this city apart.”

Aw. Villain moved their hand from Hero’s hand to their face, moving slowly so they didn’t startle Hero. “And what exactly makes you think that’s something I want to prevent?” 

The change wasn’t immediate. It took a second of dawning realization for Hero’s face to drop, for them to try to pull away.

“What?”

“You heard me,” Villain laughed. “Why would I want to stop that? You’re telling me something is going to destroy you, destroy this city, and wreak havoc on the earth. Something bigger than me, bigger than you. Well if you haven’t noticed, Hero, as much as I like playing with you, you get on my nerves every now and then.”

Hero stood up too quickly, their chair falling over as they backed away. “No. No, no no- you would let millions of people die just because it would kill me too? Are you crazy? This- it will kill you too, Villain, you’ll die with the rest of us!”

Villain laughed again, standing up and gesturing for their guards to take Hero by the shoulders. “I’ll take my chances with that, love. And while you’re dealing with that, I think I’ll take advantage of your absence.”

Hero started struggling against the guards. “Let me go!” 

“Don’t worry, I won’t stop you from leaving,” Villain said. “After all, someone has to deal with the problem.”

The guards dragged Hero away, presumably dumping them in some back alley. 

And Villain went back to their work.  

The ‘monster’ arrived the following week. 

At first, Villain wasn’t worried. Hero had warned them in advance, they had prepared as best they could- as best anyone could against a giant cloud that could form itself into anything. Anyone.

Hero slammed into the pavement, and Villain heard a bone crack. They were watching the fight from an alleyway- Villain wasn’t going to miss seeing their nemesis beaten to a pulp- but even they felt something curl up in their chest when Hero’s twisted, broken counterpart showed up. 

They looked like Hero. Mostly, anyway- their grin was too wide, their teeth a touch too long. More noticeably, their skin was covered in what looked like cracks, all filled up with something red and oozing that might have been blood if it didn’t turn black when it hit their skin.

Behind them, a storm raged over the city, pitch black blocks of stone falling and crushing buildings only to build them back up in mock replicas of the originals.

“Do you know what I’ll do when I finally kill you?” the thing asked, voice echoing against the buildings. It leaned forward, pressing a foot on Hero’s chest. 

From Hero’s groan, they were either already hurt or the thing was a lot heavier than it looked. 

“The city won’t have it’s shining defender anymore, but it’ll have me. And I’ll remake this whole place just like me- such a pretty city.”

Hero screamed as it pressed harder, and their chest caved in. 

Villain ran out from their hiding place, pulling out a gun and firing at the monster. 

It turned, leaving Hero’s limp corpse- body, Villain thought, body- in the street, and tilted its head at Villain. “Bullets aren’t going to do much,” it said, still using Hero’s voice. “But you have my attention.”

Villain stepped forward, shooting again. “Bullets usually work,” they replied, “Magic or immunity, getting your brains blown out puts a damper on the day.”

It cocked its head again, and a tentacle lurched out and wrapped around Villain’s bare wrist. It released them in an instant, returning to cover the body. 

After a moment, the ooze receded, but the body still looked like Hero.

“Trying to copy me?” Villain asked. “’Cause I’m afraid to tell you this, but that’s not gonna work on me.”

It snarled, trying again.  

“Like I said,” Villain shrugged, “It’s not gonna work. Immunity comes in handy sometimes- magic stuff, though-” they held up the gun- “it has its limitations. And apparently you are not one of those! So let’s try again.”

They unloaded the gun into the thing’s head, which made it take stumble back at the sheer force. 

Villain reloaded the gun. 

 It looked at him, shock written over Hero’s face, as well as a look Villain had seen just the week before. 

Fear. 

It backed away, retreating into the clouds at the edge of the city. 

Villain ran over to Hero’s body, frantically searching for a pulse, almost bursting into tears when they felt it beating faintly against their fingertips.

They had some work to do.

[ragingbookdragon]

Of Nights So Hollow, Of Legends So Great

Night Culture AU!Batfamily One-Shot

Word Count: 1.8K Warnings: Angst, Uh..Scary? I guess?

Author's Note: This is based on the wonderful @bunnvoid Night Culture AU and I felt compelled to write this at midnight because I couldn't stop thinking about it. Bunn, I hope I did your ideas justice! Honestly, I keep going back and forth between the drawings to make sure! I had fun writing it! -Thorne

**********************************************************************

It was said that at the heart of every legend there was a grain of truth. Legends are just pieces of history fabricated beyond wildest belief, built upon by centuries of retelling, each story sewing a new thread into the tapestry from whence it came. But that’s all that legends are. Threads twined together, woven greater and farther than the original fable.

***

The old castle was a legend. Perhaps not the castle itself, but what supposedly resided inside. Supernatural creatures that skirted down cobblestone alleys and between taverns, seeking out fresh blood in the night. That was one form of the legend, if you believed it. The other form was that of creatures who skirted down cobblestone alleys and between taverns, seeking out evil and destroying it where it plagued innocence.

The chateau lied in the midst of the Devilwood Wilds, just outside the City of Old Gotham. Even during the days when the sun would peek through the gray clouds, it appeared gloomy, blackened stone walls, charred shingles and shutters. The giant Devilwood and Shadow trees prevented sight of the doors of the castle; only the top could be seen, to get the real view, one would’ve had to go into the forest. There was another legend: the horrors of the Wilds.

Whispers on the school-grounds told of a creature, big and terrifying that could be summoned with ritual stones and fresh bat blood; those that summon the beast are never seen again. The adults were less convinced of the idea, though they still forbid their children from reaching even the edges of the forested area. Whilst they believed those that went in were never heard from again, it wasn’t from a creature eating them, but a lack of guidance. Starvation. Wild animals. The freezing fog that made your breath turn to frost.

Timothy remembers hearing those whispers when he passed the old schoolhouse. His mother and father didn’t let him interact with the common children, instead his lessons were taught by private tutors from the wealthiest lands, paid for with the Drake treasure of gold and gemstones.

What more so Timothy remembered was the inhuman being that appeared in his father’s manor, striking down his mother with a slash of black magic, his father following. He remembers the way his father’s eyes rolled back in his skull, fear spreading through his body as he hid in the corner of the room, whimpering and crying. And he most certainly remembered the cold hand of the demon sliding between his shoulder blades before it dug into his skin, piercing his flesh, laughing as he cried out in pain as pricks spread out along his back and down his arms.

Warmth bled down his back as black feathers pushed from his skin and Timothy panted as his fingernails grew in length, sharpening as they darkened. He remembered scrambling to his feet, darting away from the creature as he ran. Forgetting the corpses of his family and staff around him, throwing the door open, bursting into the night, and sprinting down the street, leaving a trail of bloody, black feathers in the direction of the Devilwood Wilds.

***

The first night was the least remembered but the darkest. Violent and corrupting nightmares slithering inside his head as he tossed and turned along the frigid ground in a feverish deathlike state, the wings at his back only growing in size.

The second night was less nightmare-ridden, but much more painful. Timothy had pierced a wing on a stray Devilwood tree, the syrup like poison only infecting the wound. He was hungry and cold. Exhausted and scared. He tried to remember all the books he read as a child of the knights facing the elements for a week in order to ascend knighthood; he couldn’t seem to recall a thing.

The third night seemed to be his last. He lay huddled up against a raised Shadow tree root, the ebony wood providing stability for his wounded wing. Timothy sniffled, dragging his knees to his chest as he lay his chin on his arms, ignoring the grumbling of his stomach as it ate itself in hunger.

A tree branch creaked above him, and he craned his neck up, eyes widening when he saw the glowing eyes of the masked creature. The legends were right. The creature’s head twisted sideways, reminding Timothy of an owl, then the other way, like it was observing him. It made a noise and he scrambled to the floor of the forest, curling his injured wing above his head and over his body to protect himself.

THUNK!

Timothy whimpered, ready to be torn to shreds, but when no vicious claws or snapping teeth came at him, he carefully peered between his open wing. There lie a satchel, as long as his forearm and as wide as his middle was. He looked up towards the tree branch to where the creature had sat, but there was nothing there anymore; he glanced around, it wasn’t in sight.

He blinked and shuffled towards the satchel, untying the drawstrings with fumbling clawed hands. Inside lay a pair of thick wool socks, a small blanket, and another small bag. Timothy pulled it from the satchel and opened it; half a loaf of bread and a chunk of meat the size of his hand were stowed inside.

Timothy forewent the etiquette he was taught as a child, giving into his ravenous desire as he devoured the meat. It was tender and juicy, the glaze a mixture of honey and cinnamon.

A memory flowed to his mind, the dinner after the rising of the first star, his family and staff all surrounding the dining table, a divine feast laid before them. The smiling faces of his mother and father stilled his hunger and he placed the food back in the satchel, uncurling the wool blanket. Timothy lay underneath the raised Shadow tree roots, one wing curled around him, and he fell into a restless sleep with tears frozen on his cheeks.

***

When he awoke the next morning, his wing was no longer torn and infected. A new feather had appeared where the wound had been. Timothy wanted to learn to fly. He’d owned a bird once. A Ruby Firebird, with long, crimson-colored feathers and big ruby eyes. It had been his only real friend and he’d watched it a lot. It couldn’t be that hard.

He stretched his wings out, unable to fight the urge to touch them with a single black claw. It tingled. Timothy blinked and beat them, unsure. He beat them again, this time a little harder, keeping at it until with each beat he was able to blow the long grass flat against the ground. A giddy smile came across his lips when the tips of his toes grazed the ground.

What he had not counted on was how tired he was going to get after only a few brief minutes of trying. His wings felt sore. Timothy would try again tomorrow to rise above the tall grass.

***

The creature would appear at odd times during the night and Timothy had stopped feeling the cold fear in his gut when it did. It never came near him; it just watched with the cocked head, back and forth, then would drop the satchel again and disappear. Sometimes there were scribbles inside. He didn’t know what they meant; but he knew the language. Thaatisgani. An old language his writing teacher had shown him one day. A language long died out amongst the common and even the elite folk.

Timothy wanted to know what it meant. He wanted to know what the creature was. His determination drew him to the front of the castle during the night of the harshest season storm. Lighting crackled across the sky, the thunder rolled along the clouds and the rain came down in torrents. He was freezing and soaked to the bone and the weight of his wings had him crawling up the steps, collapsing at the door.

He weakly raised a clawed hand, one nail scratching the black glazed door and he descended into darkness.

***

His mother liked to wear scented oils. They smelled of Queen’s Briar and Golden Belladonna. Before he was older, she used to let Timothy sit beside her when she would apply them to her wrist and ears. She would smile at him and tell him stories of far away lands.

Warmth spread across his eyes, and he rolled over in what he thought was his dream, only to roll onto the ground, landing awkwardly on his wings. Timothy whined and unfolded himself off the ground, rubbing his eyes, only to see the creature a hair’s breadth away from his face.

Timothy choked on his fear and scrambled away, only for the creature to grab his shoulder.

“Stay.”

He halted, looking back at it. “You speak the common tongue?”

The creature stared at him. “You are Timothy Drake. Son of Earl Drake.”

“I am,” Timothy responded, then looked at his hands. “But my family is…is dead.”

“Killed by a slithering demon from the Farstead realm.”

Tears prickled Timothy’s vision. “It killed my parents and cursed me.” He looked at the creature. “I’m a monster.”

“You’re cursed to believe what you think you are.” The creature waved a glowing hand and Timothy blinked in shock as the wings disappeared and his hands turned to normal. “It’s merely an illusion. You’ve only been tainted with cursed magic.”

It was much too complicated for Timothy to pull apart now. “Can I be healed?”

The creature blinked its glowing obs. “Cursed magic cannot be healed…but it can be trained.” They leaned forward, getting in his face. “I can teach you to control and transform.”

“You’re not going to eat me?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“…Yes.”

“You hesitated just a bit right there.”

A bottle rolled out from the corner of the room and the creature sighed, turning its head to it. “Richard. Jason. Come here.”

Two young boys, not that much older than Timothy appeared from behind a corner, guilty looks on their faces as though they’d been caught eavesdropping.

The creature nodded to Timothy. “Take him upstairs. He is dirty and tired.”

The tallest one, Jason, crossed his arms over his chest. “Just like that, Bruce? You’re going to take the witch boy in?”

“Pot-kettle,” Richard coughed, smiling when Jason elbowed him.

The creature, now known as Bruce, sighed. “Take the boy. He is tired.”

Jason and Richard obeyed, each hauling Timothy up under the armpits, leading him to a dimly lit staircase.

“Are you two going to eat me?”

“Yes,” Jason replied without hesitation.

“Jason!” Richard barked. “Stop.” He looked down at Timothy. “We’re not going to eat you Timothy…we’re going to help you. And that includes having a warm bed to sleep in and hot food to eat.”

Tears once again gathered in Timothy’s eyes, and he lowered his head as he sniffled. For once since that night, he felt safe.

These were the legends that prowled the city streets. They were supposed to be vicious and dark, evil and bloodthirsty, not ribbing and warm.

But then again, what are legends, but threads twined together, woven greater and farther than the original fable?

[cdroloisms]

Hello, idk if you’ll see this, nor do you have to take this request. But I’ve been thinking, and thought up: Dream joined the egg, but not because it offered him world domination or a happy family or any of that; no it offered to treat him kindly, to be affectionate, to be a friend, basically offering him human decency. (With an add on of everyone believing it was for some big reason, but the actual reason gets revealed somehow) if that made any sense. (Idk if this counts as an au or not)

[ask: if dream showed up to the red banquet, that would be very sexy of the writers to make him join the eggpire instead of the pro-omlette]

hehe egg!dream has so much potential ,, this is a ficlet i’ve been working on for a while (writer’s block my detested) but i finally finished it up !! it’s a bit unpolished but oh well - they cant all be winners lmao 

tw: body horror, blood, injuries, implied torture/abuse, starvation, possession, dark/disturbing imagery, dark content, pandora’s vault/prison arc 

Dream gets corrupted by the Egg, because of course he does.

Sapnap trudges through the vine-filled hallway, his face bundled firmly with a holy-water soaked bandana to keep out the worst of the spores. It’s a shoddy defense, but he doesn’t plan to stay long; he’s only been sent on reconnaissance, to see what public enemy number one is planning and get out as quickly as he can. As much as the entire server wants Dream dead, trying to defeat the man the first time was enough of a feat, never mind with the power of a giant demon egg on his side - to try and fight him now would be practically impossible.

The floor squishes underneath his boots, and his lips curl in disgust; the vines are thick and moist and feel ugly and rotten to the core. He can’t imagine anyone being anything but repulsed by the things, but he guesses it makes sense for Dream to be drawn here - corruption attracts corruption, it seems. It only figures that Dream would be desperate enough for power to let himself get possessed by the living - if you could really call it living - embodiment of decay and deterioration itself. The feeling of the floor giving way underneath his footsteps has another wave of revulsion crawling up his throat, though he’s not sure if it’s directed towards the Egg or his former friend or both.

He reaches the end of the hallway, an itching, pulsing feeling of wrong filling the air in the room just beyond the haphazard archway carved into the stone. With careful hands, Sapnap draws the bandana further up his face, making sure that it is tied securely behind his head - just beyond this wall lies the belly of the beast, the heart of the rot slowly but surely spreading its influence over the entire server. Something hums in the air; whispering, otherworldly sounds pierce through his armor and settle beneath his skin; he pushes on. He knows better than to listen, to try and make sense of the words within the noise - from what he’s heard, by the time you understand what it is saying, it’s too late.

He steps inside; the room feels, for the lack of a better word, red. He’s better suited for the place than most, being a Netherborn and therefore more used to the oppressive heat and heaviness of the air, but there’s something undeniably wrong about how this place feels, something entirely Other having made its home in the room. Every inch of the place feels hostile, angry, hungry, recognizing him as someone foreign and wanting nothing more than his destruction. Unlike the Red Forests, which teemed with life - piglins and hoglins and giant fungus - this room is little more than a twisted mimicry, sucking the air dry, leaving little more than husks behind.

His hand immediately goes to his sword, drawing it with a dull, metallic scrape. The room is eerily silent save for the Egg’s hissing whispers, and he frowns; he’d expected an attack, but the room is still, quiet; a mockery of peace that only makes the uneasy feeling in his gut grow further. He trudges forward, watching against the puddles of lava and smoking magma scattered over the floor, but nothing stirs.

