#occult mentions tw

[profanepurity]

Beelzebub, Mammon, and Belphegor Lore

On days when I can't seem to get myself to draw, I'm going to start writing out character/ world concepts. WARNINGS BELOW THE CUT: Mentions of gore/ blood, disorderly thinking related to food/ eating. Lots of dark themes here. Please don't hesitate to tell me if you'd like me to add more tags!

The Archangel of Mercy, Zadkiel, is Prince over the Dominion Angels. They are the Sovereign Chief of grace and forgiveness. They, along with three other higher-ranking Dominions, ruled over the lower choirs of Heaven before the dawn of humanity.  Zadkiel never wanted to harm another living soul unless they had to. But, when the Host came to them one day and asked them to draw out their sword, Zadkiel was grief-stricken. The Host told them that his closest fellow Dominions were losing their grace and needed to be corrected. Zadkiel begged the Host to forgive them, for their actions could surely be corrected without punishment. Why could they not just confront the other Dominions peacefully? The Host told Zadkiel that mercy cannot always be lenient. How can there be clemency for some when it results in the suffering of others? The Host tells Zadkiel that their fellow Dominions have been transgressing against their own virtues without them knowing... 

Judiel, the Dominion Angel of Diligence, has been more idle than he has been active in his work lately. Judiel can’t afford to slow down, for he oversees the efficiency of the lower choirs. The Archangel Gabriel, along with many others, have praised Judiel multiple times for how often he delivers innovations to the lower Choirs. But that praise is going to run out soon. Zadkiel plagued Judiel’s mind with vivid, maddening nightmares to keep him awake at all times. They didn’t want to see their friend imprisoned for his slothfulness.

Cassiel, the Dominion Angel of Temperance, has been encouraging indulgence amongst other angels and allowing himself to be excessive at the banquets in Heaven. How could this Dominion be trusted to bring abundant crops for the Host’s future creations? He’ll take what he doesn’t need from humanity! The lower choirs have been living peacefully and contently under Cassiel, but for how long? The Host had to guide Zadkiel’s sword to disembowel Cassiel. Surely a period of agony would be more merciful than the true punishment for refusing to abstain. Sachiel, the Dominion Angel of Charity, and the one who Zadkiel loved, has transgressed as well. His eye has been on the golden paved roads and the embellishments on the towering walls more than he has been worshiping the Host. Zadkiel remembers Sachiel telling them the reason for this. The Angel of Charity predicts humans will develop a currency in the future. They could give Heaven's excessive gold to humans so they could afford to survive. Not only did Sachiel stash away some of this gold in preparation for this, but he also spoke about the Host’s future creation living in sin. Zadkiel, in their mercy, cut off Sachiel’s left hand and gouged out his right eye. That way his beloved could never commit something so atrocious again. But Judiel, Cassiel, and Sachiel were still punished. They fell with Lucifer. Now, when the Archangel of Mercy looks at their friends, their beloved, they see them in the pain they caused. 

Judiel’s- Belphegor's- inventions are now making Hell prosperous. He experiments on the damned souls who were too indolent in life to invent anything themselves, but abused others to create it for them. When they become too insane, he alters their minds to make them compliant. Belphegor denies himself sleep when he hasn’t worked enough.

Cassiel- Beelzebub- is more gluttonous than he ever was, and his legions live in hedonism with him. But for those souls that used substances to abuse others while they were living, and lived in such excess that there is nothing left for others, he keeps them in total and eternal deprivation in Hell. Beelzebub starves himself when there are times of conflict.

And when Zadkiel looks at Sachiel- Mammon- they see a cold, sick, and angry beast. An animal that is longing for more but refuses to take, hunting and devouring those that are corrupted by their wealth. Mammon despises money and those who worship it, but at least it makes them easy enough to tempt with promises of lucre.

Mammon told Zadkiel he forgave them a long time ago, but Zadkiel will never give themself that same mercy.

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

It Might as Well Happen! Life is Already So (Old) God(s)damn Weird!

(Disclaimer: three of the characters in this story belong to me. You can find more information about Cruz here. You can find more information about Penn and LeviathanPat–who is only mentioned here, but he still gets the clarification because I said so–here. EldritchPlier and Illinois belong to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe.)

(I wrote this as a birthday present for my amazing friend @sammys-magical-au! So, of course, we’ve got another special guest appearance by their badass OC! Please go reblog Sammy’s ideas, check out their Wattpad, and show them some love for being such a great writer!)

(Also: the awesome @inkbedou has created some lovely artwork of the main character here! Please go check out their stuff and give them a follow!)

(Trigger Warnings: body horror, implied murder/death, blood/gore, knives/blades, implied animal death, occultism, mentions of ritual/sacrifice, mentions of eating/drinking, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.) 

(If you’d like to use distorted fonts like the one you’ll be seeing in this story, then I recommend going here).

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

Anything and everything came with its own sets of Give and Take. A lot of people—more than your mental health would probably be prepared for—had trouble understanding that sometimes, but not Cruz. 

For example: it was difficult to hear crimson splattering over the notes of his violin, but the small pool of blood at the head of his room was very much noticeable. There was that strong, infamous metallic scent of course, but it’d also be pretty hard to ignore how droplets were slowly but surely floating up to give his ceiling an impromptu polka-dot paintjob.

(Which, to be fair, was pretty damn cool to watch if you were in the right headspace. Yeah, it’d be so much harder to clean, but still.)

Honestly, this blatant middle finger to gravity wasn’t even the strangest thing that had happened tonight. Or even several past nights, in fact. 

The more time you spent with sentient crimes against reality, the more reality warped around you. 

Especially the creature Cruz was waiting for right now: among his many horrific titles, he was nothing if not the personification of Fuck You I Do What I Want.

The blood began boiling and churning on its own accord. It was a little louder than the dripping chorus, but that still didn’t quite break through the violin’s voice. 

And then. . .the red started to drain.

The blood itself wasn’t drying up, the puddle wasn’t shrinking or evaporating at all. 

No. That rich, organic color started seeping out of the fluid, slithering into the air past the veils of rising steam, leaving the small pool to resemble liquid silver. . .or the skin of someone who was just about ready for putrefaction. 

The red seeped its way under that tiny gap of space between the floor and the bottom of Cruz’s bedroom door. It then spread to outline the door from the other side entirely, a white-hot glow mixing into it. The new light was impossible: dark and vibrant at the same time. Almost like an eclipse.

A low, echoing growl rumbled from the other side, announcing the arrival of the same guy Cruz had made a bargain with a few years ago.

It quickly evolved into a guttural, keening roar that made the door shake in its threshold and the air feel like it was blistering. If not for how much time and effort Cruz had put into adjusting, his ears would’ve started to bleed. 

Always up for collaborating, Cruz pulled the bow across his violin’s strings at a new angle, eliciting an evil HSSSSSS from the instrument. 

After about fifteen seconds, the monstrous cry transitioned into a voice, deep and smooth and tinged with grating, surreal venom.

“Heͪy͉ͬ͝ t̄̊he̖̪̬r̹e͍̽͢.̬ͥ Ho͈ͣ̂w͂̓ h̑̀a͖̖v̪͈̽e thi̷̾ͨng͖s͢ ḇͭ̉eͬ̇͞en̶̢?ͮ”

Cruz offered both a nod and a shrug, knowing that the abomination could see him through the wooden barrier. “Pretty alright. Can’t complain.” 

The voice hummed thoughtfully. “W͕ͧ̀el̲̑l̜͑ͯ,̖̿ I don't̾̈ͦ mea̲̓n̾ ṯo ål͈a͊͡r̭͖m̬̅̕ y̬oͤ̊̓u͚ͦ,̋͛̋ b̎ͮut̺̹ͅ th͇̗er͔̔eͪ'̶s͐ͅ s͗̓o̘ͧ̃m͙e̘o̞̼͆n̖ͥ͌eͥ ś̚tͪ̕and̋̓͢í̈́͞n̘̔g̃͊̚ o̅n̶͒ͤ t̏͑͝h̳͑ͮe f͗r̦o̓n͠t͍ p̩͗̚o̗r͛ch.ͯ́”

Cruz felt his hackles ever-so-slightly rise—

“O̘̼ṙ, d̴̎id̼͒̈ y̶ȍ̗̺u_̫ aͮ̓ļ̲ȓ͓̏e͒a̫̘͐dy̋ kn̻̹͗o̦͗̄ẇ̊ thͬa̷ͩͧt̉?̑ͥ” The voice continued. “I m̰ͅean,͈ͬ̀ iͮͨt_̨'d̙ͬ̿ b̩͋eͫ̔̒ pȓ͕e̒ͣ͞t͊ͯty̰̠ͬ ha̕͟r̭̺̃ḋ t͔ͦ͛o̴̫͎ mí̼̭s͚̈s̼ͧ him, ŵ̙h̛̄a͘ţ͍ͨ w̛̥it̖͖͠h̝͋ t̬h͙̊̽e̷͔ ća̜ͪͣmͮer̢̚a c̴̃͞r͜ȩw aņd̍̒ t̓h̨̫̾aͦt̯̚ u̯̍͢n͇̊n͈̱eͫ̄c̵̝͘e̢s̪̮̒sͦa̅ri̩͑͆l͗ý̛̅ lạrg̜eͤ c̀h̢̔ͯeͯc̦̓k͖̫̭ i̵n̚ h̠̎͗iş h͋̚͟a͔nḋ͓͝s͉̓͟.́̈́̎ . .̏̀͆”

—and almost immediately flatten back down. Cruz sighed, rolling his eyes. “Yeah-yeah, sure-sure. We both signed that contract a long time ago. You know you don’t have to keep trying those tricks on me, right?”  

A booming chuckle rattled through the house, carrying the scent of sulfur. “Aͥ͋h͗ͯͪ,̧͚͌ c̢̍'m̸͔̼on̤. I͞t̨͔̔'̙s̤ͪͅ go͇͓ỏ͎̿d̨͚ pr̲ͨa͇͜c̥̤̈ti̚_́c̗͖͞e͋ tͭ̅͊o̥ k̝̭̅e̩̙ep̮ f̯̥o̢͊͛l̹l͍̀ow̳̘e̛͔r̊̌s̿́ o̥ͥ̾n t̅̒́h̳̖̀ei̮ŗ͒̑ toę̳s̝.̵̦ B̺͗e̹͘s̶id͖͠e͌s̭̋͌,̰ o̥ͮld̃̇̽ h̾̋ä͔́ͭb́ͩ͗i̤t̛͔͟s j̝us̯t die̾́ h͑a͠ȓ̴̚d͖͂̋.͍”

Exasperation lingered in his features, but Cruz’s energy had never left. “And speaking of dying, you see what I put together?”

“I doͅ,ͯ” the abomination–whom Cruz had learned to call Plier, as it was the only part of his title that could be pronounced by a human tongue—replied. A faint sloshing noise followed his words; he was inspecting the large, ornate bowl that Cruz had prepared with tonight’s offering not even half an hour ago. 

Cruz nodded, grinning. “Everything should be nice and fresh. I mean, apart from the blood, since you said it's better when it’s aged a little.”

A thoughtful hum oozed under the door and into Cruz’s ears. A slick, grotesque, near-bubbling sigh came along, the type of sound that could only come from a (once) internal organ as it was sliced apart by something with razor-sharp edges. 

“W͖ͨe̖ͪl̨l,̽ šo̅ f̀́͡ar, n̤͕ͫo̢ͪ̽ v̧̩ir̠̾g̱ͪ͢in͉̍͋'̧͔s͚͜ t̪é̤͂à͑rs oͮ͘͟r͊ ć͘͠a̧̰̥pt̩͢u͒̐r̼͊ed mo͈o̸͉nͦl̿i͕͒g̟͖h̰̎t̠ i̪͌n̠̔ h̏e̶re.͆ O̵r̽, a̫̳͂t l̪͍͠e̹a͔̒̓ŝt, n̨̉ot̖̟ͦhing I wͮͯoͧͮ͋u̦lḏ̈́̿ ć̄��̹l̻͔̋l͍ a m͆o̲̚ṙ̶e̎̄̀ sͨ̔͛p̕į̩ͥrituaļͫ iͅn̰̼͆gre͙ͯd̪͆ͯi̫̾̑enͮtͪ͐͊.̀͞,” Plier announced. “M̬ayb͓͉̚e y̡où'̋̀v͙̈́eͩ̔͛ l̜os̘t̃̀ y̳̌ó͖̾ȗ̮͙ṛ̙ͅ t̥ouc͌h͚. .̨ͫ̕ .͜”

Cruz raised an eyebrow, unable to keep from sputtering a bit. This was done in jest, of course. He’d been working for Plier long enough to have built up some genuine trust; he knew how to dissect the monster’s words, how to tell what he truly felt or thought about things. 

For a centuries-old Stephen-King-wet-dream-come-to-life, Plier had a typical juvenile meanstreak. Sure, he saw most other humans as pitiful little playthings, but when it came to the rare few he found interesting enough to be worth his time, he was big on unconventional motivation.

His critical and condescending jabs were meant to be taken as a challenge, an open invitation to keep going and impress him.

At least, that’s how it was half of the time. . .

“M̛̀̐ȧy̨͇̬beͬ̅ y̼̰ou'v̥̍é̱ l̐̉ọ̔͑s̈́̈́t y͕̝͈our̎̌̕ touch̴̫͋,̠͊̈” Plier repeated, raising his voice just a bit after pointedly clearing his throat. “T̀ͬ̾his̝̆͡ d_́o̱eş͎̍n'̡ͨt̀ h͖̕ͅa̩vë͟͠ e̎̂ve̮̘n̒ h̗̞av͋ͧe̎ͪ aǹy̛͊̇ w̸̦a͘ṭͬ͞e̮ͨͪr͝ th͖͂ͭã̤̕t p͞ëo̯̦̽p̝ͧ̆l̜̂ͯe̞ͧͭ d̝͙̱ŗ̥̌o͟wn̬ed̔ i͔̳n!͟”

“Oh, you’ll get some in the future. Count on that,” Cruz assured, folding his arms across his chest.

Plier hummed again in a way that just screamed of how he was pursing his lips and mutilating those lips in the process thanks to the multitude of too-long, too-sharp teeth in his maw. But then, it wasn’t like pain was really a problem for him, considering he’d had a hand in creating pain itself as a concept.  “I sh̋oͩ̍uͥl̷dͤ gͤͭī̀ṿ̩̎ẹ̽ i̵̧ͅt t̿́̕ḧe̯ b̒ͧe̲ͪnef̧̛̖ịt o̿f t̗̃h͙̭e d͗ǫ̶̩ù̢btͦ. Ẃ͉oͥ͟ul̛ͬdn͖̆'̏͡t̺͟ w͗ȧ̖̒nͯt̄ t̾͗̓o͊ͤ̐ h͊_̹u̓ͫrt͛ yo̘u͉̝r̠͘͢ f̠r̈ag̵̑̎i͟le hum͍a̖n fe̷̵e̩͗_li̍ͬň̎gs.̷̼”

. . .And the other half was him just being a facetious asshole because it wasn’t like any mortal could dare try to stop him.

Cruz clicked his tongue, a dry chuckle seeping through his gritted teeth.

And with that, a mind-bending symphony of crunching bones, snapping tendons, and tearing flesh filled the air, all leaking through the door.

Cruz rocked back and forth on his heels.

After a moment, Plier gave pause with a bitter, sickening gulp. “Oh̯͔͟, g̈́o͆̆͌atͨsͧ͞ a̪͍̎g̒̃͢a̍in̞̔̈.̤̰͇”

“I thought goats reminded you of the Wars,” Cruz said, tilting his head to the side.

In fact, he knew they did, since Plier had regaled him with so many tales of the days when he’d first started climbing the eldritch hierarchy, of abhorrent conquest, of the streets in twisted cities in various dimensions running red (or green, or blue, or whatever colors non-mortal blood could be). 

“I̽́̚ s̴ͦ̈ee̴̵͆m͔̟̈ ẗ́͐͊o r̦e̟m͔͢e̜m͛ͯbe͌ͮ͟r̻͙̣ y̧̬ͬo̹u͘̚ te̍l͔̣͞l͂́͊ing̒͢ m͉͌̍e t̷͂̈h̨̎a̓ͮ̈t͚̖͊ I c̷̋oụ̬͠ldͥ̎͋ exͣp̷e̵̼͢c͍̀ͮṯͤ̚ ṡ͉o̢͘ͅm̤͘eͨ h̛u̙m̷̸a̷͕n̪ ř̫em̍̚ͅa͉i̸̬̯n̷͎ś s̒o̯o͍n̸͋,̧̠̟” Plier mentioned. A steady drumbeat murmured as he spoke–those had to be his claws tapping against the hallway’s floor. “P̰̕lͩuͣͦs̠̀̿,̢̞͐ ǒ̧̤b̅͌v̓îo͆us͍̯̫ḻ̆̽y͊̍ a͘ ni̒͜cë̳́,̨̞ raẁ͔ so̢ú̠̒l͉͙͡ to hạ̻̌r͂v̮es͕͐ͣt o̢͙̒n t̯o͓̾p̩ of͎̀͑ ț̊ͮḣ̿aͭͫ͗t̶͍.̈̏”

The upcoming retort died a quick-yet-brutal death on Cruz’s tongue. He chewed at his lip, then heaved a sigh and trudged across the room to flop down onto his bed. 

This elicited a startled, layered mrowh! from one end, where a vaguely cat-shaped creature with five piercing eyes and dark carmine fur that almost looked fluffy. . .almost, so long as you were a safe distance from it. When the small monster got to its paws and stretched before wandering over to its owner, it became more and more clear how that “fur” was a coat of spikes that could easily flare up at a moment’s notice.

Fortunately for Cruz, plenty of bonding time had passed by now, and so Macaroon was content to just nudge at his forehead and stick out a disturbingly long forked tongue to give him a classic kitten-lick.

Cruz reached over to gently scratch his pet’s tattered ears. He knew Plier was still watching him, still waiting for an answer. “. . .I tried, okay? I really did! I lined up five patsies for this month’s initial plan. Five! But for whatever reason, none of them ended up taking the bait! And after that, the goats were all I could afford to get!”

A long-suffering sigh echoed from the door, doused in oil and disappointment. “Y͐ỏ́u̶̡'̈́v͌̍ͨe̾͐́ t̘̿͢r̈́i͌̎ck̾̇͜ē̶d ḑ͙̓o̪ͮ̇z̛eͣͯnsͤ̄͐ ô̩̠f m̜̗o̵̬͐rͧt͆a̼͙ͥlͨ͠s̙͛ͨ,͓ Ċruz͚.̜̹ Wh̩ǎ͓͢ţ̎͟ c͐͛͞o̧ͥuĺͦ̇d'̢̐ve pͮ͑ǒ͘s̜̹͝s̻̃i͈̟̔b̑l̪̦̃y̫̞ b̻̆̽e͗͞en͊ so d͎̃i̵f̌ͦf̹͇͢ę͚̓rͬe̹̊nt̬̔ a̮b͗̚o̜ͤut̀́ t̫̽h̺ͨ̐ośe͊ o̓ṅ͙es̴̯ͫ?̠”

“I don’t know!”  Cruz threw his hands up in empty air. “I have no idea how or why it even happened! I acted my ass off for all of them! I thought I’d given more than enough charm and last-minute-guilt and likeable awkwardness!”

Memories of the recent past came rushing through his head. The quartet of nights he’d spent in a cheap motel just a few miles away, using the dingy little bathroom mirror as a makeshift scrying station. 

The phone calls he’d made each night to five “friends” he’d recently made, each one hailing from a different cleaning company; the way he’d requested they stop by this very house, one after the other, to tidy up on his behalf. 

The way each of them had just. . .not. Doubled. Back, even though human survival instinct was pRETTY MUCH ALWAYS IGNORED IN FAVOR OF CURIOSITY BUT APPARENTLY NOT THESE TIMES BECAUSE SCREW ALL THE PLANNING AND LURING AND EFFORT CRUZ PUT INTO HIS PROJECTS!

“Aͤͤ̉ndͤ̒ y̸̮̱óu̅ s͚u̓mmö́ͥͪn͕e̳͆d a̠̙ Mả̰nͣͣè̸ foͧr͂ͥͮ t̶̘ẖ̐̒a͓̬ͪtͥ,̳” Plier added coldly. “O͔ͫn̸ͨe̩ͭ o̿̑ͤf̨̌͜ t̵͎ͨḫ̷͠e̙͐ͯ Te̜̭k̗̿e Teͦ̈͆kͮe v̦͖̬a̙̓ȑ̋̄i̖̺anͬt͐ͦͮșͯͩ,̕ ri̋͞͞g̛͋hͮt̮͚̆?̺̲̒ W̆ė̽ak a͎s̭͖ͦ t̩͂̇hey͚ aͤr̢͂͘e͕̽͜, th̥͢os̨͛e t̍y͖̑p̛͓͟es̵̰ͨ a̝re̽͝ s͍̘̾t͈̙i̞l̊̀͟l̬͋̈́ pr̰̔e͋ͬ͢t̟ͯt̪y͗ d̩à̘ͬmnͪ ŗ̯ͬar̡͕̒e̤̪͈.̕”

“Don’t remind me,” Cruz begrudgingly agreed, muttering a few colorful phrases in Portuguese under his breath.

 Manes were the lowest of low in abyssal environments, but they were never in short supply, so they could still be somewhat useful for anything demon-related. So long as you were ready to deal with their tantrums or the invisible bile that drained through their pale skin like sweat. . .(The fluids that had leaked from the exposed, dangling guts of the one Cruz had used hadn’t really helped.)

“Y̭oͨu c͚̫̕o̙u̘̚ldn̻̗'t͇̣́ h̓͑ä͂̕v̝̆ȩ͍̮ j̲̉ͬù̽̄s̟̺ͫt͈̃͢ c̝ͨ̾a̜p̟̐̕t͠uŗ̮͟e̘͂d i̠̝t̊̈ aͥ͐͘n͋dͫ̔ͤ h̶͐ȇͥľ̬͘ḏͩͅ i̟̊͂t f͚͔ȍr̫̟ͮ t̡̯o̍͐n̨͊͗i̖͍̳g͉h̸͍̽t?ͯ͘ F̨la̐y̛͑̐ingͮͮ it́ͅ wŏ͖ͣȕ̓̕l͉d̴͇̄'̤́̅v̫e͟ b̈́̈ȩ͎en s̀u͖̲i̤taͩ͐b͐l͇̪̄e̽ en͈̉͜t̽͘̚e̮̪̒rtai̓ņ̣ͯm̂̓͛e̛̽nt̞,͔ s̯͘in̛̛͘c̶͔̾e͞ t͟h̺ͨͩẽÿ̰́͞'r̭̈́̿e â̮lwaÿ̯s̝ ŝ̤ͯǒ̴̟ d̉͘e͕̐͟s̡͔p̀͘eͫȑ̐͡a͋͟t̽e̽͜ t́̋o eͯx͒iśtͅ.”