There’s a growing pressure against his skull with each step into the room, and his hand tightens on his communicator; they’d set up a stasis chamber, just in case things went south, his way out of this place only a few button presses away. Still, nothing moves; no Bad or Ant popping out of nowhere, weapons in hand, no Dream driving an axe between his shoulder blades as he’s done so many times before in their spars. There’s only the sound of his footsteps against the rotting growths on the floor and his own heartbeat thudding in his ears and the Egg’s warbling voice, beneath it all - beckoning, almost kind.

He swallows, throat dry, and moves forward.

His feet carry him to the back corner of the room, to the rotting, pulsing core of the wrongness plaguing the entire server. Even through his bandana, the air feels foreign, nearly choking him, and he strains his eyes against the glare of the lava to look up at the vines’ rancid heart, the Egg. Up close, it’s almost underwhelming, only about three times his height, hardly coming halfway up to the ceiling of the room. What it doesn’t have in size, however, it makes up in sheer presence; the hissing whispers in his head grow louder, crawling under his skin and between his bones, and he curses under his breath as he prepares to call for his way back. Dream isn’t here; the mission is a bust.

“Sapnap?”

He freezes.

It takes a moment to realize that the voice wasn’t in his head, as raspy and unsettling as it was, and his eyes traced the edges of the Egg to a dull colored shape at its side, completely overlooked in his initial sweep of the room. He watches, a dull horror rising in his chest, as the shape moves, twists around on itself in an entirely unnatural way like a marionette pulled by its strings. A pale dot rises from where it had been hidden against the bright red of the Egg; it’s a face, Dream’s face, covered in clawing vines, stark against the bone-white of his sun-starved skin, vomit racing up his throat at the sight of the vines having made their homes in jagged wounds all over his face and neck and disappearing into the torn scraps of his prison uniform, each one spilling crimson in the form of writhing vines and thorns instead of blood.

“Sapnap,” Dream says again, his mouth moving with the words but something entirely other having made its home in the air of his lungs, a shivering rasp to his voice that lifts and falls with the same desperate hunger that saturates every tainted inch of the room. His neck tips to the side, shifted over by a twisting vine tangled within his hair and wrapping a crown of blood-red thorns over his forehead, tendrils drooping over his face and framing the gaunt edges. “You came.”

“Dream-” the anger comes back, familiar, at the other’s words - the same red-hot rage that had boiled within him in that first and only prison visit (you took so long) but it dissipates as fast as it comes. Dream - if this remnant, this shade, this corrupted, mangled half that seems more corruption than human can even be called the name of one he had once considered his best friend, his brother - stumbles closer, held up by the vines that twist over his shaking legs, one having the pale, ragged edge of a bone clearly having ripped through skin - and Sapnap does throw up, this time, dragging the bandana from his face and heaving bile all over the floor.

“What happened-” he cries, flames licking up his arms in defense when his friend-turned-monster-turned-this steps closer on a wreck of a leg that should not be able to bear weight, stumbles back to a roaring in his ears-

He is mine he came broken came shattered and I gave him everything I gave him his heart’s desire I am his savior his grace he asked for warmth and he asked for comfort and he asked for nothing but for someone to take his pain and he is mine he is mine he is mine

He freezes, hand tightening over his communicator; Dream stares at him with the one dull-green eye not covered by the vines splayed over his too-pale face, mouth moving but no sound coming out. The roaring, angry sound in Sapnap’s ears grows louder, follows the shape of Dream’s lips come join your friend come with me I will give him to you you have failed him once but not again not again he is mine but you can be mine also and you will be together together together

“-pnap! Sapnap!” Puffy’s words crackle over the communicator, harsh and loud and snapping him out of his thoughts, “Pull the switch, Sam! No, he’s not responding- pull the switch-”

The world dips, and he heaves in a shattered breath, lungs finally full as he breathes in clear air for the first time in what feels like an eternity, hacking coughs pulled from his throat as he tears the bandana off in one sputtering gasp for breath.

“Sap- Sapnap,” Sam pitches his voice low, comforting, a hand rubbing up and down his back, but all Sapnap can see is the skeleton of a man held together by red thread, the life leached from his skin and leaving nothing left, he asked for nothing but for someone to take the pain and he is mine he is mine he is mine-

“Sapnap,” Puffy’s voice is tinny with concern, “What happened? You stopped responding and the time passed so we pulled the switch on the stasis chamber- are you alright? Did he attack you?”

“I-” -you have failed him once but not again not again you will be together- “I need a moment.”

He scrambles away, feet carrying him away from Church Prime, away from the Holy Land, away away away until he’s standing on the Community House roof, staring at his hands at this home, destroyed, this home, rebuilt, this home, empty and wrong and a shadow of house for a shadow of a man, a shadow of a friend found, a friend lost- and sobs.

What had he done?

[moomingitz]

It’s... interesting looking back at the Jak and Daxter series, because when the second and third games first came out during my edgy teen years my mindset for them was mostly, “OMG Jak is now a buff and rugged edgy boi, he’s saying curse words, and has a literal edgy dark side to him. And Daxter is a big playboi who doesn’t hide his love for bewbs. Jak and Daxter is no longer for babies but for mature big kids like me!”

But looking at the series now; Holy shit, Jak has had it rough. Where do I even begin? This is going to be long, so get comfortable:

First, Jak was ripped away from his father at a very young age due to an insurrection. Then he was kidnapped by one of the people who was responsible for it, with the intention of being used to awaken some ancient Precursor technology, but luckily he somehow escaped and then was taken in by a rebellion group.

Then he was sent back into the past to be raised by Samos, the Sage of Green Eco. While that was a good thing for Jak, since he was able to grow up in a loving and supportive environment, what happened to him before that is something that would still be traumatic to a little kid especially in the form of something like Separation Anxiety. While this goes into headcanon territory, I can’t help but wonder if that had a lot to do with why Jak was the mostly silent type before the events of the second game. But thankfully he was lucky to grow up with two best friends like Daxter and Keira.

Surely you think that would be the end of misfortune Jak would have to go through. Wrong!

Fast forward to where he’s now 15 years old and everything seems all good and exciting after he and Daxter saved the world from Dee Snider and his twisted sister. Sure they didn’t accomplish what they set out for by turning Daxter back into his old humanoid self, by Daxter is content staying as a furry anyway. At least they saved the world and found some ancient Precursor technology. But hold up! Turns out it was some kind of rift gate and the moment they activated it some giant bug monster pops out and they’re all separated and thrown into some new place they’ve never seen.

Literal seconds later, before Jak or Daxter have any time to react or process what exactly just happened and where they ended up, Jak is immediately arrested and knocked unconscious, despite doing nothing wrong. He’s then tortured and experimented on for the next two years, in hopes of turning him into a living weapon by pumping Dark Eco into him. Keep in mind Jak was only 15-16 years old during those nightmarish two years of his life. But his BFF Daxter never gave up looking for him and eventually rescued Jak.

Upon busting out Jak has no damn idea where exactly he is, and when he does it turns out him and Daxter are now in a totalitarian, police state of a hellhole where never ending propaganda is blared everywhere you go, and where Jak’s only crime is just existing. Oh, and there’s currently an ongoing war between this police state regime ruling the city and some species called Metal Heads, so the territory outside the city is near inhospitable. So just simply leaving Haven City isn’t really an option. It’s either deal with the Krimson Gaurd who will get on you for just sneezing in the wrong direction, or claw your way for survival outside the city walls.

Until finding Samos and Kiera much later, Daxter is the only familiar and welcoming face Jak still had until then(the only exception being Sig in the “welcoming face” department).

Oh, and it turns out those Dark Eco experiments gave JAk some dark Hulk like form that he has trouble controlling(at least that’s what the game tells us). Oh, and they eventually learn that this shithole place they found themselves in is actually their home 500 years into the future. Oh, and it turns that this little kid they’ve been having to protect from both the Krimson Guard and the Metal Head army is actually Jak’s younger self.

Despite all that, the rebellion group and many of the criminals they had to work with eventually warm up and even become their friends, the authoritarian regime eventually crumbles, and they kill the Metal Head leader. Even though Jak doesn’t go back to his childhood home in the past, Keira, Samos, and Daxter choose to stay with him in the future, so he’s definitely not alone in the end. Happy ending earned, and that should be the end of all the bad stuff to happen in Jak’s life, right?...

Of course that wouldn’t be the end of bad traumatic shit to happen to Jak!

Right after the events of the second game, Jak is not only blamed for the fallout of the Praxis regime falling and the Metal Head army’s demise, but he’s outright banished to the Wasteland, no thanks to some weasely council member, Veger.

But ya boi Daxter snuck out to join Jak in his exile, so at least Jak still has his best friend with him. Jak now has to survive in a Mad Max esque land after proving himself worthy to Damas, the leader of some refuge village. But it’s kind of good because he slowly gets on this guy’s good graces.

Oh, but later on it turns out this Damas guy is actually the very father Jak was forcibly separated from during his very early childhood. But, Jak only figured that out just as Damas was dying, and he didn’t have a chance to tell Damas that he was his son that’s he’s been wanting to find for years.

It also turns out this Veger douchebag was one of the people aside from Baron Praxis who was responsible for Jak being separated from Dadmas, and was the guy who kidnapped him in an attempt use him to obtain that ancient Precursor technology.

Of course everything works out in the end. But yeah... You see what I mean? Jak was put through the wringer during the events of this whole trilogy! He's done nothing wrong! Yet starting from a very young age he’s either been targeted or dragged into other’s messes for just existing, or for something he had no choice to do in order to survive. The only real thing he did wrong was dragging Daxter over to Misty Island, which led to him being accidentally transformed into an ottsel in the first place. But the events of the first games was all a lighthearted adventure anyway. Aside from that it’s been one unfortunate or traumatic event after another for Jak.

When letting everything Jak went through really sink in, there’s guaranteed trauma and the resulting PTSD this poor guy is going to have to address or else it will inevitably manifest itself in some way later on. Acting gruff and blase' will only work for so long. I know some people get tired with pieces of fiction being compared to Steven Universe, but Steven’s eventual mental breakdown seriously came to mind. And some people will say, “It’s just a vidya game, stop thinking too much into it.”, but there was a conscious decision to take this series into a more dark and mature direction after the first game. So, it’s a bit hard not to think about more possible unpleasant implications based on what happened in the sequels, especially when looking at the events of the games through the lenses of today.

Taking all of this into consideration is also why I think Daxter is seriously the “MVP” of the series.

Daxter grew up being Jak’s best friend, which I’m sure helped Jak a lot after being separated from his father and taken to a literal place in time completely different and unfamiliar to him. I’m very sure his time growing up in Sandover Village and hanging out with Daxter was the best period of Jak’s life. Even after Jak dragged him to Misty Island, accidentally causing him to be transformed into an ottsel, and sacrificing his chance to be turned back to normal in order to save the world, Daxter showed no hard feelings towards Jak and he even learns to like being an ottsel.

He spent two years trying to find out where Jak was being held prisoner in Haven City, and infiltrated the place once he did and helped Jak escape.

And despite not having any fingers pointed towards him for the fallout after the events of the second game, Daxter still chooses to join Jak in exile in the Wasteland.

Daxter has never shown any ill will towards Jak despite him being the one responsible for being turned into an ottsel, and he’s never really abandoned him even when he is given many chances to or a way to get himself out of really bad situations. Despite everything, Daxter is still the same quippy, upbeat dork of a friend Jak has grown up with.

I really believe Daxter helped a lot with keeping Jak’s sanity intact during all of the hell he was put through and beyond. If there was a guaranteed way for someone to sign their own death warrant with Jak, I think harming or outright killing Daxter would be it.

[carelesscreativity]

HorrorDust Freakout for Tyraxes: Commission for Ko-Fi

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

(SFW, Angst, Fluff)

Horror could tell something was wrong as soon as he arrived. He was momentarily weakened from gathering all of his starved magic for a shortcut back to Nightmare’s castle. If the giant swirling vortex of purple and red magic jutting out of the top of the castle was anything to go off of, things weren’t going well here. He could feel the raw magic, the power crackling in the air around him. In a way, it made his thinned bones ache, though it was doing nothing to affect his HP.

He had to get inside. He had to get inside and he had to get to HIM. He almost dropped his axe, the handle falling off his shoulder and almost slipping through his fingers. He caught it at the last second, shambling towards the castle doors. The blade of the axe dragged behind him, cutting through the ground, but he didn’t really care. He only had one thing in mind right then.

He shouldered open the doors, his thick frame making it easy. He had a lot of physical power for someone who’s bones looked like they would break in two. Killer was already in the common room, face twisted in worry as he stared up at the ceiling. Cross was there as well, seeming tense as he continued looking up too. The castle gave another rumble and dust rained down from the ceiling. How ironic.

Cross inhaled sharply. He’d been pacing back and forth, that stupidly long scarf of his brushing along the ground as he murmured to something no one else could see. Just like HIM. Horror furrowed his brow and continued forward, shifting his axe so the flat of the blade was being dragged along the ground. He’d been yelled at enough for tearing the carpet by dragging his weapon. “Hey, uh, I don’t think you wanna go up there right now.” Killer’s voice was in warning.

Horror twitched and glanced back at him. Killer was watching him with his empty eyesockets. “He’s not doing so hot right now.” Horror replied dryly that he could tell. His voice was raspy and strained, yet deep. He turned back and started making his way to the stairs again. He growled in frustration as Cross spoke his name next, in a much more worried, urgent tone.

“Horror!” The broken skeleton turned on the soldier with a sharp glare that made the other falter. “L-Listen, it’s REALLY bad right now. Even Boss is struggling to handle him right now. He’s been at it for almost two hours.” Cross gulped. “You’re GOING to get hurt and I don’t think...” He seemed to be trying to word what he wanted to say and Horror narrowed his eyelight at him. Killer cleared his throat, making them both jump.

He tossed his knife up and down as he sighed, sitting on the couch. “What that idiot’s tryin’ to say is that you ain’t built to take an attack like Dust’s. If he lashes out at you and the attack hits, you’d be fuckin’ dead.” Killer said bluntly. “Especially when he’s all riled up like this. He wouldn’t just dust ya, he’d fucking obliterate ya.” Horror stared at him and Killer gave a shrug. “I know you don’t like to hear that, but it’s the truth. And maybe some of us don’t want ya dead.”

Horror stared at them for a moment. Cross was avoiding his gaze and he could tell the other was thinking the same thing. That rubbed Horror the wrong way and he could practically be seen bristling. Deep down, he knew they were right. If he went up there and Dust had finally lost it enough to actually attack him, Horror would be dead in an instant. He wasn’t immortal. He wasn’t numb to pain or able to heal himself naturally.

But that didn’t mean he was weak. Horror was about to speak when the castle rumbled again. Dust screamed from above them. The sound was shrill and piercing, sounding as if it was being dragged from his throat. It was so loud that Horror could hear it clearly from downstairs and his soul twisted. He could hear everything in that noise. Fear, pain, anger and regret. Everything that made Dust who he was.

The power across the entire castle rippled, lightbulbs blowing themselves out and plunging the entire place into darkness. Horror was momentarily blinded before the secondary system came on. They were magic candles that lit themselves all across the castle. But even they were flickering under the power of Dust’s magic. Horror studied the other two in the room.

Cross had screwed his eyes shut and even Killer’s target soul faltered, seeming to lose its shape for a moment as he inhaled sharply. The scream kept going, Dust likely using all the air trapped in his nonexistent lungs. The sound seemed to shake the castle itself. Horror had to get to him. There was so much loss and grief in Dust’s voice. Horror twitched as he turned and started up the stairs.

There was the steady thump as his axe was dragged up every step. The sound finally stopped and Horror found that his hand had raised to the wound in his head. He was gripping it. He paused on the steps, his brow furrowed. He could almost imagine Dust reaching out and yanking his hand away, telling him to quit it. That he wasn’t supposed to be doing that anymore.

With that in mind, Horror managed to pull his hand away from his head, instead balling it into a fist and shoving it into his pocket. He continued to make his way up the stairs. Cross had said Nightmare was already up there, right? The boss must’ve been getting one HELL of a meal from Dust right then. Horror’s mind blanked completely and he paused in the stairs again. What was he doing?

It wasn’t until the castle gave another rumble that he remembered. He continued up, coming out onto the second floor. He could see Nightmare down the hall. He was definitely feeding, his sludge rippling. The wall in front of him had been ripped away into the vortex and Horror could faintly hear mindless babbling inside the whirlwind. It soon escalated into shrieking and Horror felt his soul twist again.