“That was my Plan B!” Cruz insisted. “I knew it would do if I couldn’t get any people, but. . .”

He trailed off, cringing in spite of himself. 

“B̤̠̬ut. . ?̹ͫ” Plier echoed in the deadpan to end all deadpans. 

“. . .One target in particular sort of. . .scared it off,” Cruz reluctantly finished, remembering the last of his intended victims. A tall, lanky man in his thirties with fair skin, chocolate eyes to match his hair, the aura of a not-so-new father, and a Midwestern accent with a laugh that could only be described as the most adorable goddamn thing. 

He hadn’t done the task alone: throughout the staged cleanup job, a ginger-haired friend had followed along, chatting so brightly and casually. 

Loathe as Cruz was to admit, it’d almost made for a pretty wholesome little spectacle. . .well, until Mr. Dad Reflex had realized that Cruz kept two different types of trash cans in this house. Or, from Mr. Dad Reflex’s perspective, trash cans and hampers, the differences of which he had vehemently ranted about for at least five whole minutes.

The Mane, as they usually were, had been brazen enough to show itself. . .only for Mr. Dad Reflex to nearly smack it upside the head with the mop he’d brought along from his company’s storage warehouse. 

Hell, it’d gotten to the point where Mr. Dad Reflex had even found the bloody mess of Cruz’s summoning ritual for that particular exploit, only to clean it up and give a worrying amount of legit knowledge on cleaning bloodstains.

(As well as rant some more about how the wax residue from the candles was a bigger issue and. . .something about cleaning knives?!)

So, yeah. Even if Cruz had only gotten to know the basics in order to gain some of Mr. Dad Reflex’s trust, he now had a feeling that Mr. Dad Reflex would’ve been a powerful enemy that he decidedly did not want to make.

Plier was silent for a very long, very uncomfortable couple of minutes, no doubt reading Cruz’s mind to validate the claims for himself. Cruz didn’t bother trying to shield his thoughts; he’d read every single term of that contract. Letting Plier see into his head was just standard business. 

Eventually, Plier heaved a groan. Outside the door, the floors creaked and the walls trembled as the monstrosity shifted in place.

“Y͇o̪uͨ'̷ͥͯre̊ lu̓c͓̿͞k̭̣̇y̷ͪ th̄ͫ̽á̝̉t̻͂͐ yo͎͜uṛ̯ͣ ḿ̵ͪi̴n͇̊͛d̼͉͞ h̷̩ͭa̦s s̙̞͋o̮̿ͣme̓ a̦̖c̣̤͒t̆ͪṳͥ̈́aĺ͉ ș̔̉ù̥̙b̊́̎ş̏t̥́a͐́n̆ce͈̥̕.̟͝ O̺ͣt̛͕ḫ̺́eͧr̘̔͒wͥi̱͑̊se̾,ͪ̎̇ I̵̾ w̑ó̫̦u̇ͭ̈́ld'̻͘ve͇͚ jụ̵s͂͛t̤̒̅ tà̴̒ke͠n̟ tͥͯ_h̢ͣoͬse̫͆͠ p̅̇r̢e̴̬͘t͚͠ṱ̱̇y̸͖ l̀i̪t̸ͯt̅le̯̗ ē̾͌yẻ̢ͨs̸ of͛̾ͫ y_̩̀ò̧̅u̙rs̪ a͇ͩn͇̆d ȑͨe̶p͊l̠͕̬a͍͐c̨eͯ́ͨd̛ the̯_̘m wiͬ͢t̏hͥͪ ba̽͌͠by h̡̍ͤe͎a͌ds͓ s̡̿͠oͨ͒ I͗͡͠'͖͗d n̫̍ẹͩ̒v͓ͭ͌ȩ͡r̓̀ͤ h̠ͧ͠a̵ͤ͆v̪̀͜e̙̞͊ t̞o̭̱ l̦̭̺i̇͠s̲͟teǹ t͈͆o w͉̣eir̢̹͝d̺̲̑-̞͔ͬa͝s̑s̺̄ ẽ̳͡xc̝ͬus̡̏ͩes lͭ̋ik͎̩e ťhͬ̑i͔͜s̬̃.”

A smile etched its way back onto Cruz’s face. He lifted his head, fluttering his eyelashes in a very theatrical manner. “D’aww, you think my eyes are pretty?”

“Do̢̰͜n'͛tͩ p̷͛̈́u̳ͮͫshͧ̌ i̘ͮt͕,” Plier warned, but the new calmness of his voice betrayed him. The gnashing and chewing chorus resumed; he was focusing on Cruz’s offering again, greedily eating the corporeal parts and harvesting whatever emotions lingered from the goats’ departed souls with gusto.

Cruz sat upright, relief washing over him. Even with his and Plier’s contract, eldritch wrath was nothing to sneeze at. Besides, entities like Plier tended to have very special and very serious diets.

Cruz may or may not have learned the hard way that if even a spoonful of spleen-juice was missing from tribute after the stroke of 1:45 AM, the ensuing migraine from the consumer would quickly graft itself onto the offerer.

(Please read migraine as a literal tiny demon appearing out of nowhere, wielding a literal tiny ice-pick, and trying to crawl under your eyelids to reach your brain unless you add a layer of tinfoil to your ceremonial protection mask.)

A plume of fleshy-looking steam curled from under the door, gliding around Cruz’s violin from where he’d left it on the desk before fading into nothingness. 

“.̋ .̸ .̣̐̚Y̌ou̚͘ c̆̐͐aṅ k͙̉eͅe͕p̙̘ͅ p̹l͕̦a̼y̻̪̅in̸̓g̰ͫ if͉̌͘ y͇ͪ͋ou͇ wa̲ǹͅt̓͟,̇” Plier mentioned around all the horrible snaps and crackles and pops going on between all his teeth. He then huffed and hurriedly added, “Ah͚,̂ j̔̂̾u͖̼͍s̗̆t̞̤̐ s͞ơ͒̚ th̝i̚n̞̂ͥgs̨ a̷͋r͞ẹn'̄t̐͆̓ s̀͋o̺ͬ͝ d̸̏͘aͮm̯ͪn̡̗ͩ a̕wk̩̘̗w͍a̮̎̉rd̶̟ͥ to̸̹ͯni͌g̈h̞̊͠t̅̃.̹ Ca̝͘n̮̊̓'t͇ b̀̎͘eli͌_͛e̵̘̓v̏ͪe͡ yóu̡̱ t̪ͨhi̊̿nk I͕'ͭM̎ g̜o͕͝ṅͨ̿n̳̺ͭḁ̰ d̰̏o͚ all t̊hͤē̵̬ co̙ͩn̎vérsá͉̄t̷ì̝oͩn̎ͫͬ-̈c̙̜͟a̱ŗry̑͛į̑͒nͪͦg̣̽ h̗̽e͢rͤ̇e.̘”

“Right, right. How dare I,” Cruz chuckled softly, knowingly. It was just nice to know that even abominations beyond comprehension appreciated music.

He hardly even felt the violin’s weight against his collarbone as he started pulling the bow back and forth, back and forth. Once he found the right rhythm, he settled on “Mx. Sinister.” He still couldn’t believe it’d taken so damn long for him to discover IDKHOW, let alone all the covers of their songs. It was hard to download stuff onto his trusty mp3 player, but that was the price to pay for having a device that couldn’t be tracked. 

Cruz began absent-mindedly pacing the floor, swaying in time with his notes. Macaroon watched curiously, pawing at the air and trilling to the tune, the pitch of his meows a bit all over the place. 

Plier made for a mostly courteous audience. He listened to the beginning, then hummed along as he sucked the marrow from glistening bones at the bottom of the bowl.

He even murmured the lyrics of the last chorus in his hideous native tongue. . .at least, until he cut himself off with a loud gasp. A subsequent thump called from outside the door, rattling on much longer than it probably should have. 

The music came to an unsteady halt as Cruz froze, his eyes snapping back open.

“What? What is it?” 

“S̙͞h͡ù̆̚t̲̊ͧ u͍p̩!̹͇” Plier snapped, his voice suddenly so much more hollow than Cruz had ever heard before. “I n͈̪̓e͋ed to̷̞ c̜̗o̠͇̿n̩̿͋c̰e͊n̳̆t̻ͨr̝aͥͩ͢t̟ͩe!̹̲̓”

The air itself quivered and went numb; any sort of heat or coolness was drained right out of it before Cruz could even register the change. A vein tried to burst somewhere under the skin of his face, but years of adjustment pushed that natural response aside. 

Macaroon’s head jerked up, ears flattening and spikes puffing up as he let out a low, cautious yowl. That made something clammy grip at Cruz’s ribcage.

Obviously Plier’s senses were far more advanced than his own, even with all his practice, but Macaroon was a simpler creature. Yes, he had his own type of monstrous power, but he was still a cat at the bottom of each of his six (or was it seven? Cruz had such a hard time remembering) hearts. If he was picking up on something and responding like that, then it had to be serious.

Cruz approached and sat back down beside Macaroon, carefully stroking his pet’s back. Macaroon’s only response was to lean against him, still shivering as his too-long, too-elastic tail wrapped around his waist. 

It felt like an hour had passed before Plier finally piped up again, his voice now much louder and sharper than before as he seethed.

“Ḧ́̾ E̡ͩ '̓̚ Š͑͡  B A C Kͥ̚ .ͦ”

Cruz swallowed a lump in his throat, hesitating before he wondered aloud, “. . .Who?”

Instead of an answer, he got to watch the pool of color-drained blood blink out of existence, no stench or stains or anything left behind. Not even the spots on the ceiling remained. 

“Pǎ͈̩cͦk ỳ̳̍o̢̎ū̩͢r͕ͧ̑ t͕̑ͦhi̵͆ń̛̥g̤͓̓s̶̗͢,̨̲ͮ” Plier demanded. A cacophony of scraping and scuttling pounded at the walls around him in the hallway outside. “Y̘̑͘ȯ̹̹ŭ͕'̇͠r̴e̋ mo̕͢vͧiṇ̸̿g̳ͭ̔ ou̘t. Rͯĩ̪ǵhͣ̃̀t̝ͬͅ no̻̞̿w̆.”

Cruz fidgeted in place, a shiver racing up his spine. While he was no stranger to home-hopping—you could never afford to truly settle down and get attached to a place when you did the stuff he did—there was something in Plier’s tone that he didn’t recognize. And, as open to change as he was, he did not like it. Not one bit.

“But. . .wait, hold on—”

The air around him rippled again, and his lungs suddenly felt like they were melting from the inside. Cruz shook his head, grinding his jaw as he steadied himself. 

“I̸̔ s̑a͜i͍͌͛d,̲̐̃ S̪̾H̸UT̸̘ͪ U̖̽͑P̬ͪ,͈̲” Plier hissed. “T̘h̼̪eŗ̼̌eͯ̑'ͣs̢͚͊ nͭͭ̍o t̵̢̛i͌m̗e̩ͫ̓ t̹o éͪxͬ̃͋p̸͓̓lͦ͜a̢̗͑in̤̎͠, a͒nd̝̖ͥ ḙ̥ͩven̥ if̄ t͟h́̎͌er̸̨͊e̽ w̠̎͑ä̼̟s, I̞ w͓̞ǒ͌̇u͌_̡l_̵ͩd̼̹n't̩̱́ h̵͙a̷̬v͚̚e tͭo̚.̯ Yȍͧ͡u'̒ḻ̐l̪̄͝ f̷̌ö̫́̈́l̰͓l͛͛o̹̰ͩw̒ a̓̀̚lo̎n̖g̝̞ ḁ͇ͤn̲͂dͨ k͒̿̕eè̩ͬp͚ ȕp wį̪t͕̙h ṁe.̖̓ Ğot͔͊̿ i̅t?”

Cruz nodded, and the melting sensation vanished from his chest. 

“Gọ̑o̤͟ḋ̫͟.̛̱͌ No̴̰ͤw, y̶̡o̩̞͊u n̯ȅ͈ed t͙́ͨo͇̒ get͇ o̱ͬ͡u̮t o̴ͮf̑̆̚ h͎eͤͮr͎e A̲̍̃Ṡ̗A͎P̻ͦ.́͊ I alͅr͔e̾ady̡͂̋ hä͘v̪̋ͧe a ne͗w͐ pͣ͝l̡ͭa̸̐̐ce̞ f͍o̢̞ͦr yo̠u̡̖̰ t͂o̫ g͟o̜̜̍.̾ O͋̕n̡ce̥̅ ýo͂ǔͫͬr̤͆̃ car̸ͨ ì͎͞s̏̓ lo͉a̴͗͌d̆̀e̢͓͜d̗ͬ u̞p,̮͒ I̶̱'ͬ̓ͬl̽͆̚l ğ͇̀ui̺̤d̉̃e you th̩́̿e̴̫ͤrḙ.̫̙”

Unlike many times before this, there was no snark or unconventional chipperness to be found on Cruz’s end. He was quiet and efficient, fishing spare boxes from his closet and filling them up with everything in his collection. 

All the old books with yellowed pages bound in slowly-decaying leather, all the various artifacts he’d managed to buy on the Dark Web that reeked of old blood or curses or pieces of stubborn spirits. It didn’t take long before the trunk of his car was full. The bare essentials—his mask, his robe, toiletries, etc.—were quickly crammed into his leather messenger bag, which soon found its place in the backseat.

The driver’s side door was halfway open when Cruz froze, sentimental panic wracking his stomach. Cruel irony, like the absolute bitch she was, struck. Something important was missing, and for the life of him, he couldn’t remember where he’d put it even though he’d been holding it just a few minutes ago!

Cruz was just about to turn on his heel, to rush back into the house and tear it apart from the inside out. . .when a muffled yip rang in his ears. He glanced back at his car to find Macaroon sitting in the passenger seat, the well-worn fabric handle of a violin case between his jagged teeth. 

Cruz just about collapsed right there, a helpless laugh leaking through his lips as he got in and buckled up. 

“Thanks, buddy,” he said, reaching over to tuck the case back with his other bag. “You’re a real lifesaver.”

Macaroon rolled his shoulders, raised a paw to preen at his ears with a very smug air as if to say, Damn right I am.

And with that, he was off, making sure to keep his headlights out as he left his latest burner-house behind. Macaroon rose up on his hind legs, bracing his paws against the window to watch the world pass by. 

True to his word, Plier’s voice was in Cruz’s head the entire time, nearly palpable as a tumor as he gave directions. 

Hours came and went, but Cruz never felt tired. He’d grown accustomed to a more nocturnal schedule anyway, but right here, right now, it felt like volts of electricity were thrumming in his blood. He just kept driving, kept following instructions, kept telling himself that things would (hopefully) make sense again sooner or later. 

The stars were still glinting when Cruz blinked and found himself pulling into a parking lot. If not for the distinct lack of bars or casinos nearby, he would’ve assumed he’d driven all the way to Las Vegas.

The building now in front of him was enormous, decorated with patterns of blinking lights. They all gave off a red-tinged glow; some were darker—like rusted metal lying just beyond a campfire. Others, meanwhile, were a much brighter, pale-yet-warm…fleshy hue—almost reminiscent of how a flashlight’s beam could still manage to shine through your skin if you pressed it hard against your palm. 

Large posters adorned the outer walls, set in metallic frames and too far away for Cruz to make out any details in the pictures. Plus, they were all so glossy that the various shades of red illumination from above glared against them.

“Ȧ̜a̷͍̎a̱̾͞aằ̖à͇̥a͠n͙ͤͩd͓ h̍͠ẽ̱͐reͣ wͫ̚e a̵̐͟r̯̦e͈!͊” Plier crowed. “Tr͕̳̉y͉̣̘ n̵̘ͭo̬͑ͅtͯ t̮̬͈ó t̖͔ä́͞k̘̚é̷̤ i̘͠tͫ a̟ͮ̕l̼l̛͚̔ in̠͇ at̖͎̽ õ̩n̍c̖͢e̴̵̛.” His voice was still comparable to molten lead as it poured into Cruz’s mind, but it was a little more calm than earlier, so he took this as a good omen.

“Where’s here?” Cruz asked, squinting. 

At the very front and foremost spot on the roof, glaring down at everything, was a sign outlined by glowing wires and cables. They all worked together to form the shape of a sphere—no, a planet. A crater-lined planet that shone with a pinkish-white color as it hung over a body of scarlet water. 

Cruz immediately thought back to all the times he’d gotten a chance to stroll along a beach during sunset, to watch the moon slowly rise out of the horizon and climb its way into the sky. 

But as he kept looking, he realized that the sign was not depicting something so simple and natural. The likeness of that planet wasn’t just floating and casting its reflection against that crimson ocean. Rather, it was actually sitting in the glowing water—no, not water. 

Blood, a voice in Cruz’s head insisted. It was just too red to be depicting water, and too dark to be depicting wine or anything somewhat less sinister.

In fact, the crimson waves seemed to be in the middle of wrapping around the planet, trying to pull it under, staining all its craters so much that they resembled open wounds. 

Underneath the huge picture, deep scarlet words set in a sleek, intriguing font: THE DROWNED MOON

Just below the name, slightly smaller: Horror/Thriller Cinema

And lower than that, another luminous sign stood to the left of what had to be the entrance: COME AND WATCH WHEN SLEEP IS HIDING FROM YOU

And on the right, another greeting(?): CONSUME AND DREAM WHERE THEY CAN’T FIND YOU

“T̩̄h̞̔͢e mͯa̫î̥̈n pͬar̦t̳ o͘f͕͎̿ mŷ te̸̚ṟ̆r̖̚i̘̪t͉ͥ̎o͚r͈y̡͛ o̲̜̐n͛̚ È̷̤arͥt̤h,̨̮̏” Plier explained, pride boiling. “Ȉ̮t̕ u͞sͧ̔͜éd͙̯̂ to b̜eͣ ḁ̳͞ t͊̑h̻eateŕ̘̹ t͍̉͝h̖̬at̊͒ s̨pecif̗ͨ̎i̠c̸̾a͟l̝ͤl͌y̤ s̍̓ͯho̮͚̓w̟̅e̐d͛ͧ́ à̛̺l͖ͧl̉̚ s̛͙or̸͇̉t̛s͔̍͠ o͑f̤ͪ c͇u̚ḽ̈́̈́tͨ c̣͓̑l͉ͧasͅsi͚̜ͤc͐ͪs̳̐͊,̴̐ p̖ͭ͠lu̵̗s ťͥh̛ͫę̢͝ ẅ͆͞ĕ͉͐írd̙͂͗ u̩p-̢ͪa̠͍͙n̶̗d͆ͩͦ-͉̓ͤco̦̘m̈́i̓nͨͨg̃́͞ f͕_̈il̮̹mͧ p̎ͤ͞ro̧j͎̟̣e͘c̲t͖͕ͥs͢ ṭ͔̽ȟ͡a̟͙͜t͌ th̛ͦ̈ë̵́͌ l͍̙̈a̍r̃gͯ͢͝ĕ͝ṙ̢̇ c͜ȯm̛͎paͧn̷̢i͎̦ͯe̕s̼ a̦r̵͓͢e to̻ỏ̱͇ b̆it̅c͊̏̀h̖ͬy̵̮ t̳͢ơͮ͗ ac͞c̥̉ep̫̉̂t͜.”

Cruise nodded, humming. “And ever since you got your hands on it?”

A shrug was evident in the monster’s tone. “O͛̏h̨ͯ,͋ it̸̲̐'̹s b͑̔͠a͚̽s̸͛ic̲̚a̦ͭ̐ll̤͗y̌̿ t̤h̸́ḛ̠ sa͆͑ḿ̙̹e̺ͧͪ t̛̑͞hin̑g̶.̲̖ I̚ jù͈s͞t̰̰ maͬ͂͠d͙͌͡è͉ á͘ͅ fe͈̣w.ͪ .̼͌̓ .̒s̷ͥ͒p̫͠e̜c̰͈̑i͙̥a̗l re̿_nnov̸̰̆a̷͕t̳̑̀io̡nͨs,͉ ĺ̡et'ͨs̡̎̾ s̵̏a̷͈̐y.̼”

A sinister chuckle slithered around Cruz’s skull.

As soon as Cruz parked, the glass doors at the front swung open. A small group of people filed out, walking with a stiff-jointed gait. 

Acting on instinct, Cruz tightened his grip around the steering wheel, but Plier only laughed again. 

“R̰̥͊ȇ̎l̷ȃ̖̖x̗.̢̤ͧ T͍̂h̎͠i̲ͬ̑s pͫ̃͡l̙̥̘a̱c̓ĕ̆ d̺̉͡o̍ͪu̴̧͔b̬̊͐l̏é͗̔s a̢̖͗s̀ a̵̯̞ hò̏l̛dḯ͇̃ng̘ pͫ͞ȩ͟n f̖̓͞ǫ̵̪r͌ s̩̼̎ome o̤͐͊f̷͉̚ m͇̲͕y̮̓̓ ṭ̉͂h͈ral̑lͬ̎͑s͔ͪ̀. T̘h͔ͨ̇ĕ̏͡y c͑a̛̗͛n'̗t h̳urt y̦͞o̳ͅu u̶ͥ͌n̛̐le̙̐s̼̽́s͉ I̪ t̥̿e͂͟lḽ̄͒ t̝h͒͡eͯm_ ṫ̼̅ọ̬_,̼ͤ ạͪň̒d y͋o͑u͇'ͨ͘r̐e͙͎ s͌t̡̀̆i̶͐͢lͫl͝ to͔̍̕o̷̜ͥ uͦͥș̇͠e͔f̒ul fo͕̰͈rͪ an̷̢̚y̷t̿ḧ̖̽i̜̜n̲͎g l̅͗ike̝͆ th͜_à̵̝t͖̏.̯̫”

Cruz pursed his lips and offered a half-nod. Even if Plier always insisted on mixing potential threats and potential promises together, it was still nice to know that, by process of elimination, he still didn’t (completely) consider Cruz a puppet who needed an internal lobotomy in order to work. 

Cruz hopped out of the car. Macaroon followed suite, quickly growing to the size of a large dog. He stayed by his owner’s side, tail slowly lashing and shoulders arched in a protective warning. 

The thralls barely even seemed to notice; their eyes still blinked and moved and saw, but whatever was behind them had been dead for a long time. The wide, unmoving smiles on their faces didn’t do them any favors. One of them popped Cruz's trunk, allowing the others to each take a box and wander back into the building. 