The spark of pain must’ve caught Nightmare’s attention because there was no way he would’ve heard Horror. He turned to look at the broken skeleton, seeming surprised, to say the least. He seemed to ask something, but Horror was already hyper fixated on something else. Through the sparse gaps in the whirlwind of magic, he could see HIM. He could see Dust and he began to shamble over. He wanted to see him. He wanted Dust to see him.

He dropped his axe, finally allowing the handle to fall through his fingers and hit the floor with a soft thump. He reached out towards the whirlwind with a shaking hand. He wondered if what Dust had told him that one night was true. That he would never allow his magic to hurt Horror. At worst, he figured he’d lose a hand and that was okay. It wasn’t his dominant one, so he could live without it. He blinked as a tentacle stopped him.

He looked over at Nightmare, who seemed perplexed and taken back. If anything, he probably didn’t think Horror was stupid enough to try something like that. He could barely hear the other over the roar and crackle of the magic, combined with Dust’s shrill yelling. Horror blinked and spoke in a quiet, hushed voice. He knew Nightmare would be able to tell what he was saying. “Boss, I need ya to trust me...” He managed.

Nightmare stared at him, unblinking for a moment. If Horror had the attention span to keep looking, he would’ve even thought that Nightmare was worried for him. The other finally pulled his tentacle back. He still stood close, absolutely about to step in if it didn’t work out. At this point, Horror wasn’t even sure it would. He mumbled a thank-you and turned back to the vortex. He kept stretching out his hand, shuffling a little closer.

The tips of his claw-like fingers touched the outer layers of the magic. He expected burning or sizzling. There was nothing but a faint tingling and he pushed his hand further in. He couldn’t believe it for a moment. He really didn’t. He stood there, arm halfway through the chaotic whirlwind of magic. He didn’t know what to do for a moment. There was a loud sizzling and a grumble from Nightmare as the magic sheared off the tip of his tentacle when he tried to touch the magic as well.

That meant it was only him. Dust hadn’t been kidding. Horror was momentarily awestruck and he refocused, beginning to fully push his way through. The rough part was getting his head through. The magic momentarily spilled into his skull and he was plagued with sudden visions of monsters in their last moments. Some crawling and most of them crying and begging for their lives. One of them was Papyrus, who seemed calm, still smiling as he dusted.

Horror made it into the eye of the whirlwind, red tears having erupted down his face. He stared at the trembling figure in the middle, who was shrieking and trying to explain himself to no one in particular. There were a lot of phantom monsters in the whirlwind’s walls. Horror could see them all. They were all talking at once, it seemed, but Horror didn’t hear anything but Dust. He could see red and purple magic crackling along the other’s bones.

That would be the difficult part. He could take it, but it depended on how fast he could bring Dust back. Horror wasn’t some weakling, LV.1 monster. Sure, he wasn’t LV.20 like Killer or Dust, but he had some extra HP under his belt. He wondered if Dust knew he was there already. The phantoms were all looking at Horror. Dust was shaking as he turned to face him, his body crackling and his eyes lit feverishly bright. He was breathing odd.

Horror stared at him with wide, teary eyes. “Dust?” He asked, his voice more confused than scared. Dust seemed to be struggling to focus on him. Had the other just called him Dust? Every monster around was chanting that his name was Sans. Sans, Sans, Sans. Not Dust. He furrowed his brow, his body trembling with unbridled magic for a moment. He kept forgetting that Horror was right in front of him, only to realize it all over again. Why was Horror crying? He didn’t like when Horror cried.

“H-Horror...” He managed in a wheezing, whispery voice. Horror took a step forward and Dust’s body immediately lit up, crackling in warning. “Don’t.” He inhaled shakily. The phantoms were still screaming. Papyrus was telling him to kill Horror. “H-He doesn’t have anything for us...” He tried to reason with the ghostly head, only to flinch as Papyrus’ ghoulish grin widened.

“Then he’s just in our way, brother.” Papyrus was right. Horror was in the way. Horror was the only thing keeping them back. Dust focused on him. Horror’s attention had been snagged by the phantoms again, his short attention span showing strong. He had his claw-like fingers nervously hooked together. He wasn’t scared of Dust. He was wary about everything AROUND Dust. He had his shoulders scrunched up and his eyes were wide. He was still crying. Dust didn’t like that. The hooded skeleton’s eyes were fixed on Horror’s hands.

Dust watched as his fingers unhooked and his eyes widened. He blinked as Horror reached up and began to tug at his head wound, seeming frightened. He only did that when he was overwhelmed or trying to remember something. Dust could tell which one it was. He immediately moved towards him, his body snapping into action as he ripped himself away from Papyrus, who hissed for him to come back. He couldn’t. Not when Horror was doing that. He wasn’t supposed to be doing that anymore.

Dust’s stained fingers reached out, taking Horror’s wrist and pulling his hand out of his head wound. Horror jumped and seemed to focus on him as well. “S-Sorry... keep forgettin’...” Horror mumbled quietly. Dust stared at him before seeming to realize that the voice were fading into the background. He was no longer concerned about them. He was concerned about Horror. He had his other hand on Horror’s opposite shoulder.

“You said you wouldn’t do that no more.” Dust said quietly in response, his voice a little strained, but still scolding. The phantoms had vanished from around them. Even Papyrus. Horror ducked his head, seeming slightly ashamed of himself as he apologized once more. Dust came to the realization that he was breathing heavy and his head was pounding. How much time had passed? He was becoming aware of his surroundings again. It seemed he’d blown out the entire wing of the castle.

He was brought back to attention as he felt Horror’s hand slip down into his. The broken skeleton pulled Dust’s stained hand to his cheek, twitching before weakly nuzzling into it. Dust took the opportunity to finally, FINALLY wipe away Horror’s tears. The other squirmed a litrle before pressing into his hand. He opened his eyes.

“Do ya feel better?” Horror asked, glancing up at him uncertainly. The whirlwind was already almost nonexistent. Dust stared at him before leaning forward a little. He hesitated, meeting Horror’s gaze before pressing their teeth together.

It took a moment to click in Horror’s mind, him only able to process the kiss once Dust had already pulled away. A faint heat rose to his cheeks and he ducked his head again, mumbling that that had felt nice. Dust’s fingers twitched against his cheek as he gave a quiet nod. “Did I hurt ya?” He asked, beginning to check over Horror for any signs of injury. The broken skeleton blinked and shook his head.

“Ya weren’t lyin’. Magic couldn’t hurt me.” Horror told him, seeming to give the tiniest hint of a smile. Dust felt heat rose to his own cheeks and his racing soul calmed down a bit. He didn’t know if he could live with himself if he had done anything harmful to Horror. Despite what Papyrus said, Dust didn’t see Horror being in his way as a bad thing.

They both blinked as someone cleared their throat. Nightmare was staring at them, seeming unamused. Dust became aware of just how much debris was around him as a dangling brick clattered to the floor and broke apart next to them. There was broken furniture and glass all around him. Not to mention he’d blown out the power.

Horror gave Dust’s hands a squeeze and the hooded skeleton squeezed back, only able to look around in dulled surprise. He spoke in his monotone, raspy voice. It was almost gone from screaming, but he was sure Nightmare could hear him just fine. “Hey, Boss...” He blinked and glanced back at the blown out wall in ceiling before turning back to see Nightmare’s tentacles flicking in agitation. “Guess... that was my fault, huh?”

[ruewrites]

I Wanna Hold Your Hand

AO3

TaBoL

Ship: Solomon/Asmodeus

Word Count: 2082

Warnings: Mild Violence

A/N: Day 4 of Solodeus Week! I decided to mix Royalty!Au with Curse. I will be updating TaBoL again after this week, but I hope you enjoy the lightness of this oneshot with the heaviness going on in the main story right now!

Asmo was more than delighted with their little predicament. Solomon, however, didn't exactly share his enthusiasm.

"Asmodeus, my palm is getting sweaty."

"But we get to hold hands!" Asmo squealed, "You love holding my hand!"

"True, but I also love to do things with my hands."

It was incredibly hard to read his spells right when the fifth born prince of Arcadia was on top of him and in his lap. It was incredibly hard to focus when he was also moving his hips against him and kissing along his neck. He was lucky that it hadn't been a more dangerous spell. But he also couldn't blame Asmo. After all, he was more than happy to be an active participant in his actions.

It wasn’t that he was unfamiliar with curses, no, in fact he was very familiar with them. Some minor ones could be useful for catching thieves, or wiggling the truth out of liars, but he never imagined that one like this would stick him to Asmodeus. Perhaps he should be wiser when choosing readings in Asmodeus’ company.

With a sigh he grabbed his book with his free hand and dragged Asmo with him to the edge of the bed. There had to be a way to undo this spell. Not that he didn’t like holding his hand, he loved holding his hand, but certain situations would call for him to use both of his hands. Not only that, but he and Asmo couldn’t always be together, and being stuck together when they needed to be in two places at once was rather inconvenient.

Asmo leaned against his shoulder, eyes glancing down to the book and back up to Solomon. Solomon’s lips moved ever so slightly as he looked over the words, trying to make sense of the text before him.

“This is nice,” Asmo chirped, interrupting his train of thought. “I like watching you read, you look very attractive when you’re focused.”

Solomon couldn’t help but roll his eyes, “Well thank you, but focus requires quiet, and I’m going to need that in order to figure out what we need to do to fix this.” If he was able to poke Asmo’s nose he would have. So instead he placed a small kiss on it.

“I don’t think we need to fix it so quickly. I don’t think it’s that big of a problem."

"You'll think differently when we have things we need to get done, I don't think it is incredibly possible for us to function like this."

"But-"

"Shhhh. We'll be holding hands while I figure out what we need to do.”

Asmo seemed slightly satisfied with that answer and remained silent as Solomon continued to scan through the book.

***

“Solomon! Slow down!” Asmo squeaked, stumbling along behind the king. He’d called a carriage to take them to the outskirts of the kingdom. Just as their luck would have it, it appeared that Solomon was only missing one singular ingredient needed to fix their little screw up.

All the sudden he felt himself jerk back as his fiance dug his heels into the earth, “Asmo-”

“You almost took me through a mud puddle Solomon. A mud puddle! Do you realize how hard that would have been to get out of my clothes? You’re being such a reckless man!”

“Alright, alright, I apologize,” Solomon said, “But darling, you need to keep your voice down, we don’t know what could possibly be prowling around these parts.” As he spoke he noticed Asmo’s eyes go wide, fixed on something behind him.

Great.

Perfect.

Did he dare turn around or should he just curse his luck further?

Before he even had the chance to turn around, Asmo was yanking him out of the way. His eyes just managed to catch quills slicing the air where his head had been moments ago. The two of them stumbled off into a tree where Solomon finally got a glance at the creature. It had a humanoid face, surrounded by sharp quills, it’s body was that of a large cat, and it’s tail was spiked, thrashing widley. It’s fangs were bared towards them as Solomon tried to put himself in front of Asmo.

“I can’t get to my dagger,” Asmo whispered, “Not with my dominant hand anyways.”

Because Solomon was currently glued to it.

His eyes never left the beast. He couldn’t risk it pouncing and catching them off guard.

Being stuck together wasn’t too bad.

But being skewered together wasn’t something Solomon was looking to try.

“Just stay close,” Solomon whispered, bringing Asmo closer to him, “Listen and do exactly what I say when I say it."

Asmo's nod was so slight that Solomon barely registered it. They waited, letting their hunter circle them. Swaying back and forth, looking for an opening. This was the downside of being stuck like this. Yes Asmodeus was strong, and Solomon knew he could take care of himself, but he didn’t like the idea that he was the one putting him in danger. He should never intentionally be putting him in harm’s way.

He would put himself down first, but if something happened to one of them, they were both doomed. Asmodeus would have even less of a chance of surviving if he was stringing along his corpse. The stakes were higher than they normally would be.

His eyes drifted downwards to those sharp talons, the way they curled in the soil. He just needed the right moment, an opening.

Then the beast stopped.

"Left!" Solomon didn't give Asmo time to respond, yanking him along as the beast lunged for them. They stumbled onto the ground together, narrowly avoiding being slashed open.

But the beast was quick and agile. Solomon barely had the time to raise a shield above them before it pounced again. He could feel the strain on his body with each blow that came down onto the barrier. This creature really wasn’t going to give up until it had them both between its jaws.

He’d failed his kingdom.

He’d failed Asmo.

He’d failed.

At least he could die in his love’s arms.

“Solomon-”

“Asmo, I’m so sorry that things are going this way. I-”

“That’s great darling, but look underneath us,” Asmodeus sounded oddly calm. Solomon debated if he should take his eyes off of the furious creature before them.

“Darling,” he could hear the exasperation in Asmo’s voice, and soon a flower was in his line of vision, “While I love the dramatics you’re putting on, isn’t this the little flower that was in your book?” If they weren’t about to be eaten by a giant beastie, Solomon could have kissed him. His absolutely wonderful Asmodeus.

Solomon’s grin was wider than the maw of the creature, “Perfect! That is exactly what I was looking for, now put a petal in my mouth.”

“Excuse me?”

Solomon hissed as the creature threw itself against the shield once more and his magic flickered. “Asmodeus please just do it.”

Asmodeus quickly placed a petal on his tongue and Solomon started to chew. Then, once he thought it was good enough, he spat it onto their hands.

“Ew Solomon!” Asmo screeched, but Solomon would make it up to him later.

Their hands were now freed, but Solomon wasn’t sure how much he would be able to do after he drained more of his powers trying to keep the beast at bay. All he knew was that he’d do anything in his power to keep Asmodeus safe, even if that meant providing a distraction long enough for him to run. All he had to do now was prepare himself to take the wall down. All he had to do was breathe and think of Asmo’s wonderful smile.

But he didn’t even get to think too much about anything aside from that.

As the beast reared, Solomon lowered the shield, and then a figure darted past him. A terrible screech echoed all around them as Asmo plunged his dagger deep into its chest and twisted. He didn’t let up, didn’t let go. Even as it toppled backwards, Asmo pressed forwards staying on top of it until it’s thrashing movements came to a halt.

Asmo’s back rose and fell as he removed his dagger. Blood splatter sprayed his front and his arms, his dagger glistened a dark crimson. His hand raised to his head, and then he hesitated, a look of disgust crossing his face.

Solomon wasn’t sure what it was, but something about the image sent a wonderful red color straight to his cheeks. Something inside of him wanted to ravish the prince. But Asmo smacked his hand away as soon as he went to reach for him.

“Oh no. Nuh uh. Who told you it was okay to spit on my hand? My husband should know better! That was absolutely revolting,” he snapped. The tip of his dagger rested on his chest, but Solomon didn’t even flinch. Instead he brought his hands up and gently cupped Asmo’s face.

“I’m sorry my love, I did what I had to, but I promise that I can make it up to you.”

Asmo raised an eyebrow.

“How about a nice warm bath where I tend to you and spoil you?”

Asmo’s eyebrow raised a little higher.

Oh he was insatiable.

“Perhaps I could call the tailor in? I could get new clothes made and ordered for you, maybe even get your crown shined?”

Asmo let out a sigh and dropped his dagger from Solomon’s chest, “I suppose we can talk about it.”

He was forgiven.

Solomon took that moment to press a kiss to Asmo’s lips, “Good. Now, why don’t we head back and get you cleaned up before more trouble manages to find us.”

The walk back was a lot less eventful, and Solomon could feel his bones start to ache. His eyes glanced over to Asmodeus, his hand gently laying by his side. He couldn’t help himself. Testing the waters, Solomon moved closer to brush their fingers together. Asmo glanced at him and Solomon repeated the action before intertwining his fingers with Asmo’s.

“Now King Solomon,” oh Solomon loved the way he said that, “I thought you didn’t want to hold my hand anymore.”

“Of course I want to hold your hand. I do love how soft they are, and I love how your fingers look wrapped around your dagger.”

“Oh you would love something so brutish wouldn’t you?” Asmo teased, “Refined King Solomon, who is always so deep in his books, loves watching the delicate little Arcadian prince slaying a big ugly monster because of how his spit-covered hands look wrapped around a dagger.”

Solomon wrapped himself around him, not caring in the slightest if blood got on his cloak, “And if I do?”

“And what if you do?” Asmo challenged.

There was so much Solomon loved about him, and that fire in his eyes was one of the things he absolutely adored. Asmodeus was strong in more ways than one, and Solomon knew this to be true. All he could hope was that he helped Asmo flourish and grow.