Cruz hummed, taking his messenger bag and sliding it over his shoulder. Keeping a gentle hand on Macaroon’s head, he trekked along behind them, approaching the now wide-open doors. For all the glow and glam on the outside, it looked like there were only a few flickering lights on further inside. 

“Y͐̿òu͖ l̛͈ỉ̤̂ve͎ h͛e̻ře͈ͣͅ n̬ͦǫ̽w,” Plier declared. “Y̜̮o͍͖u̴̻ cͬǎ̛̹n̤ͤ sͧt̘͆ȉ_l̺͟ĺ̿ f͎͋ind̫ d͈ͥ̉eĉ̷o̔yͤ p̛ͩ͝lͣaͣͦ͞c̽̒e͛̽͝s̤ͥ̂ f̪̰ͅor̿ ce͎̚r͛ṭͬ̏ai̯ͪn r̙͞it̎u͍͙̓al̮_̈ş if y͗́͡o̬͒u_͌ l̢i̗̦ke,̐ bu̙ͩ͞tͯ t̵͊̍h̸͐̕i̛̫̊s î̛s p͉ͥͣe̓̇ͅȓ́̕m̤e͉͞n̮͛ā̱̄nt̒ͬ.͗͢ I͉̋f͝ y͙͋ò͈u'rͯe̪ ģo͟ͅnn͠a̤͐ w͚ͤͣơr̶͎k͆ ḟ̯ǫ͕r̢͜ me̡͉̘,̠ t͇͡h͢en̴̤̿ y͑͝o̟u͡ m̝͓i̛ģ̴̈́h_̾t̙ ás̆ weͪll be͚ a l̪̕itͣ̓t̘͈͎l̫ḛ̵̡ c̎lo̗͆͟s͗̄ͅe̤̥r. Fͅor͊ m̼o̟ṟ̛̙à͖̩l̂éͤ.͚”

Cruz stopped in his tracks, his heartbeat suddenly thundering in his ears. “. . .Really? You mean it?”

“I̾͆ m͙e̒a͐n iͭ́t̝̝.” Plier’s voice was suddenly softer than silk, having tapered down to a whisper. His smile was evident: malevolent yet, somehow, genuine. “Y̾o͡u̢͐'̮̽r̢e̖͍̽ ǹͩ͐o̴t͠ q̛ũi͇͐t͜e̼ͮ r̷̭̐e͂̏͜ady͇̗̕ f̝orͪ t̉he ne͇x͖̦́t̥̄ͅ st̝ͩe̜̼̖p̷̧̀s,̧̢ b͐ut̛̯̃ y̔̎̕o̡ͣ̒ŭͤ̉'̖͉ͬr̅e gé͚́tti̘̣̠n̗̊g̣̫͠ t͐h̝̄͠e͞r̼͇e.̺ͤ́ It̷͕ͮ'̩ͥs̙ o̠nly̵̅ a m͊at̼̅ẗ̡́e̪͐ȑ̬̣ ǫ͔̞f t͚ͧi̵̅͐m͛e.͂_”

Cruz’s eyes wandered up to the full moon. For the next couple minutes, all he could do was stare at it. In fact, the longer he did, the more its cold, pale glow seemed to shift, just barely lifting a veil to reveal. . .something else. The illusion was gone in an instant, but Cruz could’ve sworn he’d seen veins, seen an iris, seen a pupil. . .

“Thank you,” he breathed, his lips stretching into a new, excited, hopeful grin. “You won’t regret it.” 

“Y͡eą̢͝h̤̀,͚ w̨͔ẽl͈͐l, y̸̻͒ou'ḓ͊͐ b͐́et̸tẻrͪ n̽ot m̗áͬͧk̦͉̰e͟ me̼̿,̣” Plier snorted. “Ñ̦_o̽̈́ͣw̿ hu̸͔r̯ry u̧̫p and̎ g̩ͮe͇ͥţ ì̤͠n̸ͧs̺̔̂i̭de͍̞̍.ͯ́̚ W͚͛ë͔̹́'v͙̎̀e st̼̄īl̨̑l̜̉ got́̚ s̥̬̈́om̫e͈̤ͧ w̨͍͖o̢rk̅ͥ͘ to̻͕͘ dͬ̒͂o̶.́”

“Yes, of course.” Cruz quickened his pace.

As he took the first steps into his new home, all the anxious joy buzzing through his head dredged up something else. 

“Hey—” Cruz blurted. “It looks like there’s a little more breathing room than earlier.” 

That seemed to catch Plier a bit off-guard. “Ú͉̻h. . .̵̮̑Ȋ͖̹ g̜ͭue̦ss t̠̙ͬh͗e̜͙̓r̞̹ͯe i̟s̻̈́.̖ Ẇ̧̇hy?͉̺”

“Well, can you tell me anything about what happened now?” Cruz inquired. “You said that someone was back. So. . .who are they, exactly? How do you know?” 

“O͕ͣh̲͡. R̫i̼g͍̋̾hͨ͜t͡.̡̯͘ H̒ I͐̑ M̴͒ .” Plier seemed to growl deep in his throat, aggravation sparking into a flash-boil. “T̅͟h̳a̵̓ͪnk͙̋s,ͯͫ y̩̅̀o͜u ĵ͢ủ͓̂st̶̹̘ H̾A̭D to_ ru̥in my̶͈ mo̩͊̌o̦̿d̢̛͒ a̺̪l͕͍͟l̢̓ o͘v̪ͭeṙ̻ äg̺ą̎ī̯̃n.̖̀̾”

Cruz held up his hands in a defensive lame gesture. “Hey, it’s only a question. I just feel like I’m owed some explanation after all the rush, don’t you think?”

“Ma̞ͤy̒b͝e,̪̙̍ ma͔̫͝y̋b͜è no͆ͅ_t̟͓,ͧ̃” Plier snipped, his cryptic nature watered down by how obvious it was that he was now sulking. “L̗ͅo͓õ̹k͎̿͋,̈ t̢ͨh̨a̫͎̕t̞̦ͤ'̖̱s̑ a̻̽ͨ w͜h̤̠ͤol̝͖ë̢-͖̔a͞ss s̥t̂̓̆or̻͎͗y̴͝ fͦ̚or̍̂ a͐n͘otͭ̔h̶̫̙e̹ͩ̚r͊ d̩̓͘a͑y͕͡. Ri̭͖g̥ͨh̬t͉͉ ň̠͡o̮w̸̹͝,͖̠͝ ả̵̏ll͖̱̾ ÿ́̍̇ò̮̾ư̼̇ n̳̣e͎̘̐ȩd͎̞̓ t̷̓o̎ k̥̺̀n̼o͂ͅw is̽ th͋͞at͛ an old ri̻͞v͖̾à̢͈l̶̈́ o̱̕fͦ̎ ṃ̣͜iń̰e i̘s̓ A͑P̞̂̔PͬḀͧͅR̶̤͊E̶̵N̯͆̓TL̬̻ͪY̶͇ͦ o̤̰̊u̳ͮt̿ o̵f h̍̓ib̆e̝ͧͫȓ̑͆n͎aͩͤt̿̕io̒n̡.̧ͨ”

He paused as though wondering if this rival in question could hear him. Cruz sympathized, since there was a decent chance that really was the case. 

“Ạn̵̘͓d̓̊ a̒l͍ͬ͟s̲̀̌o̬͚͎ t̸ͤha̩̳͑t HͮEͮ̇̕ C̎A̝͇͊N̪̿͡ S̗͋ͧÚ̢C̮ͮK A̺ͨ VHOC̪̐T͎ͬ͜Ȍ E̞͓̿G̽͂Ġ̥ͨ!̷̸͟”  Plier added, raising his voice enough to make ancient church bells crack. “A̭̮͔ W̹ͪHÔ̸͙L̦̥E CL̡̻U̢̞͛T̅ͨĆ́H̙ͣ O͖̿̐F̰ͨ '͐ĘM̦̼̺,ͥͦ Ș̸͖O̚ Ḭ̗̼ C̨A̪͇Nͭ W̯͐ͦA̛͎̫T̋ͭͥCͦH̱͠ H͚̯IMͪ T͈R̙͞ͅỲ͈̐ T͐O Ṟ̷ͦU̮̙̺N H̷̛͔IS̈ M͌ͫO͇ͣU̘͗TH̘͜ WĨT͜H͟ H̯̏͠I͓S̞̀̆ B̡͌UĻ̓͂L̤̃S̀͗H̤Į̛̺T̳ P̮Ŗͯ̊O̷P̦̋̚HͭE_C̗͎IES W̄̿͞H̞͟E̝̣͘N͡ T͕Ḫ̌E̤̎ S̸͝H̴͉̳E̠͓͑L͇͚͜L͜S M̭͇͍AKE H̴̝̪I̜̮̊Ş̑ TƠ̭͝N̒̚G̤̋͟UÈ͓̙S̗̏ ŚHR̴I̙ͪVE̥̓Lͤ́ U̔̀P̑̆!̤”

“. . .Well, alright then,” Cruz murmured, now digging through his pockets in search of his mp3 player.

___

As adaptable as they always tried to be, Sam Ryder was not in the best mood right now. 

To be completely fair, not many people would be too thrilled at having to track energy signals, drive day-and-night to some middle-of-nowhere desert, sneak into a motel at the heart of some rest-stop town and lockpick their way into a specific room only to hide out in the darkness of its little lavatory and wait for what felt like FOREVER for the occupants to return. 

Ah, yes. Just another questionable charm of the industry built on stealth and secrets that most people were probably better off not knowing. 

Sam shifted from side-to-side, muscles tense, bored and impatient from having to be so still and so quiet. But this current, last-minute mission was important.

If those energy spikes the team back home had picked up were anything to go by. . .if there was even the slightest possibility that something out here was related to the Rift—

The door swung open.

The room’s main light clicked to life.

Two figures trudged inside, their movements exhausted yet shaky. 

Sam held her breath as the duo passed by without even glancing in her direction. She could hear them shuffling around the room, hear something heavy and solid being dragged along the floor, then lifted up and plunked onto a mattress. 

She set her jaw, cracked her knuckles as quietly as possible, and then waltzed out like she owned the place. There were a precious few more seconds for her to study the duo, as they both still had their backs to her. 

That changed the very millisecond she cleared her throat.

“Professor Jenkins—” she greeted, looking at the one with raven hair that nearly tickled his shoulders and features that seemed to point to some kind of Asian background. 

She glanced at his companion, a brunette man with fair skin and warm eyes that quickly grew to the size of dinner plates. “ —and Doctor James, I presume?” 

Part of her had expected a scream or two, but the most they were given were strangled gasps, as well as flinches so bad that her own stomach almost started churning with that cold, infamous type of shock.

“H-How. . .how do you know—?” Dr. James asked, stammering badly as he held up his hands and backed away, clearly trying to put something, anything between him and this surprise guest. 

“What, you think cable is dead or something?” Sam rolled her eyes. “Your reputations proceed you, and all that jazz.” Indeed they did. While she honestly preferred YouTube for entertainment these days, she could remember catching a few news stories about ancient tombs being explored, as well as at least three new species of dinosaur being discovered. 

All accompanied by respective photos of the men who stood before her. 

“Who are you? How did you get in here?” Prof. Jenkins demanded, quickly moving to stand beside his companion. 

“That’s not important right now. Don’t try anything stupid, and you might get a little information for your trouble.” Sam took a few steps forward, making sure the authority was clear as crystal. “I have some questions of my own for both of you, actually. And you’re going to answer them. Honestly. One way or another.”

The two archeology buffs exchanged concerned glances. Prof. Jenkins’ brow furrowed, but confusion shifted into understanding at breakneck speed. The same went for Dr. James, though he started shaking again, mouth opening and closing with no words coming out. 

That made Sam pause. Now that she could finally see their faces, it was clear how they’d both been wracked with fear long before she’d surprised them. 

They’d both already seen something. 

Something very, very bad.

Sam couldn’t help but cringe at herself. This had to be handled carefully.

You caught more flies with honey than vinegar, after all.

(Even though she’d definitely laughed very hard at sentiments like that more than once in the past.)

“Listen, I’m not looking for any trouble. I’ve just here because I got word that whatever is underneath this area might be extremely dangerous. And, unfortunately, it seems you guys have gotten way too close to it,” she reiterated with a sigh. “I can tell that something big happened around here today, but that’s just it. For the sake of my work, I need to learn more.”

As they listened, the duo seemed to ever-so-slightly calm down. Their adrenaline and fear was still very obvious, but it looked like they were at least considering trusting her now.

Sam spotted a desk near the corner of the room. She slowly approached and settled down onto the swivel chair set before it. She motioned for her two new conversation buddies to take their own seats. “As long as you cooperate, nothing bad will happen. I promise.”

Another moment of painfully awkward silence dragged by. But just as Sam was about to add a little more force to their elevator pitch, Prof. Jenkins heaved a sigh.

“It’s a bit fucking late for that,” he announced, hesitantly crossing the room and sitting down on the corner of the other bed; that must’ve been the one he’d claimed after check-in time.

Dr. James’ face kept twisting with stress and anxiety, but he, too, eventually took a seat on his own mattress. “Not sure how things could get any worse,” he agreed, reaching up to knead at his forehead, his hand still trembling a bit.

“Nice job tempting fate,” Sam said with a mirthless chuckle. She glanced between them. “So. What’s apparently worse than anything right now?” 

“. . .We’re not entirely sure ourselves.” Prof. Jenkins fidgeted in place. “There’s a few underground cave systems just half-an-hour away. The only reason we came out here was to check one of them for fossils, or gems, that kind of stuff. We—we didn’t mean any harm.” He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I’ve seen shit that would turn anyone white, but. . .he was something else.”

Sam blinked, brow furrowing in confusion. That certainly didn’t sound like anything to do with the Rift, but they’d been wrong before. “I’m sorry, ‘he?’ You’re saying you found a person in one of those caves?”

“Not a person,” Dr. James argued, fear quickly spilling onto his features all over again. “A monster! A goddamn monster! O-or a demon, or a spirit, I have no idea. But whatever he was, he was not human! And now he’s somewhere out there and no-one else can go into that place and it’s all our fault!” 

He curled in on himself heaving a combination of sob and sigh. “So many teeth and eyes and moving skin. . !”

Prof. Jenkins was back by his side in an instant, grabbing one of the paleontologist’s shoulders to help him stay steady.

Sam, meanwhile, felt their heart sink. While they were now at least eighty-five-percent sure that the team didn’t have to worry about the Rift. . .it looked like different-yet-just-as-horrible option was on the table.

After a long few seconds, Dr. James straightened his back again, though his eyes were still so full of pain and panic. “I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just been such an awful day. One traumatizing thing after another.”

Sam nodded, a generous dose of empathy worming its way into her features. “Well, that’s a good summary, but it’s still not quite enough.” She sighed again, then leaned back in the chair. “Start from the beginning, please.”

@sammys-magical-au @inkbedou @mostlyghostly42 @safe-hayven @sunny011387 @heichoublack @m0naca @beomjunniz

[thelove-art]

"Sun Kissed" art by Love!

Support me here

First kiss of the new year. Get over here *smooches*

Ok. We've kissed it better. Fuck the old year. The new year will be better.

There is so much I wish I could say to you. But I'm restraining myself. I'm working hard over here. Got into therapy. Working on getting meds again.

The last 7 months have been a lot. I think it's been hard on everyone. But holy cow.

I posted and deleted a suicide note 5 times in the last 7 months. Been spending a lot of time in the graveyard next door talking to ghosts.

Things are gonna work out. Keep moving. Run when you can run. Crawl when you can't move anymore. Because and let this be my pact with everyone who finds this and everyone that doesn't. I'm going to keep moving until I'm a bleeding stump. I've crawled out of hell over and over again. I've ran in rain begging the Morrigan to fucking kill me or give me something to live for. And honestly neither happened. But I made a choice. I want to see what's next. I want it to get better. But even if it gets worse, it's gonna have to kill me. Because I'm not stopping. My willpower is all I have left. And it's basically a superpower.

So let me share it with you all. Take this stainless steel will power of the broken hopeless insane fool. Take the will of this monster that everyone gave up on. I share this with you. DONT FUCKING STOP. DONT LET ANYONE OR ANYTHING TAKE THIS FROM YOU.

This is my gift. The Kiss of the Sun

[thesovietonion77]

new tgo perdere lore drop and ranting abt my lil sis and the depths of her brain

also addressing this rq

i do not ship Eclin, but my little sister kinda does a little bit 😭😭 and shes the one who came up with the ideas for our fanfiction (the grand occult). she says she absolutely does not ship it romantically and i have heard her muttering in her sleep her little dialogue bits she does with her voice acting and it went a little smth like this(pretty sure this was in an episode but this sounded much more erm eh)

Eclipse: are you....scared..?~

Ruin: ..s-scared? W-well, you...could say i am a bit, eh, frightened*nervous laugh* by your appearance...erm..you...*noticeably scareder* you.....ec-Eclipse..?

Eclipse: *whispering* Are you...terrified of me..?~

and then she stopped for like two minutes before saying something that sounded so practiced she practically recited it from memory, with ruin and solar's voices on point as always(i stayed awake listening through all of this)

warning, kidnap mention and implied r@pe in the script below!! ⚠️⚠️⚠️

Sol: Ruin..?

Ru: Gh-!....Oh. Hello, Solar.

S: Hey...i, uh, just wanted to...see if you were okay. You know, with Eclipse kidnapping you and all.

R: I know. I was there. And...i'm fine. thank you.

S: ....are- are you sure..?

R: *heavy pause* *like you're boutta cry* ...no. not at all.

s: ...do you want to talk about it?

r: ...i was wondering why...why he would take me, of all people, to that awful place. i know he thinks i'm the one who rebuilt him, but i never knew... he...h-he would...*very shaky exhale*....and as it turns out, i was....i was only there for his.....pleasure. *shaky breath* god, that awful, blood-boiling, selfish prick!...i tried, Solar, i tried...my hardest, to fight back, but....i-i...i wasn't strong enough. i was too weak..to...to stop him. to do anything.

S: *realization suddenly dawns on him* you mean...h-he...? *very quiet gasp* ...OH....OH MY GOD.....Ruin, he...?

R: ...I already know what you think. i'm revolting. the fact i let him do that to me is repugnant.

S: N-no, that isn't at all what i was gonna say!- That- That is entirely not your fault, it's Eclipse's!....oh my god, it's....it's my fault too. Damn it, Moon and i should've been keeping an eye on you, we should have been protecting you in case, oh god, oh god-

R: Solar, it...it makes me feel worse when you're frustrated with yourself, please...

S: We have to tell Moon. Something that'll prove we need to pay more attention, we-

R: N-NO!-...i don't want anybody to know about this. You're not one to think less of somebody based on the things they've been forced to do, but i cannot....i cannot trust that of the others. i dont want them to think down of me, like i'm some...agh, i don't know! please, Solar.

S: But Ruin, telling someone would help you-

R: Solar.

and that was all i heard before she finally went back to sleep- so i asked her abt it the next morning and she said "Oh, that's part of Perdere's backstory now! that's why he hates Eclipses, especially Lord Myrik, because he gives off that vibe and you know why. And also why in the RHau he's terrified of Ardeo."

and so yep. That's Per now. Their Eclipse was a fucking asshole before they got the star, and now he's fucking dead. Also, Per's dimension never had a Bloodmoon (That's why he's so attached to sanguine in a stolitz kinda way)

thanks, my 13 year old sister's brain(?)

[makutamewtwo]

Introduction to Jaala, the strange nature of his birth, his youth, his emerging adulthood, and his first visit to Hell!

Plate 1: Jaala at his current age of 20-something in a certain pose

Aw Heck, um I mean Hell, It's Jaala Leeds! This tricky imp isn't a particularly powerful demon and is about as low on the hierarchy as you can get. He commands no legions and spends most of his time slacking off and pulling low-stake practical jokes, the kind that even the one being pranked can laugh at or that involve some unconvincing plastic junk. Jaala does have one thing that makes him unique among devils: he was born of a human via the unity of two humans, without the involvement of a succubus or incubus. The reason Jaala was born like this seems to have been due to a prophecy. It was said of the ancestors of the Leeds family, who in the late 1700s early 1800s lived in the New Jersey Pine Barrens, that, due to Father Leeds' occult interests, Mother Leeds' 13th child would be a Devil. Now this seemingly did not happen then, but the prophecy must have been in the back of the gods' heads (perhaps Apollo took notice), and therefore it was made so for the next descendent of the Leeds brood who had 13 children the 13th would be born a devil.

Now the modern Ms. Leeds, mother of Jaala, lived in Drollerieville a bustling city mostly ruled by, in the mind of its politicians, conventionality. Ms. Leeds was active in the local LGBTQ+ community and acted as a surrogate mother for the children of many couples, 12 to be exact. You would think going through the pain of childbirth 12 times would be enough for Ms. Leeds but she had not yet had a child with her husband Mr. Leeds, so they unified, and soon enough Ms. Leeds was with child for the 13th time. When the embryo was visible via ultrasound, what most would consider an abnormality was noticeable, the fetus resembled a hybrid between a human and a goat. Any "normal" couple would have been shaken by this, but strangely, despite no awareness of the prophecy, the Leeds couple was as overjoyed and filled with love as any couple seeing their child for the first time.

A few months of gestation later, a fuzzy crimson child was born, a little prematurely, who immediately cried out a wail that sounded more like a bleating baby goat than a human infant. The child drew surprisingly little attention for his strange Satyr-like appearance but had to stay in the hospital for some weeks after his birth, but luckily, he was without any major ailments and was able to go home. Jaala as an infant could be described as clever and loud. His wailing could be heard across the whole neighborhood, and he was able to walk within weeks. It took him awhile to say his first word, which was the standard "Mama" for the curious, and there was a worry that he could only make goat vocalizations; however, there was a sigh of relief when he spoke. As a baby, Jaala did not have horns, nor a point at the end of his tail, his ears were disproportionately large, and he was very fuzzy. Jaala grew fast, but only as fast as a human child, in fact, despite his goat-like exterior, the doctors said that he was, for all intents and purposes, a human, except for his head which was like a combination of a human's and a goat's, and his cloven hooves. When his teeth grew in, however, they were very sharp like a carnivore's, Jaala was already observed to be omnivorous, so this was a little odd and very hard on Ms. Leeds, so she switched to bottle feeding. Eventually Jaala went from a baby, to a toddler, to a kid!