“Isn’t that the question,” Solomon said leaning in, “But now all I wish is to hold your hand.”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“But will you let me?”

Asmo met him halfway, letting his lips meet Solomon’s. His heart soared at the tiniest bit of contact with Asmo, and when they pulled apart, Solomon could feel his body begging for more. He could never get enough of Asmodeus, and he would never get enough of Asmodeus. How could he? He was beautiful and powerful all in his own right.

“So may I hold your hand?” Solomon asked again.

“You said you would attend to me in the bath as soon as we got back?” Asmo asked, leaning in close.

“That I did.”

“Then I suppose I could let you hold my hand. Perhaps I’ll even let you hold it the rest of the way back.”

“Oh my Asmodeus is too kind to me.”

And so they walked back to the palace, hand in hand. Solomon didn’t intend to let go any time soon. Asmodeus always had a grip on him. His hands held his heart so tenderly, and his very presence always had him in such a captivating grasp.

Asmodeus was wonderful, and Solomon considered himself lucky that he had the honor of holding the Arcadian prince’s hand. It was one he didn’t deserve, and yet Asmo blessed him every day.

[imagine-darksiders]

Could I request something super fluffy and light if you have time? Just lost my fur baby 5 days after getting back to college.

I’m so sorry to hear that. Losing pets is heartbreaking. 

I’ve had this fluff in my drafts for a while now, seems an appropriate time to break it out. XXXX

----

There are very few things in the world that can stop a Trauma. And bullets – you're sad to discover – are not one of them.

The hulking mass of flesh and muscle advances slowly, pressing you further back against an overturned lorry that blocks your path, as though the universe itself has decided to punish you for sneaking out of the Maker Tree – alone - to hunt for supplies. 

One thought breaks through the panic. 

Your best friend, Jones, is going to kill you if you make it back alive. 

Of all the demons whose attention you could have drawn, it would be one of the largest and deadliest variety. The tusks jutting from its jaw gleam with copious amounts of stinking, viscous drool and when it opens its mouth to roar, flecks of the vile spittle manage to spatter onto your face and arms as you raise the meagre revolver you'd brought with you for defence.

Another round explodes from the chamber and like the others, sinks no more than an inch into the demon's head before its momentum is brought to an abrupt halt by the toughened hide. Helpless, you can only watch as the Trauma gives its skull a rough shake and the bullet wiggles loose.

Your eyes follow the tiny projectile down to where it lands, tinkling softly on the tarmac and rolling to a stop near your feet.

There it lays, innocent, devoid of even the slightest inkling that it's done anything wrong by you.

Reality hits you like a sack of bricks. This is it.

You can't run...

You certainly can't fight. And there's no way Ulthane will hear you from the tree if you scream. Even if he could, he'd never be able to reach you before the Trauma gets its jaws around your neck.

Like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck, you remain frozen to the spot, but there's just enough fight left in you to try raising your head up in a final show of defiance. If you're to die, you don't want the demon to know you're afraid. Although, the fear rolling off you in palpable waves is liable to be picked up by those flaring nostrils.

“Come on then!” you holler, scrubbing furiously at the river of tears that stream from your eyes, “W~what are you waiting for!?” The shape of its jaw doesn't allow for much expression, but somehow, you just know the demon is smiling, as if enjoying this terrifying game of cat and mouse, and if there's anything worse than knowing you're going to die, it's waiting for it to happen.

Before the Trauma strikes, a fat, bulging tongue lolls out of its mouth and it drags the slimy muscle slowly through the saliva coating its jagged fangs, savouring the taste of your fear.

And then suddenly, faster than you thought it could, the demon lunges.

An enormous, meaty paw swipes at you from the left and you let out a scream as it connects, knocking you sideways and onto the hard ground. Your jaw is the first thing that cracks against tarmac and immediately, your vision turns white before little spots of colour start to bleed into view, crawling about like bugs on the insides of your eyelids.

Gasping for air, you heave yourself onto your back and bring your hands up to brush gingerly over your throbbing chin. Teeth grit through the shrill ringing in your ears, you have all of a second to register what had just happened when the Trauma's palm suddenly appears above you and drops down heavily onto your midsection.

Another scream tries to leap out, but you hadn't had the time to draw in a breath. What comes out instead is a pathetic wheeze that you wish you could take back when the demon starts to press down, hard, crushing the air out of your lungs until you aren't sure what will break first. The road beneath you, or your bones.

Two claws, each longer than you are tall, sprout from the Trauma's knuckles and you peer up through the gap between them, frantically scrabbling at the ground to try and find any sort of purchase that might help you dislodge yourself from beneath the ten-tonne goliath. Alas, you know there's about as much hope of that as there is of a mouse fending off a hungry tiger.

The Trauma's bulbous head looms down towards you and you'd swear the grunts and chuffs that roll from its throat are some, twisted form of laughter. You can't help it. A scream rips out of your mouth before you can swallow it back down and your captor responds by revelling in the sound, its nostrils flaring excitedly.

With an agonising slowness only meant to torment you further, the demon pries its jaws apart and your ears are abruptly met with a tumultuous, infuriated roar.

Only....

The roar doesn't come from the monster above you.

You barely have time to contemplate the pounding footsteps that rattle your teeth and amalgamate with your heartbeat before something big slams into the Trauma's side and the weight that had been slowly flattening you against the pavement is suddenly gone.

With one, tremendous gulp of air, your lungs are once again filled to burst.

Overhead, the Trauma bellows, and this time, it receives an answering howl of outrage.

Squinting through the haze of dust kicked up by the newcomer, you see your former assailant wrestling valiently with another creature, one that's equal in size.

You've seen all manner of demon since the world ended. Big and small, fat, thin, ugly and some, even arguably beautiful.

But never have you seen one quite like this.

A silver titan stands between you and the Trauma on a pair of long, graceful legs with plates of armour strapped to almost every inch of its body. Even the tail that sprouts from the middle of the creature's back has plates of metal affixed to the tip. The entire appendage curls up and over its head like the tail of a scorpion, poised and ready to strike at the Trauma, whose yellow eyes are still bulging out of their sockets.

With a hiss, the newcomer grabs its opponant by a tusk and gives it a brutal shove, effectively forcing the Trauma to stagger back several metres, teetering on its disproportionately small feet as its weight is thrown off balance.

You swiftly decide you don't want to stick around and find out if it wins the fight.

Aware that this may be your only chance of escaping to see another day, you scramble up onto your feet and make a run for it, barrelling clumsily past the armoured giant.

The blood in your ears is pounding so fiercely, you don't even notice that behind you, there's a screech, and before you know it, you're jerked to a sudden halt when a long tail darts out and curls around your waist.

Crying out a frantic, “NO!” you begin to struggle, slapping your palms on the warm metal and grunting with the effort of trying to wriggle free from the strangely gentle grip. Your new captor lets out a sharp bark that sounds more avian than canine before it deposits you on the ground right behind its heel, your back to the upturned lorry once more.

As its tail unwinds from your torso, you roll your gaze up the monstrous body standing protectively between you and the Trauma and wonder what the Hell its motivation is. Why would it stop you from trying to leave?

Whilst the demon shakes itself and paces agitatedly, assessing this tall, lanky threat, the silver giant turns its head to glance briefly down at you, and for the first time, you meet its luminous, golden gaze. The eyes burn into you for what feels like an eternity, unblinking, devoid of any pupil or iris and your throat turns dry as you realise something chilling.

They're the eyes of a predator.

Suddenly, you can't seem to swallow. Only when it turns to face the Trauma once more do you realise you'd been holding your breath and you gasp, sucking in a deep lungful of oxygen.

Perhaps if you move slowly and quietly, you could escape its notice and make a break for the nearest alleyway, one that's too narrow for either demon to slip down. Steadying your nerves, you begin to edge your way along the lorry, never once taking your eyes of the creature in front of you.

Glancing back at you, the beast's mechanical jaw parts and out slips a growl as it lowers its tail again and uses the rounded edge to block your retreat, nudging you back into place behind its legs, all the while ignoring your squawks of protest.

You can't help but feel somewhat like a bone that's being guarded by a ravenous dog. Because that's all this is, isn't it? This silver titan is doing nothing more than defending its next meal from a contender.

A gutteral snarl snatches your attention and you glance through a pair of towering legs to see the Trauma.

Apparently, it has grown tired of sizing up the newcomer and lumbers towards you with its arms spread to its sides, the claws protruding from its knuckles pointed forwards like the tusks of a charging elephant, ready to gore.

Heart booming, you blurt, “Look out!” though why you would ever warn the silver giant is beyond even your own comprehension.

Still, it hurls its gaze forward again and raises its left arm, and you only then notice that what sprouts from its sinewy shoulders is less of an arm and more of a long, daunting rifle, as though someone had sawn the appendage off at the elbow and welded a gun in its place.

The Trauma is almost upon you as the strange appendage lifts to meet the demon's chest and before you can clap your hands over your ears, an explosion of gunfire erupts from the barrels. Round after round, the silver titan fires on the Trauma, who now seems far less incensed and tries to spin itself around mid charge, its flesh torn to pieces before it can get too far.

You have to wonder where the bullets keep generating from because they leave their chambers with no sign of slowing or running dry. When the lumbering demon turns to cover its head, it instead finds its back shredded to ribbons by the neverending hail of ammunition and in just seconds, the Trauma crashes heavily to its knees. Even when it crumples, dragging itself away on its belly, the second creature doesn't relent. It takes a few, long strides to the downed demon and swings its gun up, emptying dozens of rounds into the thick skull.

You're so perturbed by such a display, the prospect of getting out of there yourself slips your mind and by the time you realise you should be moving, the gunfire abruptly cuts off.

Smoke trails lazily from the barrels of that terrible weapon as its wielder's silver helm slowly swivels in your direction.

“No, no! Stay back! G-Get away from me!” you half shout, half plead with the angular beast when it tilts its head to one side and treads over to you, and though its weaponised arm is lowered, you're all too aware that this thing poses a sizeable threat.

It stops in front of you, still regarding you with wide, almost curious eyes. Then, gradually, it lowers itself down into a crouch, legs bending at the knee and ankles until it rests back onto its haunches.

After a few more moments of silence, the silver head drops down close, far too close for your liking. You'd need only reach a hand out and you could touch its chin. The horns sweeping forwards from the sides of its face hover to your left and right and it feels very much like being surrounded by the bars of an impenetrable cage. 

Licking your lips, you stammer out, “Wh-what do you want?”

Predictably, it doesn't reply. It instead continues to stare, the slitted nostrils winking open and closed, sniffing. 

Then, without warning, its jaws part and you let out a squeak, slamming your eyes shut so you won't have to see the grey, pointed teeth that sit behind its metallic lips. A slow second ticks by in which you wait for the inevitable and painful bite that’ll end your pathetically short life, and then...

Your fear is momentarily thrust aside to make room for disgust.

Something rough and warm and wet smacks against your bloodied chin and suddenly, your whole face is engulfed in the sticky softness of what you're almost certain is the creature's sandpapery tongue. It drags up over your features in one, long swipe before flicking off your forehead and a throaty rumble fills the air around you.

“EUGH! Gross!”

Spitting an unthinkable globule of your lower lip, you wipe frantically at the stuff coating your eyes, coughing and spluttering like you'd just survived drowning.

Once your vision is no longer obscured, you blink rapidly and find that, as you'd expected, the beast is retracting a dark, slimy tongue.

It occurs to you that it might be having a preliminary taste but before you can ponder too long on whether or not it finds you appetising, the creature begins to...

Well... shrink.

Metal plates slide over one another as its body collapses in on itself and the purple mane billowing from its head shortens and is swiftly replaced by spiked, black hair. The tail that had scooped you up retreats between a pair of shoulder blades and in just seconds, you're no longer staring up at a colossal beast. Instead, you're looking at a man, dressed from head to foot in a full suit of bizarre and alien armour. 

Although he's still heads and shoulders your superior in height, he's nowhere near his previous stature. An ounce of dread fades from your chest.

The man rolls his neck, a hand pressed to the back of it for a moment before he seems to remember where he is and he suddenly snaps his gaze down to you again, a soft huff drifting out from beneath his mask.

You simply gape back, speechless. If you hadn't just seen the transformation with your own two eyes, you'd never believe it had happened at all. Hell, part of you is still in denial.

Gradually, you feel words start to form on your tongue. “What the he~EEY!” 

In the blink of an eye, the stranger cuts you off mid sentence by throwing himself at you, arms wide. You try to dodge him, failing miserably when he swiftly scoops you up into his thick, metallic arms and promptly buries the front of his mask into your hair. The action is so far from what you'd been expecting, you stop putting up a fight altogether and merely dangle limply from his grasp with your feet hanging just below his knees.

Clearing an awkward lump from your throat, you sputter, “Uh... I'm sorry. Have... have we met?”

For a moment, you feel the man's hard chin rub against your hair as he nods and you're about to ask where on Earth you'd met him when he suddenly stiffens and drops you back to the ground, stepping away to frantically shake his head. A sound starts up in his throat, like he's about to speak, but seems to reconsider a second later and you hear the distinct snap of his jaw as it falls shut. 

While the behaviour is odd, you decide it best not to provoke a man who can turn into a twenty five foot monster at the flip of a switch. So instead, you gesture to the Trauma behind him and offer what you hope is a genuine smile, despite the edges of your mouth quivering in protest.

“Um.... Thank you?” you whisper feebly, “I-I'm assuming you meant to save my life?”

The man's chest jerks as he snorts and nods again, but otherwise remains silent.

Curious as to his wordlessness, you cock your head and ask, “What's the matter? Can't you talk?”

He hesitates, hands clenching into fists and a look of uncertainty flashing across his amber eyes. Then, following several, awkward seconds, he shakes his head.

“Oh... Bummer.” You purse your lips, at a loss until you start to wonder if he's expecting some kind of repayment. “I'm sorry.” You anxiously begin to tug at the hem of your shirt. “I really am grateful, but I don't have anything I can give you to say a proper thanks.”

It's as if you'd dealt him a physical blow. Immediately, he backs up and throws his arms forwards, hands waving hastily as if he were appalled by the very idea.

Inwardly, you sag with relief. “Oh, well. In that case, I guess we'd... better be on our separate ways.” Turning to walk away, you’re stopped when the man suddenly leaps into action, striding in front of you and blocking your path. 

“What!?” you blurt, startled, the hairs on the back of your neck prickling, “What’s wrong”

He points insistently down the street you'd emerged from in your attempt to flee the Trauma. Glancing after his hand, you realise he's indicating the Maker tree's uppermost branches that are poking out from behind some of the distant skyscrapers. Blinking, you pause and watch as he points to you, then the tree, then back to you once more.

“You're... asking me why I'm not going back to the tree?” you guess.

Huffing, the man simply folds his arms across a broad, silver chest and stares at you expectantly.

Just then, you're struck by a thought and a slow frown creeps across your forehead. How would this stranger know that you came from the maker tree?

He hasn't done anything wrong, so far. But something about him doesn't sit quite right with you.

“I... I can't go back. Not yet.” You edge around him, never once turning your back. “You don't understand, I need to get more supplies before I return.”

Your unusual rescuer doesn't seem to like that response one bit. His eyes suddenly flash white-hot and he takes a single stride towards you, reaching out to grip your shoulder and only holding it tighter when you try to pull away. This time, he raises his other hand slowly and jabs a finger right in your face, centimetres from the tip of your nose before the appendage swings in a wide arc towards the maker tree.

Ah. He wasn't asking you why you weren't going straight back to the maker tree.

In fact, you don't think he was asking anything at all.

As though he'd read your mind, the armoured brute suddenly swivels you towards the tree and moves his hand down to give you a gentle yet direct nudge in the small of your back.

Apparently, this is nonnegotiable.

“Okay, okay! No need to push. I'm going.”

Beneath his mask, you don't see the man's frown ease, nor the way his lips part to release a small sigh of relief.

---

At the risk of sounding like his eldest brother, Strife reminds himself to give you the sternest talking to you've likely ever received once he delivers you back to the safety of Ulthane's tree. 

As Jones, of course. 

As Jones. 

[yandere-wishes]

Aquaphobia //Yandere Leviathen x reader//

Oh, have I never mentioned that I am MORTIFIED of water and literally any sea creatures...no? It must have slipped my mind.