 Jaala's days in Elementary School were difficult, he made some friends but was bullied a lot for his animal-like face. He also had trouble with the teachers as he didn't cotton to their authority that much and also found that he didn't enjoy the curriculum that much either. He liked to read, but by himself and hated math with a burning fiery passion. He also swiftly ended up with a teacher who was Christian though she wasn't supposed to express it. "I know what you are, devil." she would whisper to Jaala at any opportunity. Jaala didn't understand this, he hadn't, before attending school, thought he was that unusual. Sure, he looked and acted a little different than other people, but he still had a human heart. He had never put much mind to religion but had seen The Devil in cartoons, Halloween decorations and books of old folk tales, sure they were both red and The Devil had hooves sometimes like him, but implying these things meant that he was wicked like The Devil was difficult for Jaala who was generally a kind, gentle, and sensitive boy. He came home that evening crying. Jaala's parents were not happy with this unprofessional behavior from someone working with in the school system and got Jaala moved to a class with a nicer teacher. This teacher encouraged Jaala to do what he liked, while still teaching him the subjects he didn't care for, but it was fine. Jaala was learning and that is what mattered.

Eventually Jaala was in Middle School, an awkward time in everyone's life. He started experiencing changes but not just the usual ones, his fingers grew sharp golden talons, his tail gained a sharp bony point, and large horns grew from his head. He filed his talons, tail point, and horns down to avoid any hazard but still had trouble lying on his back and going through narrow doorways. He also started to feel angsty, he loved his parents who had supported him but he started getting mad at them for telling him what to do, he felt like he was being judged by his classmates for his different appearance. He found out about the rebellious figure of Lucifer and immediately related to him. Jaala came to understand something: regardless of if he was a demon or not, the idea of being one was kind of cool! He started vandalizing Church grounds and creeping around them hoping to scare the nuns. These pranks seemed harmless to him, but he was becoming known and loathed by the religious community who were treating him as a scapegoat for all the "problems" they had. When he and his parents found a local religious publication talking about "An Imp of The Devil in Drollerieville" they realized that if the local politicians caught wind of this, Jaala, only a mischievous tween at the time, could have become a political scapegoat for all the local issues. Jaala had to lay low and stop pranking out in the open, instead, he started doing graffiti and minor vandalism under the cover of dark without his parents' knowledge. Having stayed out of the eye of the public, Jaala was able to graduate middle school with few issues.

 Jaala, of course, proceeded to High School, you would expect that, given how High School is often imagined, That Jaala overcame social ostracization and became the prom king and went on to marry that special someone who he met in High School, you would be wrong. Jaala generally laid low in High School, he had found himself to be a bit of an introvert, but he had a few close friends and some pleasant acquaintances, the classes were difficult, but he graduated and was, incidentally, now 18, he decided to chill for a year before seeking higher education. However, what he didn't know was that the Forces of Hell had been observing him, remotely viewing his antics, he wasn't incredible but he was distinctly devilish. Now you might think that this would be a horrible situation and that they were going to tempt him or mark him for death, but you view hell as a human, the demons viewed him as one of them, though he was especially interesting for one reason to the Demons of Hell, his body...no not in THAT way, most demons don't have physical flesh and blood bodies they are merely spirits without physical forms, so Jaala having a flesh and blood body was certainly a novelty. They started projecting themselves into Jaala's dreams which was quite disturbing for him, "We know what you are, devil," these apparitions would say, often times in the form of, people, sometimes even ones he knew, animals, and even his own reflection. The first time Jaala had one of these dreams it didn't shake him, though as these dreams got more intense and frequent Jaala started to be suspicious, these weren't just anxiety dreams, there was more to this, he was being communicated with. This came to a head when his reflection in a false awakening dream breathed onto the mirror and, in the condensation, drew a sigil, a sigil with his name on it, 4 Ankhs surrounding a goat's eye. Jaala didn't understand the relevance of this (he didn't have his Ankh necklace yet, but how he got that is another story) but he understood the assignment. He spent the entire day drawing and redrawing the sigil until he could finally draw it from memory.

Plate 2: Jaala’s Sigil

That night he went out to an alleyway. He was so tense his back felt like it was made of concrete, but he was determined to do what he needed to. He got out a can of spray paint, shook it well and onto a brick wall on the side of an abandoned building he painted the sigil, the smell of spray paint faded into the awful stench of brimstone as a doorway to Hell opened.

With very little hesitation, Jaala held his breath and plunged into the portal, falling on his face on the red clay of Pandæmonium, the employee housing of Hell. His senses were assaulted by cacophonous sounds, horrible stenches, and the foul taste of hellish clay. Jaala succumbed to overstimulation and fainted. He woke up in a comfortable bed in a well-furnished and air-conditioned apartment. He didn't know it, but the devils who had made contact with him had carried him to his room in Pandemonium. Jaala was puzzled and decided to look out the window to see where he was. Millions of demons who were each going about their business, stoking flames, eating, napping, talking, generally going about their day to day. Jaala saw this and felt sympathy for them. They were not all that different from the people of Drollerieville.  Sure, they were spirits of frightening appearance, but they seemed normal enough.

Jaala left his apartment to be greeted with an unbelievably long hallway. Luckily a door marked "stairs" was right in front of his room, so he opened it. Inside it was too dark to see anything. Jaala stepped inside and felt movement under him, it kind of felt like an escalator, soon enough Jaala was greeted by a single light and a door. The door was labeled on a gilded sign "Mammon's office." Hesitating a little bit, Jaala opened the door and was greeted by a businessman-like demon at a desk, smoking an expensive cigar. On his desk a plaque read "Mammon CEO of Pandæmonium Apartments LLC, Archdemon of Greed." Mammon looked like a human businessman at first to Jaala, but then he noticed his face, an upside-down bag with a dollar sign on it covered most of it, and his jaw looked like a skull's jaw but with razor sharp teeth. He seemed to have dollars sticking out of every visible part of his person. He almost reminded Jaala of old political cartoons of "Boss Tweed" that he had seen in High School History class.

"Ahh, you must be that imp that I have heard so much about," Mammon coughed out in between puffs of his cigar. "What is like to have flesh?" Jaala understandably felt threatened by this statement, his face scrunched into a frown, "Oh, forgive me, that wasn't a threat, you're just a rare breed! Would you care for a mint?" Mammon corrected himself and pointed at a bowl of stale, melted together mints.

"Look," Jaala managed to get out, "It's nice here, but I was called here through my dreams, my Beelzebub damn dreams, do you understand what that feels like?" Jaala raised his voice more than he meant to and covered his mouth in embarrassment.

Elsewhere in a deeper part of hell, the peppy and egotistical giant fly, Princess Beelzebub's antenna twitched upward, smacking against her escoffion. "Huh, my Antenna, that’s unusual!" the Princess of Hell exclaimed, "There must have been an invocation to me... I'll get to it later." she said going back to flirting with her many suitors.

Mammon's expression was difficult for Jaala to read, he already wasn't the best at reading expressions and Mammon's eyes were covered by the bag over his head, assuming he had eyes at all. There was a period of awkward silence and Jaala's breathing became heavy and uncomfortable, he worried that he was going to be killed and that, for all he knew, the shortness of breath was caused by some kind of noxious gas that was pouring into the room. In reality he was very anxious, and his breathing was shallow, and the cigar smoke that filled the room certainly wasn't helping either. He and Mammon just stood there staring at each other, until Mammon broke the silence "I'll give you one thing, kid..." he said in a quiet voice "you've got spunk!" Mammon burst out into a genuine, mirthful laugh interspersed with throaty coughs and hacks. He didn't seem to be angry, nor was there any malice in this laugh.

Jaala smiled uncomfortably; his breathing normalized a little bit. "But... uhh..." Jaala stammered out to the Archdemon of Greed, who was in a coughing fit from his laughter "Why have I been guided here, what do you expect of me?" "Ahh, yes, yes, ahem" Mammon cleared his throat, he spit a wad of black bile into a spittoon on his desk, which melted through it and the desk. "Well, to be frank with you, you aren't that evil, but you certainly are, how should I put this... Devilish, do you understand what I mean, Mr. Leeds?"

Jaala was starting to feel more comfortable, Mammon seemingly had no malicious intent for him, despite clearly being an authority, something which Jaala loathed and feared with every fiber of his being, Mammon was speaking to Jaala on his level, Jaala noticed an old plastic chair in front of the desk as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he turned the chair backwards and sat in it facing Mammon, hoping to impress him with a old tactic to look cool that he had learned in his edgy middle school days, "Please, Mr. Leeds is my father, call me Jaala," he said in a manufactured confident and almost smug tone of voice, "Please clarify what you mean by devilish, because I'm not quite sure I understand."

"Well," began Mammon in a clear voice, no doubt the voice he used to speak to investors, "we here at Pandæmonium Apartments LLC cater to all kinds, but we tend to categorize them as 'devils' or 'demons' but this is a broad strokes term, many many kinds of spirits populate Hell and make it the wonderful diverse workplace that it is including, but not limited to, 'daimons', 'shedim', 'gods', 'fallen angels' from everywhere in the hierarchy, 'lilu', 'mazzikin', and even some 'faeries' and 'djinn.' Isn't that wonderful?"

Jaala's head was spinning, he was even more confused, he may have been a demon, but he wasn't a demonologist so most of these terms meant nothing to him and didn't clarify anything. He replied "Uh, yeah!"

Mammon let out another hearty laugh. "Okay, well let me cut to the chase, given your devilish nature, we in Hell have taken notice and, even though you're basically a gristly human of meat and bone, we still consider you one of our own and you may, as you wish, come and go to Hell whenever you like, simply by drawing your sigil."

Despite how honest he seemed, Jaala became suspicious that he was being tricked by the smooth talking but rough voiced Archdemon of Greed. "Wait, wait, you set me up a nice apartment just because I'm a demon? What do you want from me? Do you expect me to torture damned souls? Do you expect me to pay you money? Are you going to claim my soul when I die? I may be a demon and I'm also a human but I'm no fool!"

Mammon took a long drag of his cigar, clearly considering his next words carefully, "I wasn't going to say this because I felt it would sound insulting, but, we expect nothing of you, Jaala Leeds. We don't need your human money as we have our own currency, Beastmarks, we don't need your service as your physical body is too weak to survive the oppressive environment in which the souls of humans are tortured. In addition, we don't think you could psychologically handle it either, and we do not lay any claim to your soul, nor do we ask for it, the fate of your soul is... uncertain." The Archdemon made a gesture with open hands implying balance scales.

Jaala's tension lowered a little, but the statement about the fate of his soul intrigued and frightened him. He decided it would be best not to inquire further about it. "So, I'm allowed to leave whenever I want to?" This whole situation had been emotionally intense for Jaala, and he was ready to head back to his earthly home and take solace in its familiarity.

 "Yes, but allow me to tell you one more thing..." Mammon's tone was suddenly very serious, Jaala picked up on this and listened closely, his floppy ears visibly perked up a little as Mammon spoke "Hell is a very dangerous place for a living being, it's not designed with them in mind. Due to this, you might want to stay near Pandæmonium, It's safer than most places in Hell. It's also important to know that your fellow demons are liars and deceivers, they shouldn't be trusted much, take everything they say with a grain of salt, this even applies to me. Judging by how you acted during this conversation, this shouldn't be much of a problem for you though, will it?" Mammon took a long drag of his cigar and coughed almost to punctuate the statement he had made.

Jaala didn't think that Mammon had noticed his hesitance, but apparently, he had. "So, can I just leave now?" Jaala asked, he felt that he had most of the information he needed.