For this story, I'm making a few assumptions. 1) Levi can turn into some sort of sea monster-like thing I'm assuming it looks like a cross between a Megladon/Giant squid/ Sea serpent. 2) He can communicate with sea creatures. 3) The giant horrifying aquarium that basically makes up his back wall is in reality linked to either an ocean or somewhere that houses a bunch of dangerous sea beings. 4) In addition to sea animal communication Levi posses Aquakinesis

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

For as long as you can remember water has always haunted you.

The large bodies of H2O particles have never failed to shake you to your very core. 

In every single nightmare you ever recall, you are drowning in one of those shallow blue celestial bodies. The colorless liquid invading your mouth, clawing its way to where your lungs rested, joyously filling and choking them. 

Sea roamers of all kinds flocked to your drowning corps, millions of eyes drinking in your defenseless form, from the beady black shark eyes to the yellow cyclops eye of a giant squid. A fraction of a second later and those beastes were sinking their fangs into your tender flesh, large tentacles wrapping themselves around an arm or leg and tugging it until it detached from the rest of your corps. 

But in the end, you always woke up, always resumed your day as if nothing had come to pass the night before, back then you knew that it was only a nightmare....however this time you weren't so sure. 

Out of all seven brothers you'd always dreaded Leviathan the most. You had nothing against his "otaku" like ways or his unkempt appearance. No, it was simply what he was that made you keep your distance. 

Yet the third born seemed to have other plans for you. Leviathan hates "normies", the average demons and humans that overpopulate the earth, mocking those like him who have hobbies and likings that are "abnormal" in their eyes, forcing them to live shameful lives of isolation. Due to the superiority of normies in all three realms Levi had never once come across someone as abnormal as himself...that was until the new exchange student had arrived. At first, they had seemed to be just like anyone else, a normal human with absolutely nothing extravagant about them. But as time progressed Levi became aware of just how similar the two of them were. She would spend hours talking to Mammon about the newest anime or the latest level of the video game she was playing. Her tone was always so excited and pure, eyes gleaming and radiating happiness. But Mammon never understood, he simply scuffed and made some degrading comment about her being a nerd or worst then Levi. 

Maybe it was then and there that Levi had decided you were the one. That if anybody angel, demon or human would ever understand him, ever be this alike to him, it would be you, it had to be.

You didn't want to go to his room. You'd avoided it like the plague after Mammon had described the bathtub bed and giant aquarium that drew its water from one of the Devildom's massive oceans. The avatar of greed had even vividly described how the ceiling tiles could pull away, reveling yet another large aquarium for a roof. 

It sounded worst than any haunted house, a place you would never dare venture into. But this time you didn't have a choice, try as you may you couldn't get out of this. 

Earlier that day you'd awaken to something cold and yet trailing down your visage. The mere texture of the substance had jolted you from your slumber, the fear of the colorless liquid had bounded itself deep into your body's habits and subconscious. Eyes dilate, body frozen, tears at the brink of falling. A moist want reached out and cupped your chin, turning your neck too briskly that you were sure you heard a few bones "pop". A squeal escaped your lips only to be met with an instantaneous "shh, be quiet".  Your (eye color) orbs landed on the third born, his eyes housed a sort of sick glee it matched the sadistic twisted smirk he dawned on his face. Maybe it was the adrenaline pumping through your veins, maybe it was the fact that you'd just awoken and your brain was still partly asleep. Either way, you could have sworn that Leviathan's teeth had somehow changed. They where long and jagged, bending at roots were they sprouted from his gums, to top off the horror thin lines of thick juicy crimson highlighted the tips and betweens of his shark life teeth. 

By now you had begun to sob, tears flowing non stop from your puffy red eyes. Your body was frozen you dared not move, vocal cords had given up and your tongue laid dead at the bottom of your mouth.

"Hello, princess sleep well?" Despite it seeming so innocent there was a sort of mocking laced into the question.

You noticed something in his other hand. A large familiar blue-colored plushy with a gasmask was suffocating in this grasp. That was a rare collectible you'd somehow managed to win from a Crain game back in the human world. You never slept a night without, feeling safe whenever you held it in your embrace. When you'd arrived in the Devildom you'd practically begged Lucifer to retrieve it for you. It had taken all so many tears and tantrums, in addition, to agree to take over his chores for the course of two months. The day the firstborn had carelessly tossed it to you, had probably been the second happiest day of your life. 

Levi let out a cruel giggle as he brought your prized possession closer to your face. His long nails dug into the fabric of its forehead as he dangled it before your eyes. "It's kinda cute, what show is it from?" This time round he sounded genuin, no inanity to be heard. Yet you didn't speak still petrified and stiff. 

One heartbeat

two heartbeats

three heartbeats--

"Fine! What you won't talk to me cause you think you're better than me?!" You shook your head slowly, the gesture barely being noticeable. Yet he picked up on it. He let out another string of offensive giggles "You're scared, right? Afraid the big bad sea monster will eat you?". Oh, God how desperately you wished you could run. Find Mammon or Lucifer and cling to them. To find any means to get away from this monster. 

His fingers fell from your face, he turned without saying another word and made his way to the door. As he opened it, he called behind his shoulder. " If you want it back, come to my room at midnight and come alone" He then slammed the door abandoning you to your thoughts and terrors. 

In short, that was why you were standing in front of the door that would lead you to your personal hell. You had no desire to step foot into his room and yet it was the sole means to retrieving your stuffed monster. Hesitantly you lifter your hand to knock, your finger had not touched the wood when the door creaked open and something slithered around your arm and dragged you into Leviathan's room. 

"I-I'm h-here know p-please give it back--"

Your back collided with the cold tiled floor. You let out a scream of pain before Levi's hand was shoved over your mouth. 

"Be quiet would ya?" His orange and purple orbs gazed into your wide mortified eyes. He let out a sigh and his gaze softened. "(Y/N)...I-I've never felt this way about anyone before...well maybe Ruri-chan and Sugar Frenzy's lead singer for a short period of time, oh and this one...nevermind! Look I-I feel like your something different okay. I g-guess that I have a little crush on you. Noting big alright! But-but what do you say (Y/N) will yo be mine? We'd make a great couple! We like the exact samethings, share practically the same opinions. We are meant to be one!" Slowly he lifted his hand from your mouth, an excited smile playing at his lips, his eyes sparkled with joy and exhilaration. Maybe if you'd have time to think this trough you would have felt bad about what you next words where. 

The second his hand was removed from your mouth you shouted.

"NO! No no no no no! Never! I can't I just can't your a freaking sea monster you--"

No sooner had the words left your mouth that you felt your head accelerate forward and then get smashed on the wet hard floor. The notion repeated again and again. You where sure you were bleeding, some sort of concussion must have formed, your sight was blurry and spots were dancing everywhere. 

"You stupid normi! You tricked me! I thought you were like me! That would actually love someone like me! You made me freaking fall in love with you, you bitch!" 

He twisted your head to the side and pushed your face into the floor. "You're scared of water aren't you? Your sacred of what lives in the water too right? Is that why you don't love me (y/n)? Cause I'm some sort of water freak? Well? Damit answer me!"

"Yes" you choked out "y-yes L-Leviathan, I'm scared of you!" He let out a furious sigh, his tail wrapped around your neck and hosted you up pressing you into the glass of the aquarium. An odd noise filled to room, something alike to buzzing yet..somehow very different. "You know what's funny (y/n)? I may be some sort of freak, but I'm also the only thing keeping you safe from the horrors behind the class." 

Something was swimming closer and closer, it's figure getting bigger and bigger. The teeth and large snout and hulking dorsal fins soon became evident what was coming toward you. You screamed, the noise echoed and bounced from one wall to the next. Your throat started to bleed and go raw, your mind blank with the loud ringing of alarms or was that your heart trying to break your ribcage and runaway?

As the monstrous shark swam only a few centimeters away from the glass, you could feel the sensitivity and life drain from your corpse, blackness taking over. You tried to remain awake to grip on to conscious, darkness was not friendly for it only showed the monsters face, the image burned permanently into your brain. 

As you slipped away into a stygian dream world, Levi brought your limp body to his chest cradling you gently and sweetly kissing your forehead. He waved a hand dismissively at his "pet" and watched for a second as it swam away. He lifted you up and brought you over to his bed. Placing you carefully inside. He placed your stuffy next to you and stood up admiring the aesthetic of your sleeping form. You were so gorgeous when you weren't scared or defensive. 

"You're mine (y/n), finally! I'm never going to let anyone else come near.. you never!"

[adulttrio-imagines]

Yandere!Illumi x Reader Pt 2

Part 1 here

A/N: Standard Illumi warnings and more apply here. 

Prompt:  “I would give up everything for the chance to see your laugh again.”

It is difficult to recount the weeks that happened after the incident. As if the switch in your brain was flipped off, and the single light bulb illuminating the empty crevices of your mind was unscrewed and tossed out. You remember floating in and out of an endless sea of fog, drifting aimlessly as you wandered around the shattered remnants of your brain, slowly piecing whatever fragments you could scavenge from the brief moments the fog would clear.

It should be scary. You remember thinking, as you stared blankly into your hands, numbly repeating the simple motion of opening and closing them, counting each broken finger that curled into the palm of your hand, the bloodied crescent moons they leave on your skin greeting you when you forget and apply too much force.

But it isn’t.

Some days you forcefully push the fog clouding your mind away, and you awaken chained to the bottom of the ocean, anchored and weighed down as you push yourself through the freezing depths, dumbly dragging your feet through coarse sand and shards of glass as everything gathers around you in shapeless masses, their slurred voices reaching you in meaningless bubbles.

You kiss the high ridges of your knuckles, falling back into the fog, and the taste of iron that never comes from the warmth that fills your mouth feels alien.

This body can’t be yours it can’t it can’t- On the days where your captor was home, Illumi would sit you in front of the single gilded mirror in the shared room, humming the same empty tune on repeat as your mind slowly flipped itself inside out and melted whatever remnants of intelligent thought you had left. Some days you would look into the mirror too, and the gaunt hollowed out face that stares back at you is not yours so you settle for staring at the corner of the dressing table and count the number of grains on the wood instead before you mind snaps in two again and Illumi cracks your bones for misbehaving

Nimble fingers that resembled pale spiders deftly braid the long sheets of hair you once so prized into simple braids as he plainly recounts his day to you; it’s his imitation of normalcy and version of an extended olive branch. You know better than to do anything but placidly agree to his statements and nod your approval of his actions as he describes to you in detail the way the human neck bends before it snap, or the angle one slashes another’s chest to minimize spilled blood.

Now days, you just slip into the corners of your mind when the violence overwhelms and you need to numb yourself from everything. The ocean does plenty to tune him out, and it’s easier to interact with the formless blobs that croon contained poison.

It’s not that he loves his brutality, but that Illumi is violence personified, as if inhumanity itself had its essence filtered into a form capable of striking others with such ruthless acts, from the way he so callously strikes out at you for no reason or to the casual manner he stated his gory deeds as if he were just describing the weather.

He reminds you of your old dance instructor, you think, as Illumi snakes his arms up your dress. He too too seemed to struggle acting human, with his rigid movements and mechanical mannerisms, although the void that was Illumi somehow decided to thrown all pretenses out of the window and revel in his emptiness instead.

You don’t flinch, even when he slowly trails the inside of your neck with kisses, you barely breathe when he tilts your face up and forces you to look into his horribly empty eyes twisted into such unconcealed malice, and you never pull back when he forces his mouth against yours, stealing every single life-giving breath away from your lungs as his hands trace the name he forceful carved into your chest.

It’s faster, quicker and less painful letting him do as he pleases, easier to let it all go than to fight and find yourself strangled and thrown around like a rag doll.

Your body moves on its own, pressing yourself against him as you link your fingers behind his neck, and murmur sweet praises into his kisses.

It’s not difficult, you think, cording your fingers through his hair (you’re careful not to pull them too hard, the slap you received from him last time still rattled your jaw when you chewed). A healthy dose of practice, consistency and fear did wonders to remove every bit of resistance from the human psyche, as you have so learned.

While your tongue twists to form unfamiliar words of comfort, you release the reigns of consciousness and drifted back down into the fog, letting it envelop your being and shelter you from the horrors above.

It’s better than being fully aware and spending one more fucking second with that monster

.....

The fog lifts itself in fractions.

It’s a snowy afternoon, and you’re performing your ballet stretches for Illumi’s amusement. He hasn’t out rightly demanded a performance since the incident, but your basic forms placate his unspoken wishes.

You close your eyes, breathe, and fall back into the shades of grey.

You’re both in the sun room, his hands trailing the blades of your shoulders as he continues to hum the same eight notes on repeat. It’s impossible to stop your eyes from watering as the familiar tune from your childhood floods the empty room, and you let the fog cover your last thoughts right as the first warning bells before his imminent punishment sound.

It’s night time, and the branches are dangerously close to snapping from the weight of snow piles upon them. He’s towering over you, nails digging into your wrist as he pins you to the bed, roughly nipping at your collarbones and pressing his naked form against yours. You became all too aware of the force behind his touch, and the clamminess from his skin as he pushes himself into you. Everything ignites in flames and it’s just unbearably hot, and nothing about this feels right, so you squirm and writhe desperately for any escape from him.

Illumi simply backhands you across the face as a response, dead eyes blinking down at your exposed body, paying no heed to your continuous struggles. He simply adjusts himself, forcing his weight into holding you down as he carves words of his ownership over you into the flat of your abdomen with sharpened nails, humming the same tune on repeat.

Your screams sound especially empty as you drown yourself back into dark murky waters for what felt like a seamless eternity.

In those times, the faintest whispers of the past get dredged up by the waves, intermingling with your present day horrors, and you see flashes of a monstrous beast emerging from the depths of your mind, relentlessly hunting for whatever semblance of sustenance it could find, and this time, not even the fog in your head could save you from it when it finally wore you down and swallowed you whole.

The next time you emerged from the fog, your head is pressed hard against the marble floor of an unfamiliar room.

You force your eyes forward, and see Illumi kneeling before a man with the frame of a giant and eyes of a lion, who’s mouth is twisted into a snarl that spits words of venom capable of melting flesh to the bone. You can’t hear anything he’s saying from all the cotton in your head, but each muted syllable feels like a punch to the gut.

You blink.

A ringing slap sounds, and like a broken marionette Illumi falls to the ground, nursing a bloodied lip, blank eyes boring holes into yours. You close your eyes, allowing the fog in your head to creep back in and silencing your thoughts. .....

“Why do we suffer?” You asked him once, tending to the slashes carved into the high cheekbones that support his face. He is sitting cross legged across you, cocking his head to the side as he lazily shrugs in response.

“Because we deserve it.” .....

Cruelty is a given.

Mercy cannot be free. But even in the hollowness of this God forsaken household where demons abide and immorality abounds, do you continue to repeat the motions of your dance as you jumped around empty halls filled with unheard screams, slowly and surely losing pieces of your own humanity

......

“I am going to be honest with you,” Zeno says on the first morning you’ve seen him in months, “I thought you were dead.”

You lower your gaze to the board, absent minded lay pushing a knight forward, “I’m sorry to disappoint.”

“I’m not disappointed.” He stops, and takes your rook with a sweep of his pawn, “just surprised.”

“I’m just full of them.” You chuckle, push your queen forward and he returns the gesture with his king. He gives you an unreadable look, and shakes his head.

Even your laughter is beginning to sound like his The quietness of the library is a comfort to the oppressing silence from the rest of the house, its strong scent of aged leather and cinnamon a stark contrast to the pristine sterility that marked Illumi’s wing of the house. You mimic Zeno’s motion, taking a sip of tea and sigh at the strange familiarity of the situation.

“What would you ask for, if you win?” He asks, balancing his chin on one hand while twirling his mustache with another. Between his wild white hair and eyes that shone like the sky, he looks absolutely nothing like his grandchild.

You turn your attention back to the board, barely evading his queen. “My freedom, of course.”

He eyes you with what you deem as pity, your stomach churns and an unknown beast inside you rages and presses on.

“You’re expecting too much from me. I have no control over that boy.”

“You’re his grandfather.” Ignoring the cold pit that sinks in your stomach, you can only shake your head in disbelief.

He smiles, and moves his knight forward, cornering your king.

“True. But I am not the head of the house.”

A pensive silence falls between the both of you, and you throw yourself back into the chair, staring forlornly into the scenes of death carved into the gold ornate ceiling.

“Will they return my body to my family when I finally die?” You asks in a whisper so low that no one but him could hear it. Zeno follows your gaze and the sigh he releases sounds too old, even for him. “They don’t exist here. And neither do you.” .....

“Oh, hello? I wasn’t aware Illu kept little birds in his room.”

You look up from your book, and come face to face with a stranger dressed in colorful clothes, perching precariously on the windowsill you had so surely locked hours ago. Eyeing his delicate swinging earrings and wild ginger hair fills you with an unknown hunger so strong that your mouth waters and sends you into a trembling fit. He is, after all, the first living person you’ve seen in months who isn’t a Zoldyck or a butler, and stands as a break in the endless monotony you’ve resided in.

“Can you not speak? I don’t bite,” he smirks, helping himself into the room as he peels back perfectly shaped cupid bow lips to show off a nice collection of canines, “hard.”

He saunters around purposefully, curiously examining the array of perfumes that line the dressing table with the controlled presence of a predator. From your seat, you note the ease at which he walks, born of confidence that nothing in this house bore a threat to his existence, and each light step he takes sends a pulse through your being. Turning back to your book, you frown upon noticing its edges were torn from the force it’s taken you to stop shaking.

“Sorry,” you apologize half-heartedly, “I wasn’t aware clowns could actually talk.” The strange man laughs, and it’s a strange light combination of charm and malice. Like poisoned cherry blossoms, you supposed.

“You’re thinking of mimes, my dear. Besides,” he leans dangerously close over you, tilting your face upwards as he conjures an ace of hearts somewhere behind your ear and places it delicately on your lap, “I’m a magician.”

You twirl the card in your fingers, and toss it to the floor, unamused. “Can you make me disappear then, Mr Magician?”

He picks the card up and it seemingly disappears into his armband. “For the right price, but I’m a good friend of Illu’s and you don’t have anything I particularly want.” You almost laugh from the absurdity of the statement.

“He doesn’t have friends.” No, Illumi’s head was far, far too empty to have the closest semblance of a relationship with any living thing.

The man smiles, baring his teeth, but it’s more of a threat from your angle.

“Well, if you see him, pass him this card, he’ll know what to do.” A joker unknowingly appears in your lap, and he hops onto the windowsill again. In a panic, you realize your last connection to the outside world was leaving, and the thought of it was so unbearable the next sentence flies out before you could stop yourself.

“Can I be your friend too, Mr Magician?”

He freezes, and looks with you with death in his eyes, eyeing your limp arm, and his voice is cold when he tells you this:

“Sorry little bird, but I don’t like broken toys.” .....

You’re not too sure how long you stood staring towards the outside world after the man left.

But you do remember falling on your knees, tears piling down your cheeks like torrents, the shattering pain or cool hardness of the floor nothing compared to the explosion erupting from the very core of your being as you struggle helplessly to maintain steady breathing.

You’re broken.

“I’m not.” Was this scar always there?

You’re broken. “I’m not.” How long have you been on fire? You’re broken.

Two words. Two simple words was all it took to blow away the safe haven of fog you created in the confines of your mind to cope with the monstrosity of your situation, and those words, spoken so cruelly, threw all your pretense, and left you exposed to the real horror of being set aflame.

You wrap yourself in fine linen sheets, still on fire, still burning, and scream until your throat is aflame and splotches of red dye the white sheets. ......

“I would give up everything for the chance to see you laugh again.”

The laughter that echoes the room sounds hollow and spiteful, and you slap his hands away as you glare at the shadow before you.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Illumi.” You bite out each wretched syllable of his name with so, so much hate that he blinks, the gears in his head whirring to a boil before he chooses to ignore the hostility in your voice.

“If you really love me,” you push yourself to shaking feet, voice far stronger than your legs. It leaves a bitter taste and you want to tear your tongue out and toss it into the nearest fire to forget everything,

“let me go.”

He blinks again, and you can almost hear the cogs in his brain rattle as they jolt to life and begin to slowly turn. “You’re my wife, do I not mean anything to you?”

“Oh Illumi,” you press yourself against his chest, the name he carved so lovingly into your skin tingling. The thumping of his heart is irregularly slow, even at your proximity does his heartbeat feel nonexistent, and if you weren’t any wiser you would have assumed he were a corpse (you’re not wrong). The coldness of his skin is freezing when your skin brushes past, and he tilts his head to the side, unable to comprehend the rage and disgust pooling at the top of your tongue, eyes huge and empty, like dead fish, as he continued to wrap himself in layers of denial and lies. The laughter that escapes you is impossible to stop, for how can a man so deadly be so, so stupid?

You cup his cheek, brushing errand strands from his face, “how can anyone ever love you?”

An explosion of poison consumes you, and your dinner from last night reacquaints itself with your mouth before you empty it all out onto the floor. Something fragile cracks, and the pain washes over you immediately. Your wrist is shattered, and you can tell from the splintered bones that jut against your skin that it isn’t a clean break, that bastard.

He sends a swift kick to your knees, the force of which destroys your knee caps (you know deep down that you’ll never walk again after this).

“You are my wife. You will love me.” He forces you up by your hair, not caring that the force nearly breaks you neck “nothing will change that.”

You spit at his face.

“I didn’t choose to be your wife.” This budding anger, this itch of rage, which grew and grew over these months, exploded into a torrent as you screamed each word out, dripping with poison, acid burning the flimsy thread that held your peace until your throat is raw and you can’t muster the strength to shout anymore. Somewhere along the way, you wondered if that really was your voice and when it became full with this much hate?

Broken toy.

“I didn’t choose any of this.” You heaved out, “I didn’t want any of this.”

“It doesn’t matter,” the steady pressure he applies blocks off your oxygen intake as he easily lifts you off the ground by the neck, slamming you against the wall as you helplessly kicked at him. He gently brushes your hair away from your face, and leans in close enough for you to stare at every single scar that lined his porcelains skin.

“I love you so, so much. And I will help you see it too.” The sharp prick and a wave of panic washes over you, stomach twisting as your crushed ribs forced the air air out of your very lungs, eyeing the offending yellow capped needle Illumi inserts another at the base of your collarbones, right above his name.

Everything turns black. .....

Illumi isn’t often enamored by the sights the world has to offer the way other people are. To him, the flashes of color mean just that: simple, meaningless forms.

But you, in your simple, meandering way and silly little dances made his heart pound in a way he never thought would ever be possible.

It was just simply irresistible.

You dance across the room, full of grace and delicate steps. The warmth of your hand grazes his cheek as you slowly dip down to plant a kiss on his forehead, smiling down at him with so much love that he feels drunk of it.

Illumi smiles, humming the same eight notes of the song as you begin to repeat the motions of your dance once again.

[of-wrens-and-whirlwinds-blog]

Visitors

Commission for my dearest @depressedstressedlemonzest !! A crossover (kinda) of The Witcher and Good Omens. Aziraphale is basically me in this. I hope you like it, love! Commission info is here!

~

Geralt is having trouble tracking the serpent, because the ground is dry and rocky and doesn’t show tracks well, and the wind is blowing in the wrong direction. He can still smell the sulfur, though, faint on the ground, and occasionally the lazy wind of a giant serpent through pockets of sandy dirt. The scrub is too sparse to hide much, but there are plenty of rocks.

Oh, and Jaskier won’t shut up.

He’s far enough back that he won’t get in Geralt’s way, but the same wind that blows the scent away from Geralt blows Jaskier’s muttering up to him. Something about blisters and getting a twisted ankle at this rate. Geralt presses his lips together and ignore Jaskier.

Then the wind turns, and he smells it. The sulfur is strong, now, and he can see a large rock up ahead with a heap of something dark on it, half-hidden by scrub. He halts, and waves Jaskier up to him. Jaskier immediately shuts up and creeps the rest of the way to just behind Geralt’s shoulder. “Is that it?” the bard whispers, apparently fascinated.

“Yes,” Geralt grunts. “Stay here.”

“But—!”

“No buts. You’ll be in the way.”

“Hmph,” Jaskier huffs, but sidles around behind Geralt to crouch behind a rock and glare at him sullenly. Geralt nods, and sneaks as softly as he can towards the relatively flat area where the serpent waits.

He can hear it now, hissing gently, its heart slow and somber. It appears to be asleep. Excellent. If he can behead it before it wakes up, everything will be much simpler.

Pebbles crunch under his boot, and he freezes.

The serpent stirs lazily, and raises its large, wedge-shaped head. Its eyes are gold like his, but it seems not to see him, looking instead towards the horizon. Strange. Still, a blessing is a blessing. Geralt creeps closer…

The serpent uncoils from the rock more swiftly than Geralt’s ever seen a big snake move, and raises itself up to hiss at him fiercely. Geralt readies his sword, eyeing the serpent carefully, noting that it doesn’t seem to have fangs. Odd. Devilish serpents always have fangs. But his pendant is humming, and he’ll get lots of coin for this monster’s head.

He darts forward, the serpent attempts to avoid, but as soon as it dodges, Geralt changes direction and manages to open a wound in its scaly hide.

Heat and the scent of myrrh flare up behind Geralt, and he growls and rolls to the side as something slams down right where he’d been standing. He’s on his feet in seconds, just in time to block a sword that appears to be on fire.

The sword’s wielder disengages before Geralt can disarm them, and yells, “How dare you! How dare you attack an innocent being!”

Geralt glances at the serpent, startled; it’s coiled up again, watching the scene. “What the fuck?” he says, bewildered, looking back at the… man? No man he’s ever heard of has wide white wings like that, nor dresses quite so… oddly. But the other holds his sword competently, and the rage on his face is dangerous.

“Can we not have a moment’s rest without you primitive humans running around with swords and bows, trying to kill us?!” the man snarls. “Good lord, it’s like you don’t even know what we are!”

“They probably don’t, angel,” the serpent says, and Geralt’s eyes widen as he hears Jaskier gasp. It raises itself up again and continues, “This is a tv show we’re in, and they’ve never mentioned angels or demons.”

“Oh, hush,” the man replies crankily, but his wings are relaxing, and he’s actually turning away from Geralt. “They shouldn’t just attack willy-nilly!”

“What the fuck else are we supposed to do?” Geralt snaps, drawing their attentions. “Murderous serpents aren’t—”

“He’s not murderous!” the man interrupts, and actually stomps his foot. “How many times do we have to say it?!”

“Then what is it?” Geralt demanded in exasperation. “And for that matter, what are you?”

The man seems honestly taken aback. And then his face twists and he shouts, “I’m an angel, you stubborn twit!”

“Ah, fuck,” Geralt mutters. He says louder, “I don’t know what an angel is, but if you and that serpent are innocent, then what the fuck is killing the locals?”

The angel splutters, and Geralt almost jumps when the serpent sighs, bunches its coils, and raises up to reform into a man, in leggings of a strange material and a black jacket of an absolutely horrendous cut. Too much time with Jaskier has shown Geralt that there are just some shapes that have no business being draped on a humanoid body. At least he looks vaguely normal and doesn’t have a bow around his neck like the angel. That bow makes him look like a kitten. The sword makes him look like a warrior.

The man in black turns to Geralt and says, “I dunno what you lot call it, but it looks like wyvern to me. Two legs, two wings, dragon-y looking bastards?”

Geralt frowns. He hasn’t seen wyvern activity around here… but he’s been following the shapeshifter. Maybe the two avoid each other when possible.

“Geraaalt,” Jaskier calls impatiently.

Geralt sighs heavily and sheaths his sword. “Fine,” he calls back, and shakes his head as Jaskier pops up from behind the rock and trots over, staring at the angel’s wings, intrigued.

“Melitele’s tits, those are big,” Jaskier says, marveling at them. “Are you sure you’re not part harpy? No, of course not, harpies have different wings. If it’s a wyvern, can I come to see that fight too?”

“Absolutely not,” Geralt snaps, exasperated with this whole situation. “Look, just—”

“Oh!” Suddenly the angel’s face lights up, and the sword in his hand just—vanishes. “You’re Jaskier!”

Jaskier immediately draws himself up and beams at the angel. “Yes, I am,” he replies. “How did you know?”

“We saw you,” the angel says.

“Angel!” the shapeshifter barks. “Focus.”

The angel turns and shoots him a scowl, then huffs and says to Geralt, “We’re not murderers. The wyvern is that way.” He waves vaguely in the direction they had come from. “Are you the Witcher, Geralt?”

“Yes,” Geralt replies, utterly confused at this point. Damn it, how the hell is he supposed to convince these idiots to leave if the angel keeps yelling and the shapeshifter keeps letting him?

“That explains it,” the shapeshifter says, as the angel’s expression turns sour. “Look, Geralt, Jaskier, nice to meet you and all that, but we just want to go home. We’re kinda stuck here for the moment, though.”

Geralt sighs and runs his hand through his hair. “Fine. Just… stop turning into a snake where townsfolk can see you.” When Jaskier glares, he grudgingly adds, “Please.”

The angel sniffs and the shapeshifter scowls. “It’s kinda hard to do that when they keep coming up here unannounced for no reason,” the shapeshifter retorts.

Jaskier and Geralt point wordlessly to the sign in the dirt that quite clearly says “This Way To The Spring”.

The two monsters stare blankly, first at them, then the sign, then each other.

“You said it didn’t mean anything!” the angel says, exasperated.

“It’s not like fantasy languages are my forte!” the shapeshifter replies, cheeks red. “Is this or is this not the place where Anathema is gonna bring us back?”

“It certainly looks like it,” the angel replies, looking around. “What does that sign say, anyway?”

Geralt is still confused about ‘fantasy languages’ (it’s clearly in Cintran Common, what the fuck?) but Jaskier helpfully translates and asks curiously, “Why are you here, anyway?”

Both monsters look rather ashamed. “We, ah… just wanted to visit,” the angel says weakly.

Geralt narrows his eyes. “From where?” he demands.

“A place across the sea,” the shapeshifter replies airily. “You won’t have heard of it.”

“Ah, on the contrary!” Jaskier says eagerly, looking thrilled, “I studied geography extensively and spoke to several world-renowned sailors. Are you from the coast? Why don’t you have accents? Did you fly here or sail?”

The monsters look even more uncomfortable with every moment that Jaskier speaks. Geralt watches them warily. They might lash out at any moment. He medallion is humming frantically, telling him to dispatch these creatures, but… they’re sentient, and according to the angel, they’ve done no harm.

Where did they come from?

With a heavy sigh, the shapeshifter says, “A witch sent us—I mean, a sorceress. We, eh, we’re big fans, but we didn’t expect this place to be so… eh, distrusting.”

“Fans of what?” Jaskier asks.

“Um...”

A portal suddenly opens to one side, and Geralt immediately draws his sword, stepping over to put himself between the portal and Jaskier. A sorceress pokes her head through, and sighs. “You two just had to go and run into the very people I told you to avoid, didn’t you,” she says in an annoyed tone. “Aziraphale, please, for the love of god, put those wings away. Hey, Henry-with-white-hair and Joey, looking sexy as usual.”

Geralt tenses unhappily, and Jaskier muffles an outraged gasp.

“You said not to call them that!” the angel protests, as his wings fold in and vanish, and the shapeshifter takes his arm and drags him to the portal. “Oh, wait, but I wanted to ask about the television lore so I could compare it with the books—!”

“Later, angel,” the shapeshifter sighs, then, before they step through the portal, he tosses over his shoulder to Geralt and Jaskier, “By the way, I’m Crowley. Tell Ciri I’d die for her.”

And then they’re gone and the portal closes.

There is a very long silence. Then Jaskier asks, bewildered, “Who the fuck is Ciri?”

“Fuck if I know,” Geralt replies with a shrug. “Come on, let’s go find the wyvern.”

[monstersandmaw]

Winter Solstice - Chapter One (undergoing re-work; new chpts posted on Patreon)

PLEASE NOTE THAT THIS IS AN OLD, FIRST DRAFT, AND IS CURRENTLY UNDERGOING A COMPLETE RE-WRITE. I’ve left it up in case you’re interested, and I intend to release it in full as a self-published novel. Consider this a tease/sneak peek.

Who remembers my Fae Realm? Well, here's Chapter One of a new story set in that universe, released on Winter Solstice night (it happens at 4.19am on Sunday 22nd December in the UK, so I think this counts).

I hope you enjoy it! See the links at the end for more stories set in this universe.

It’s been up on Patreon for only a couple of days (to keep it roughly Solstice-relevant), but the second part will be up on there for longer before it gets its Tumblr debut. As it was a surprise post, it was also available to all patrons, from the Shadows tier up.

Content: female character attacked in the woods by a mysterious dark fae creature, rescued by a shadowy fae with one wing, and the Prince of the Winter Court himself... Wordcount: 1678

___

On the longest night of the year, when the veil between the Mortal Realm and the Fae Realm is at its thinnest, its weakest, she, like the chump she was, found herself riding alone through the forest between the harbour town and her  little village.

Foxfire danced between the trees as the sun’s last rays dissolved in the watercolour sky above her, and she tried to keep her heartbeat steady as she trod the familiar path back home with her saddlebags empty and her coin purse full. She’d finally sold the last of the pendants that she’d made from old iron horse-shoes to protect mortals against the advances of the Fae, but of course, she’d not left enough time to get home.

Her ears picked up almost nothing save for the whisper of snow falling all around her. The woods were silent and empty save for the hiss of the wind in the bare branches and the steady, creaking crunch of her horse’s hooves on the old forest track. No birds sang; no deer moved between the sentinel trunks of the ancient trees; no rabbits scampered through the thorny arcs of purple-limbed brambles.

She had just leaned forwards to pat her mare’s coarse, white mane, the dapple of her coat blending in with the winter around, when the silence of the woods exploded into chaos.

Something erupted out through the trees with such force that her ears rang from the crack like a thunderclap, and snow sprayed in a thirty foot arc, spattering against trees, and sending her horse rearing up, hooves lashing out as the mare neighed an equine scream of pure terror.

She fell from the saddle and landed heavily on her back, the wind knocked from her lungs and her vision sparkling. The heavy-set mare launched herself into a plunging gallop away through the trees, tail streaming behind like a banner, leaving her rider exposed beside the frozen, woodland stream and wondering what in the name of all the realms had just happened.

Then she heard it; a slow, deep growl, and the prowling footsteps of something creeping through the mist of disturbed snow up ahead at the point of impact. Her heart thudded in her ears, almost drowning out the sound of the creature, but as she scrambled backwards in blind panic, she saw it crawling out of the debris on all fours, turning its head this way and that, snuffing and scenting the air like a hound trying to find a trail.

Its body was as big as a bear’s, but it was skeletally thin, hairless, and with gangly arms and long, spindly fingers. Its skin was a mottled greenish grey, and as it swivelled its head around and fixed its gaze on her, she was met by two enormous, moon-like eyes, glowing with a horrid, dead light.

The scream that tore itself from her throat sounded foreign to her ears. She scrabbled to her feet and grabbed the first thing her hands fell on, which happened to be a stout, fallen branch. The creature skittered this way and that, bouncing playfully off the trunks of the trees, lunging after her like a cat at play, and then it opened its maw. Horrifically, its jaw split into four, fringe-like sections, like some hideous flower, and the inside of its mouth was blood red and filled with row upon row of needle-like teeth.

She scrambled to her feet, desperately trying to find traction in the mucky slush beneath her, and swung at the creature as it made its final dash towards her, quick as a spider and as unstoppable as a charging bull.

The branch collided with the side of its head, and it staggered and veered away, snarling and snapping that grotesque mouth and narrowing its enormous eyes. The drool that dropped from its four-fold lips hissed and sizzled as it hit the snow.

A blueish light shifted in the trees a little way off behind the monster, but she didn’t have time to call out for help as it darted for her once again.

This time it was too quick and she screamed again as its vile mouth clamped down on her neck and collarbone, sinking its myriad venomous teeth into her skin. Searing pain shot through every nerve and she dropped the stick, her fingers going almost instantly limp. Its disgusting breath stung her nose, its continuous and delighted snarling filling her ears, but she could barely breathe through the pain as it tightened its grip on her and brought its long, gnarled fingers to her waist and drew her close to its foul body.

She was going to die. It was Winter Solstice, and she was going to die in the rotting claws of some foul creature from the Fae Realm.

Her arms were clamped to her sides by its terrible grip on her, but as the long, hard handle of her belt knife dug into the inside of her wrist left, she thought vaguely of freeing it somehow so she could at least try to gut the creature who was going to take her life. It had to be a Fae creature, though she had never heard of one like this before. As the best blacksmith and farrier within thirty miles of the lord’s castle, she had seen the Fae pets that the nobles kept on iron chains, parading them around like exotic animals for everyone’s entertainment. Fae on this side of the shield between the realms were not supposed to be able to access their powers. This one, however, was strong and quick, lithe, and gods above, her neck was on fire with its venom.

Finally loosing the knife as she twisted, choking on the pain and screams which lodged together in her throat, she rammed the six inch blade deep into its gut. Foul black liquid gushed out, burning her hand, but the creature released its hold on her neck immediately. She staggered and fell backwards into the snow, her right hand darting to her neck that was a mess with ragged puncture wounds. The pain was indescribable, searing beneath her skin in waves of rippling needlepoints and clenching her lungs and throat so tight that breathing became almost impossible.

The creature writhed on the ground, reaching for her with its taloned fingers, scraping them through the churning snow and mud as if determined to drag itself towards her and finish her off, no matter the cost to itself. She managed to kick it in the face with her heel before she slumped back into the snow, dizzy, cold, and sweating.

“I don’t want to die,” she rasped, turning her blurring vision up to the lacework of black branches above while the snow pattered down around her. “Please…” she prayed to no one in particular.

Hoof-beats pounding through the slush made her turn her head dazedly, and a second later, a burst of darkness exploded out like a drop of ink in water, and the creature screamed. A human-shaped figure now stood beside it, and she squinted as her own vision began to dim. She thought the figure that had erupted from the pure, writhing darkness had wings, but when he turned, she saw that in fact he only had one wing, and where there should have been a second protruding from the special slits in the back of his leather armour, there was only a ragged, black stump. The right wing hung like a giant bat’s wing down his back, and she could see dapples of moonlight through its shredded membrane.

Before she could take in much more about the figure, he had clutched the creature’s head in his hands and torn it clean off in a spray of gurgling, black ichor. The thundering hooves drew close and a second person swung down from the saddle of a huge grey stallion. The horse’s hooves danced in the snow while he whinnied and snorted at the scent of the creature’s blood.

“Is she alive?” she heard a rasping male voice ask from above her.

“Yes, highness,” the winged figure swathed in shifting darkness replied. “Looks like she did our work for us though.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, and suddenly he was crouching beside her.

His clothes were simple fighting leathers, but they were tooled with silver filigree and studded with a glimmering metal that was not of the Mortal Realm. His long, silver-white hair was tied back in a simple ponytail at the nape of his neck to reveal tapering, elegant ears, and he wore a simple band of white metal around his head. As he turned to look at her, she caught a glimpse of the right hand side of his face and gasped. Where his left cheek was smooth and pale as polished marble, his right seemed, to her blurred and fading vision, to be made of quicksilver, or iridescent ice. All the planes of his face were hard as crystallised ice and his eyes were a blue so pale they were almost white.

Their voices warped, her hearing failing as the poison in that creature’s maw got to work on her body in earnest.

“She’s going to die,” the prince remarked, in much the way that a housewife might comment that someone was nipping out to the market.

“Please,” she hissed, her fingers - slick with the creature’s black blood - groping for a hold on him. She found his hand and he wrenched it back from her clutches with a look of disgust on his beautiful face. “Please… I don’t want to die. I…” Her throat closed, but as the world tilted back into darkness in a wash of agony, she caught the flare of curiosity in his grey eyes and hoped it would be enough to move him to pity.

It didn’t occur to her that asking a Fae for her life without waiting to hear the price - and on this night of all nights - was a very, very foolish thing indeed.

Part Two

Fae Realm Stories

Prince of the Court of Night x female reader *commission* (nsfw) Part Two (nsfw)

Male winged shadowborne fae (Shaer) x female reader (nsfw) *commission* (long!)

Male reptilian fae (Adan) x female reader (nsfw) *commission*

Male triton Fae (Kaerio) x female character (sfw) *commission*

—

I really hope you folks enjoyed this one! Don’t forget to let me know if you did enjoy it by leaving a like and/or reblogging it!

For all early releases, character art and bios, upcoming story info, and much, much more, join me over on Patreon!

You’ll have access to stories before anyone else, and you’ll get instant access Patreon-only content as well, including polls and an exclusive monthly story for those on the Pixies and Goblins tier or higher!

__

| Masterlist | Patreon | Ko-fi | Writing Commissions |

[sparrow-flies-south]

Remus’s Guide To Mending Friendships [7/7]

Fandom: Sanders Sides Rating: Teen Pairings: Deceit & Virgil, Deceit & Virgil & Remus, Remus & Roman Warnings: Disturbing imagery (it’s Remus’s POV), imagined character death Summary: When he realises that Deceit misses Virgil, Remus decides that the best way to cheer him up is to persuade Virgil to come back to the dark side. Too bad Virgil hasn’t wanted anything to do with them since he left.

Taglist:@glitchybina

Part One   Part Two   Part Three  Part Four Part Five  Part Six   AO3

Remus bashed his Morningstar into the head of the manticore-chimera, sending pieces of skull and brain flying. He grinned and turned to see his audience’s reaction.

Deceit stood with his arms crossed behind the metal grate that separated him from the cave. He raised one eyebrow.

“You have blood on your face.”

Remus swiped a hand across his face, grinning when he saw it come away red. “Did you see me cripple its legs?” he asked, rocking on the balls of his feet.

“You took your time with it.”

“More fun that way.” Remus shifted his Morningstar so it rested on his shoulders.

Deceit rolled his eyes, but before he could say anything, Virgil appeared next to him. Deceit went still. Virgil looked around the cave, his eyes landing on Deceit, then Remus, and then the dead monster.

“What the hell is this place?” Virgil asked.

Remus spread his arms wide, grinning. “Monster fight club!”

One corner of Virgil’s mouth turned upwards briefly, before returning back to normal. “You have a monster fight club now. Of course you do.”

Deceit cleared his throat. “Remus, I’ll see you later.”

Remus frowned. “You’re leaving? Why?”

Deceit’s eyes darted to Virgil, before focusing on Remus again. “I have things to do.”

“I could come back later,” Virgil offered.

Deceit shook his head. “You don’t have to leave.”

“Neither do you.”

“Or Virgil could tell us what he’s here for before you both fall on your swords. Not that I’d object to that.”

Virgil shrugged. “It’s nothing. I just wanted to ask you something.”

“Great!” Remus said. He summoned a giant wolf. “Ask me once I’ve killed this.”

Deceit glared. “Remus,” he said warningly.

“Sorry, can’t hear you, too busy fighting!” Remus called, and he lunged at the wolf.

The wolf dodged his first attack, snarling. The wolf moved next, and Remus raised his Morningstar to meet it, but the wolf changed direction at the last minute. Remus had to dance away to avoid the wolf’s jaws.

“Oh my God,” Virgil said behind him. “He’s gonna get killed.”

“And yet, that’s never stopped him.”

Remus and the wolf circled each other.

“I don’t have to stay,” Deceit said.

“Shut up,” Virgil muttered. “I’m not gonna kick you out. That’s a dick move.”

The wolf leaped. Remus ducked down as the creature passed over him, and swiped at the wolf’s hind leg. The leg gave out when the wolf landed, sending it tumbling to the ground. It snarled.

“I deserved that comment.” Deceit sighed.

“Get used to them,” Virgil said.

The wolf pulled itself to its feet, not quite putting all its weight on its bad leg. Remus twirled his mace through the air a couple of times as he waited for the wolf to be ready.

“I thought you’d come back,” Deceit said.

“Better get used to disappointment, too.”

Remus dashed forward, swinging, but the wolf was fast enough to dodge out of the way. He twisted to face it.

“I meant in the argument,” Deceit said. “I didn’t expect you to just leave.”

“You told me to,” Virgil argued.

“You always do what I say.”

“Once I would have done anything for you,” Virgil said quietly.

The wolf was already there, and Remus held up his hands to keep it back. Its jaws snapped shut near his face. Remus pushed it away and brought his mace down on the wolf’s shoulder. The wolf collapsed to the floor, tried to snap at him, failed. Remus stepped back, waiting for it to rise again.

“I’m sorry,” Deceit said, so quiet it took Remus a moment to figure out what he’d just said.

Behind the grate, someone let out a choked, ragged noise.

The wolf got shakily to its feet. It could barely stand, but it wouldn’t give up. The pain just made it angrier. He didn’t give it a chance to attack again, however. He finished the fight with a quick blow to the back of the wolf’s neck.

He turned back to the grate. Virgil was staring straight ahead, but he clearly wasn’t seeing anything that was going on. Deceit was watching Virgil.

Remus cleared his throat. Virgil blinked, and focused on Remus. Deceit quickly looked away from Virgil.

“So,” Rems said, as if he had no idea what had just gone down. “What did you want to ask?”

Virgil looked confused, before he shook himself. “Right. Well, we’re gonna be watching a movie tonight. Starting at seven.”

Remus tilted his head. “Congratulations?”

Virgil stared at the ground. He scuffed it with one foot. “Never mind, it’s stupid.”

“I think,” Deceit said, his voice strange, “That Virgil is inviting you to the movie night.”

Remus almost laughed at that, but one look at Virgil’s nervous expression confirmed it.

“Oh,” Remus said.

Virgil shrugged, still not looking up. “Not just you.”

Remus glanced at Deceit, but his face remained impassive. It was as if he hadn’t heard what Virgil had just said.

Remus had been to movie nights before, but only when Thomas was there too. He had never been invited to one. It shouldn’t have meant anything; Remus didn’t need someone else’s permission to go anywhere. Except Virgil hunched further in on himself the longer Remus’s silence lasted, and that seemed to mean everything.

“You don’t have to. It’s dumb, I know.”

Deceit shot Remus a sharp look.

“We’ll be there,” Remus said.

Virgil glanced cautiously up. “Yeah?”

“Light side at seven,” Remus promised. “I’ll even wear clothes!”

Virgil snorted. “I appreciate it.”

He glanced at Deceit and then back again. “I’ll see you at seven, then.”

“Looking forward to it!”

Virgil nodded. He glanced at Deceit one more time, before vanishing.

Remus turned to Deceit, ready to gush about everything that had just happened, but Deceit didn’t look happy.

“Have fun tonight,” he said stiffly, and then he disappeared too.

 ***

Remus paced impatiently in the dark sides’ common room. It was seven o’clock, but there was no sign of Deceit.

Had he decided that they should show up late, for some reason? He hadn’t said anything to Remus, Remus hadn’t even seen him since the cave, but maybe it was some weird social custom that he assumed Remus knew about.

Or had he decided to go early, and so he was already there? Maybe they were all waiting for Remus, or maybe they’d decided that Remus wasn’t coming, and had started without him.

He paced the length of the room once, twice more, and then went to find Deceit.

Deceit looked bemused when he opened his door. “It’s seven o’clock,” he said.

Remus nodded, waiting for an explanation, for Deceit to roll his eyes and fondly explain that they couldn’t show up on time.

“Shouldn’t you be at the movie night?” Deceit asked.

Remus rolled his eyes. “Yeah, probably, so get a move on, will you?”

Deceit just looked confused. “I’m not going.”

Out of all the things Remus had expected, that hadn’t been one of them.

“You have to come,” he protested. “I can’t go on my own.”

“Why not?” Deceit asked. “The others like you. Virgil clearly wants you there.”

“He wants you there, too.” Remus pointed out. “Otherwise he wouldn’t have invited you.”

Deceit sighed, and shook his head. “Virgil wanted to be civil. He invited me as a platitude, nothing more.”

“Since when does Virgil care about being civil,” Remus gave the word the disgust it deserved.

“Remus, they don’t want me there.”

Remus stared at Deceit. It was clear he had made up his mind, and no amount of arguing would change it. Deceit was nothing if not stubborn.

Remus was stubborn too. He pushed past Deceit and walked into his room, and flopped down on the yellow bed.

“What are you doing?” Deceit asked.

“Getting comfy,” Remus answered, wiggling slightly on the bedsheets. “If you’re not going, I’m not either.”

Deceit narrowed his eyes. “I know what you’re trying to do,” he said.

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

“You can’t believe you can trick me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Get out,” Deceit hissed.

“Nope!” Remus sat up. “You want me to go, you have to come with me. Or you could try to make me.”

They both knew the latter was impossible. Remus was very good at not being moved. When he went boneless, it was very literal.

Deceit glared at him, his jaw twitching. Remus smiled right back.

Deceit threw up his hands. “Fine! But I reserve the right to leave at any time.”

“Sure,” Remus agreed, because he fully intended to not let Deceit leave until the movie was over.

Deceit narrowed his eyes, which probably meant he could see through Remus’s lie. Remus didn’t give him a chance to call him out on it, though. He grabbed Deceit by the arm, and sent them both to the light sides’ common room.

“Remus!” Patton greeted from the stairs. He was carrying a large pile of blankets. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d show up, kiddo.”

He took another step, and faltered when he saw Deceit, who stood stiffly in one place. “Uh, good to see you too,” Patton said awkwardly.

Patton reached the bottom of the stairs, and crossed over to the two of them. Next to them, Deceit tensed, but Patton just shoved the blankets into his arms. Deceit took them, staring at Patton bewildered.

“Take these to Roman, will you. He’s still setting up,” Patton ordered. “I’m gonna let Virgil know you’re here.”

Patton disappeared up the stairs without waiting for a reply. Remus shrugged, and grabbed Deceits arm, and dragged him through the living room.

They found Roman in the kitchen, trying to balance two large bowls of popcorn in his arms. He grinned when he saw them. “Remus!” he cheered. “And Snakeface!”

“Okay,” Deceit muttered, and turned to leave, but Remus tightened his grip and spun Deceit around again.

Deceit sighed, and held out the blankets towards Roman. “Where do you want these?” he asked.

“Just put them on the sofa,” Roman answered, and Deceit squirmed is way out of Remus’s grip to do that.

“How’d you get him to come?” Roman asked, once Deceit had left the room.

“I persuaded him with my charming personality,” Remus replied.

“Huh,” Roman said. “I would have just refused to leave him alone until he agreed.”

Remus laughed, and Roman handed him one of the bowls. The two of them followed Deceit out into the living room.

“So,” Roman said once they’d placed the bowls down on the coffee table. “Important question - for you too, Lies and Dolls: Salty or sweet popcorn?”

“Salty, duh,” Remus answered.

Roman made an affronted noise, and placed one hand over his heart. “I can’t believe this!” he cried. “I’ve been betrayed by own brother, in my own house! Truly, this is the worst thing to ever happen to me.”

“All the other times he betrayed you don’t count?” Deceit asked.

“Those betrayals pale in the face of this one,” Roman answered.

Remus snickered. “You need to open your mind,” he said. “Besides, salty is the flavour of-,”

“You’re here.”

Remus turned, mid-sentence, to see Virgil standing on the staircase, Patton hovering next to him. He glanced across at Deceit, who said nothing.

“Surprised?” Remus asked, when it was clear no one else was going to speak.

“Kind of, yeah,” Virgil answered, and descended the staircase. He cleared his throat. “Hey, uh, Deceit, can I talk to you?”

Deceit stiffened and shot a desperate glance at Remus. Remus gave him a thumbs up.

“Fine,” Deceit answered.  

Virgil led the way back upstairs, and Deceit followed, back ram-rod straight, walking as if he were going to a firing squad.

“Well,” Patton said, in the silence that followed. “How are the preparation’s going?”

“Patton,” Roman complained. “Did you know Remus, my own brother, likes salted popcorn?”

“Oh, good,” Patton said. “That means there’s someone else to eat it. Logan says he likes salted popcorn,” he added to Remus, conspiratorially, “But I’ve seen him sneak some out of the sweet bowl, when he thinks no one’s looking.”

Remus smiled. But he couldn’t stop glancing at the staircase, wondering what Deceit and Virgil were talking about.

Patton clapped his hands together. “We need drinks! What should we have?”

Roman started on a long monologue about how Pepsi was clearly the superior soda, and Remus took advantage of the distraction to slip upstairs. The black paint of Virgil’s door was peeling, probably for the aesthetic more than anything else. He crouched in front of it, and pressed his ear to the wood.

“- was angry that you left,” Deceit was saying, inside.

“Yeah, I got that,” Virgil replied.

There was pause.

“What you did wasn’t okay,” Virgil said.

“I know,” Deceit said. “If you want me to leave…”

“I invited you, didn’t I?”

Deceit said nothing.

“Look, I still haven’t forgiven you yet. But I think I could.”

Still, Deceit said nothing.

“I miss my friend,” Virgil added.

A hand grabbed Remus by his shoulder and pulled him backwards. Remus toppled over, so he was lying on his back. He stared up at Roman, who stood over him.

“There you are,” Roman said. “I should have known you were up to something nefarious.”

“Do you want to listen?” Remus offered.

For a moment, Roman looked tempted, before he shook his head. “No! Besides, Patton is looking for us. Come on.”

Reluctantly, Remus got to his feet and headed downstairs. Before they properly entered the living room, however, Roman held an arm out to stop him.

He gestured to upstairs. “Are they…?”

Remus didn’t really know what Virgil and Deceit were. “They’ll be okay,” he answered.

Roman nodded. “Good.”

Remus shot him a confused look. Roman had never seemed concerned about Deceit before.

“Virgil’s my friend,” Roman explained, and Remus nodded.

Patton smiled at them from where he was knelt by the refreshments. “I think we’re all set, kiddos. Now we just need to wait for the others to come down.”

It didn’t take long before Remus heard a door open and close upstairs. He heard Virgil say something, muffled, as Deceit descended the stairs.

Remus raised an eyebrow at Deceit. You good?

Deceit gave a short nod in response.

“Logan’s on his way,” Virgil said, as he followed.

The group clustered around the sofa, swapping blankets and bickering about what movie to watch. Even Deceit, though he didn’t join in the conversation. Remus found himself on the edge of the group. When no one was paying attention, he wandered to the staircase, and sat about halfway up it and watched.

Patton was sat at one end of the sofa, with Roman on the other end. Virgil and Deceit sat in the middle, both looking stiff, keeping far enough apart that they wouldn’t touch. Deceit turned his head to Virgil, his scales glinting in the light, and said something into his ear. Whatever it was, Virgil laughed.

“Is something the matter?”

Remus twisted around. Logan stood behind him, looking as well put together as always, though instead of his usual black shoes he wore a pair of periodic table socks.

“You are not sitting with the others,” Logan continued, apparently taking Remus’s silence for confusion. “Is there a problem?”

“Pretty sure the problem’s about two feet in front of you,” Remus quipped. When Logan didn’t respond, he shrugged.  “They’re having fun.”

Logan furrowed his brow. “Yes, that is why we are going to join them.”

Remus squirmed in his seat. Logan’s steady stare seemed to see right through him. “I’ll ruin it.”

“Falsehood,” Logan said firmly. “Your presence is, in fact, part of the desired experience. That is why we invited you.”

Remus blinked. “We?”

“Of course,” Logan said. “Virgil would not have invited someone without raising it with us first. We all agreed that we wanted you here.”

He glanced over the bannister and added, “Although we did agree on Deceit being here after the invitation was given.”

Remus shook his head. “You don’t even know me.”

“That is why I agreed to invite you.”

Remus was unable to think of a proper response to that. Logan nodded, as if the matter was settled, and stepped around him. In a daze, Remus stood up and followed.

Roman’s face lit up as soon as he saw Remus. “There you are!”

He gestured to the spot next to him, but Remus sat on the floor in front of him instead, and Logan took the offered seat. Roman nudged his with his foot, and Remus swatted Roman’s leg.

“Since you two are late, you lost your chance to vote,” Roman declared.

“You fix the votes anyway,” Virgil argued.

“Really?” Deceit sounded interested. “How?”

“Well,” Patton said, before Deceit and Roman got a chance to discuss different methods of cheating. “Now that everyone’s here, how about we start the movie?”

The familiar opening of Lilo and Stitch began to play. Remus leaned back, so that his back rested against the sofa and his arm rested next to Roman’s leg.

Almost immediately, Roman began a steady stream of sarcastic comments. When Deceit spoke up, a quarter of the way though, he managed to get a laugh from most of the group.

Okay, fine. Maybe the Light sides weren’t so bad company after all.

[pathogenic]

Chapter 8: The Swine God

Prologue

Chapter 1: The Necromancer

Chapter 2: The Prophet

Chapter 3: The Hag

Chapter 4: The Brigand Vvulf

Chapter 5: The Brigand’s Cannon

Chapter 6: The Drowned Crew

Chapter 7: The Siren

Chapter 8: The Swine God

Chapter 9: The Formless Flesh

Chapter 10: The Ancestor

Epilogue

Warning for Violent Character Death

Credits to the Darkest Dungeon Wiki page for piecing together the Ancestor’s backstory.

It was an awful idea. I shouldn’t have entered the room I found, and yet I couldn’t pull myself away.

The immediate area was a study. This was were it seemed my ancestor did the rest of his studies into magic and forbidden arcane arts. There was a bloodied table and a bucket of something foul I didn’t wish to investigate any further. There were books on spells, rituals, and herbalism, but most importantly, there were journals. These were different than the ones I had found before. While they had much of the same dates, it was like these journals never aged. The pages were still pristine and perfectly legible.

I sat in his old chair in front of his desk, journal in hand, and I started to read, and oh the things I discovered. I learned of how he met a noblewoman who was far too beautiful and of lavish parties held in the courtyard. I learned of how he realized how cruel this woman was but played into her sport. He killed her and mixed her blood with wine and had the corrupt nobles of the land drink it. He had but a drop himself and it taught him about something ancient and truly powerful. He locked the nobles in the courtyard and let them kill each other in a frenzy as he started upon his work.

It started off simple enough. There was a woman in the Hamlet who already dabbled in magic. She used herbs and mushrooms in order to understand and use her craft. My ancestor described it as a rudimentary introduction to magic, but a good place as any to start. However, his thirst for knowledge caused him to reach overseas and to employ people who dabbled in the more extreme versions of the magic he desired. Around this time, he also started to make dealings with a pirate crew to secure the supplies he would need for his studies. What he needed was best not seen by the public eye, after all. There were also mentions of a woman who started to follow him along the Hamlet. At first, he appreciated the attention, but eventually it began to wear on him.

From there, my ancestor started to change into something inhuman. The witch started to rely more and more upon the mushrooms and the herbs she used for magic to try and understand the power that my ancestor was touched by, which warped her appearance severely. In his disgust, he sent her away and deep into the Wealds. He justified this by saying he had no further use of such a crude practice.

The scholars he called upon bored him, so he killed them and raised them to see if he could. The story from there was one I knew already – the dead started to raise the dead. He found this amusing.

The pirate crew started to grow bold and charged him more and more for the supplies he needed. So one night, after the pirates ran amuck in the Hamlet, drinking and raising hell, he cursed their anchor. He said he gave it every curse he knew so it would drag them to the bottom of the sea and drown them all. It was no wonder it took Alhazred so long to remove the curse, or rather, curses.

At this point, my ancestor went beyond being simply inhuman and started to become only what I can describe as a tyrant and a monster. There is no shortage of bodies in the Hamlet. Even in the more peaceful times, there was plenty of plague and strife to help fill a graveyard. This meant that he had plenty to work with for his forbidden arts. He combined pig flesh and human flesh and raised them, just to see what would happen. He called these twisted creatures the Swinefolk. More often than not, he wasn’t pleased with the results and would dispose of them, though he didn’t detail how.

He continued with this vile craft until funds ran low. At this point he discovered a ritual that he could perform to secure more resources. He tied the woman who followed him to an idol and pushed her into the sea. The next day he found many beautiful jewels that helped fund his monstrous research.

He also detailed how a man approached him, speaking of things he shouldn’t know. He warned my ancestor that his ambitions would destroy him and the Hamlet. My ancestor didn’t wish to hear it, so he tortured the man in broad daylight. The townsfolk turned against him, so he hired brigands to keep them in line. The man then approached him once again, offering his warning a final time. Apparently from there, my ancestor showed him something so awful that the man tore out his own eyes and fled into the dungeon.

There is nothing much beyond that, just further accounts of his experiments with the Swinefolk. At that point I felt far too disgusted to continue. I slammed the journal shut and shoved it away from me. The loud clap caused something on the other side of another set of locked doors to squeal. It did not escape me that it was a very odd pig-like squeal. At that point I realized where he was disposing of those failed experiments. At that point I rushed back to the top floor of the Estate.

By then, the sun was just starting to rise, and the Hamlet was starting to wake up. I was quick to gather my heroes, demanding they prepare for battle. Naturally they were confused, there didn’t seem to be any immediate danger, but I insisted, promising them answers later. I told them to gather their gear and then head for my Estate.

Slowly they filtered in, exchanging confused and concerned looks. It seemed that they thought I finally had lost it from the stress of managing the Hamlet and trying to undo what my Ancestor had done, but I knew I was in my right mind. I could not help but pace as we waited for the last of the heroes to arrive, which I’m certain did nothing to disprove of their theories about me.

Once they were all assembled, I explained what I had found within the basement. I lead them down to the locked doors and tapped the door with the pommel of my sword, but nothing squealed this time. There were looks exchanged before they went back to the previous lock to grab the key from it. The key was then placed within this lock and it sprung open.  If the smell was bad before, it was almost unbearable now. We recoiled and prepared for whatever we would find on the other side, but there was nothing that can prepare you for the sight of humans melted together with pig flesh, making malformed creatures that only knew violence.

The first of the Swinefolk we had encountered gave a blood curling scream before charging. Thankfully, these creatures were not particularly strong and fell to our blades within moments. It seemed that not all of them were this brazen, however. The sound of someone gurgling caught our attention as we realized that while we were charged by one group, another had snuck around to ambush us. Audrey didn’t stand a chance with a knife in her throat. It dawned on us that we could be attacked from anywhere if they were capable of such tactics. We stood close as a group, watching each other’s backs as we pushed further and further into the halls beneath my home and beneath the Hamlet.

It was a long and tiresome journey. My ancestor certainly had kept himself busy with this nightmarish craft. I did not want to think about how many people it took to make something of this size, not that I even had a chance to in all honesty. The attacks were enough to keep my mind busy.

At some point we became aware of a scream that drowned the rest out. Whatever made it had to be a creature of immense size. It echoed down the halls and we stopped dead in our tracks to try and figure out where it came from. Then it screamed again, and we strained our ears. We could hear the sound of something scraping and then the sound of something dragging. Whatever it was, it was heading our way.

Cautiously, we moved forward, towards the sound. It wasn’t like we had much of a choice – there was only one way forward after all. We couldn’t just go back. If this was the source of our troubles, then the sooner it was dead, the sooner the Hamlet could recover.

What we found I can barely describe. It was a member of the Swinefolk that nearly scrapped his head on the top of the ceiling. It had no lower half. It was nothing more than a pile of viscera that made up its torso and head. It slowly pulled itself along the floor with one hand, the other clutching a giant blade. Upon its head was a crown formed of iron, so I could call the beast a Swine King, but with its horrible size and impossible form, it seemed more fitting to call it a Swine God.

Beside it was a far smaller member of its species. The smaller one locked its eyes onto us and then emitted a terrible little screech. The Swine God raised its head and looked straight at us and then the giant blade was raised. It came down with a loud crash and I felt fortunate that the attack was so obvious we could easily move out of the way.

The smaller one then squealed again, and the attack fell once more. At this point, Fergus ripped away from William’s grip, lunging straight for the smaller one. He bit down hard on the creature as it gave an earsplitting scream. The Swine God immediately turned as William started to dash towards his hound. The blade moved fast this time. William defended Fergus, and because of this, the blade imbedded itself deep within him. The hound howled for his lost master, but fled the fight, not seeing any reason to risk his life any further without his master. With his tail tucked between his legs, he dashed for the door.

With his little friend now safe, the large, monstrous creature started to aim for us again. We split apart from each other, hoping to make it difficult for the small beast to determine who needed to be attacked. The swing from the Swine God were less accurate and more telegraphed, but that wasn’t always a promise, especially the more we injured the larger beast. He became more panicked and would start to ignore the barks of the smaller one. The Swine God would swing at whatever he thought was near by with no care as to the damage it caused.

With a few more strikes, it fell back into the pile of viscera it likely once was. The small beast, now panicked and alone, started to lash out. He attempted to swing and bite at as he pulled away to try and make an escape. It only took one shot from Missandei to stop his infernal screams.

Thinking that we were victorious, we started to leave. It was at this moment we heard the sounds of something dragging closer to us once more. We realized that our fight with the Swine God and his small friend likely covered up the sound of another enemy approaching, and now here it was, entering the room we were in.

If what we fought was horrific, then I lack to words to describe what entered the room next. What we were met with was a being that had no solid form. It was nothing more than viscera loosely bound together. As it moved, we could see flashes of faces, of bone, of innards, or anything you can possible imagine that was once human or swine. We found ourselves rooted in place with out fear and our disgust, allowing the hideous abomination a chance to fire a tendril with a mouth forward into our group.