"Sure, but if you fall on your face, my imps won't be there to pick you up!" Mammon smiled with a surprising amount of warmth for a greedy tyrant, he opened a desk draw and rummaged through it and finally pulled out a pen that was burning with light. "I stole this pen from heaven before I fell, it seems no one missed it!" Mammon tossed the pen to Jaala, who fumbled it in his talons before finally getting a grip on it. "Just make sure you give it back, It's a rare find!" Mammon smiled and, though Jaala couldn't be sure, it was almost like he was winking. Jaala drew his sigil with the pen.

The sigil was drawn in pure light, illuminating the dark room, the walls were fleshy and seemed to be breathing, a sleazy pin up calendar was nailed into it behind Mammon’s desk, staining the nail with blood. Jaala didn't stay long to observe his surroundings, he had seen enough and, frankly, it made him feel viscerally ill. He plunged into the circle and left.

Soon after, Princess Beelzebub appeared in a cloud of blood-sucking flies. Mammon immediately jumped from behind his desk and fell on his face at her feet, "Great art thou, O Princess of Hell!" he cried out, shivering.

"Oh, hi Mammon," Beelzebub cheerily buzzed "did you invoke me, do you need me to let loose a plague of flies on those filthy, filthy humans?"

"No Great Princess, honored be thy name, that will not be necessary, it was not I who invoked your unholy name, it was a guest in my office." Mammon belted out, his voice muffled by the fleshy floor.

"Okay~," Beelzebub sang out, enzymes dripping from her mouth, "then, who was this guest who used my name in vain?"

Mammon choked, he didn't want to reveal Jaala's name to her, but he had no other choice, she already knew it, nothing escapes her she just liked to act playful, "Jaala, great Ba'alah of creeping things." he sputtered out nervously.

"Okay~," she said, "that He-Goat knows not that he shouldn't speak my unholy name in vain, but if YOU invoke me for no reason, I'm going to have to cut off..." Mammon gulped at this pause, knowing all too well what she was going to say next "...your funding~!"

Mammon wept and gnashed his teeth out of agony, though he had been warm in front of the sensitive Jaala, the only thing he truly cared about was money, "Yes, Great Princess Beelzebub" he said through his tears "it won't happen again." Jaala regained consciousness in the same alleyway that he had entered Hell from, it seemed as if no time had passed and it all kind of felt like a weird dream, though a stale mint stuck to his butt suggested that this was more. "Aw, gross," Jaala thought "I knew I should have swept my hand across the chair before sitting in it, that office was a total sty!" He quickly got up and dusted himself off, a lasting odor of brimstone briefly wafting through the air before petering out. Jaala quickly went home and immediately took a long, cold shower, mulling over the events that had taken place as the water dripped off his horns "So Hell is real huh, I wonder what else I thought humanity made up is true," Jaala thought, shampooing his ears.

The filth of Hell washed off his body but was still in his mind as he tried to lay his weary head to rest, but his mind was rushing, and he couldn't sleep due to a combination of excitement and fear. The next morning, he hadn't slept a wink and was trying to decide if he should tell his family. He supposed that maybe Breakfast was a poor time to talk about his amazing voyage to Hell, so he waited until afterwards to tell the amazing story. Jaala's parents were certainly surprised, but not upset, they listened to the story with great interest, they suggested consistently packing burn ointment every time he visited Hell. Jaala had never suffered a burn in his life, but he agreed. Jaala continued to practice traveling between Earth and Hell whenever he desired, he quickly learned that he could use these sigils to appear almost wherever he desired, as long as he had been there before. He quickly imagined the pranking opportunities, just sticking his arm through a sigil could allow him to tap someone on the shoulder, to pants an important politician during an important speech, to invert all the crosses at the craft store all while remaining unseen... then he considered that any of these would have the issue of the appearance of a clawed hand emerging from a Hell portal to do the prank which would probably make waves, so this flight of fancy quickly faded from his mind.

He did, however, learn to master the art of travel by sigil in a few years, Jaala was now 20-something. He had saved a fortune on bus fares and hadn't yet learned how to drive because he had become so adept at subtle travel via Hell. He manifested himself in subtle places to get where he needed to go without the Hell portal startling fellow citizens. He would manifest unsubtly and theatrically at parties sometimes, and even set fancy cocktails alight with Hellfire, though those who drank them complained of a revoltingly pungent aftertaste and tended to practice temperance from then on, still, certainly a neat party trick. He started to keep his horns, tail point, and talons sharp as he had learned how not to injure others with them. Jaala would learn about others like him, other "monsters" and supernatural beings. The idea made him giddy, he had rarely been lonely, but he was truly not alone, other people like him existed! He knew for certain, even though he still lived a somewhat normal life, the world (or even worlds) seemed much bigger to him, and he knew that this wouldn't be his last adventure!

[scholarofgloom]

A Great New Story

I've been a little inactive lately, but I have been writing what I sincerely believe is an excellent short story: Elements of gothic, dark academia, mystery, noir, occult fiction, coming-of-age, family drama, some LGBTQ themes and touches of my dark sense of humor, with a major twist ending, interconnected characters and, I assure you, very carefully research going into the writing. This is the blog on which I will upload it:

@newnoirstories on Tumblr

The story is set in 1970's Boston, with a private detective who specializes in antiques forgeries and thefts, while living a placid family life in the suburbs, getting embroiled in a mystery of dark secrets, haunted pasts and occultism entirely unfamiliar to the tranquil life he knew.

By today's standards, the writing style itself may seem a bit formal and old-fashioned, because those are my influences, but that fits with the gothic and dark academic elements.

Here is the proposal: I do not know the first thing about finding illustrators, and here I am, totally unknown. If you are someone who makes illustrations with dark, complex themes, then please illustrate my story.

If we monetize it, at which I would be a total novice, the money is all yours: I just want to get a pseudonym like "newnoirstories" out there, a little name recognition, and then maybe I can monetize works for myself, or in a partnership, or whatever works, but money or no, I am just asking for illustrations for one short story, no implication that you have to have anything to do with me after that.

I am in no hurry. If you decide to illustrate it, do it whenever inspiration strikes, a little at a time, if you like.

Also, if you don't feel like illustrating my story, I would be most appreciative if you could introduce me to friends who might be more interested.

The story is on "newnoirstories" blog and you can combine your pictures (they can be any kind- drawings, paint, digital art- whatever works for you) with my story however you like.

I absolutely promise that I will NOT use your illustrations for anything but this one story, entitled "Ars Oculus" (Eye Art/Visual Art). The essential themes are tagged below, along with applicable content warnings.

Now I shall resume the regularly scheduled gloom.

[charmfamily]

(SEMI) CHARMED KIND of LIFE EPISODE 0: PILOT, PART IX

[simsandstrawberries]

𝑨𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑾𝒂𝒚 𝑫𝒐𝒘𝒏~

Prologue Pt. 1

>>

[the-moon-sys]

Religious and Spiritual Affiliations

Oh boy here we go.

CW: Religion (Buddhism, Christianity and their branches, Witchcraft/Paganism/Occultism), mentions of religious trauma, swearing

We all have extremely different opinions on religion and varying degrees of openness to discussions of it. Below will be detailing our religions, spiritualities, sensitivity towards the subject, and any other details related to but do not fit neatly into the above 3. Alters not mentioned either chose to keep these details private, has not shared them with me, or do not have anything to share. Please keep in mind this post is talking about our strong opinions and triggers. The goal is not (and never will be) to insult someone's belief system. Sensitivities are due to religious trauma, not the religion itself.

Alex

Buddhist, Pagan/Wiccan, Witch, holds the majority of religious trauma, extremely uncomfortable with and triggered by Abrahamic religions (particularly Christianity)

Lib

Methodist Christian, has a private church in his library/house

Logan

Non-denominational Christian, will join Lib for services and prayer

Oliver

Pagan/Occultist, Hedge Witch, beliefs are rather Lovecraftian: multiple gods that humans are incapable of comprehending, self described "Arcanist"

Molotov

Strict deist, also holds some amount of religious trauma? possibly?, is not (and likely will never be) open to any religious commentary, "if there is a God, he's a dick and left us a long fucking time ago"

[dreams-of-verbena]

Hmmm......

[mercurianchild]

hey love! what does a Plutonian chart look like? i'm not sure if I have one. how would that affect me?

Strong influence of Pluto…

What a strong Plutonian influence of Pluto in the chart could look like:

Pluto in the 1st, 4th, 7th and 10th house

Pluto aspecting inner planets (Mercury, Venus and Mars)

Pluto strongly aspecting the moon and ascendant, especially tight orbs

TW: mentions of s*x and death!!

Being Pluto dominant or having a strong influence of Pluto means that transformations, ego deaths, feelings of death and rebirth will accompany you for a life time. From my experience, this will be especially harsh in the childhood, youth and maybe in your early adult years. As time passes and as you get older, you might develop self care habits and safety mechanisms to protect yourself and your inner peace. Practising self love, meditation and mindfulness could be important to these individuals, as they could underestimate their beauty and their outstanding personality.

I’ve also seen that most traumatic events happen in the childhood, youth or early adulthood. But that’s just my observation.

Feelings of being deeply misunderstood rise while you are young and this feeling might follow you for years. Constantly searching for someone to understand your complex mind and depth of emotions. These people could benefit from searching for a valve to turn pain, bad experiences and any form of built up emotion into art. Be it writing, drawing, making music…

A reoccurring theme for Plutonians is sexuality. There may be blockages in regards of the own sexuality or experiencing it, but once they overcome this, they literally start to bloom in that area. This could turn into being hungry for power in general (or simply being turned on by overpowering the partner) or in being lascivious. They can be pretty much extreme and freaky in bed, actually. Being intimate never gets boring with them.

I know, this is what you read everywhere, but plutonic people are deeply magnetic and will catch your eye with their intense aura. Even if they are not seen as traditionally beautiful, these natives exude attractiveness and charisma. You just can’t ignore them and they will even stand out in a crowd. BUT! A lot of them don’t have the sex appeal like (for example) Megan Fox has. A lot of them have such an innocence to their appearance, but if you take a closer look you’ll see that they’re like fallen angels.

From my experience, plutonic people will have a deep connection to spirituality or the occult and a profound interest in psychology (for good and bad). They usually get into these things after really hard times in their life. They will attract jealousy and hate like flies, unfortunately and this could take a toll in their self esteem. Even strangers tend to be very competitive and mean to them in some way, because most people simply feel challenged by their presence.

Dear plutonic people,

you ALL are wonderful and you deserve so much more. I feel for every single one of you and I hope you will find true happiness and self acceptance. You’ve been through so much and you deserve the world for all that. I’m sending you all the love you might need right now or later! 🩶

[tiamathh]

ADRASTAEA (239)

Inescapable

Adrastea often also spelt as Adrasteia in Greek Mythology also known as "she who cannot be escaped" is the goddess of revolt. In my opinion wherever this asteroid is in your chart, it indicates what you cannot escape.

Tw: ED mention for 2nd House

1st: You cannot escape your own self and insecurities about the way you look or talk or walk. You may find it difficult to let go and may overdress at times to overcompensate. There is a possibility that you may be stuck in a loop that never ends because you feel like it cannot especially when it comes to your physical body.

2nd: You cannot escape your lack mindset, and may fall into it easily. You may have had a rough upbringing financially which makes you feel like you'll be financially unstable forever. You may attach all your self esteem with material wealth rather than looking inside and may have experiences with eating disorders.

3rd: You cannot escape your own mind, you may have been overly criticised during your early schooling years and may have been compared a lot with your neighbours and siblings especially academically. Have a tendency to overthink because of how observant you are and may be prone to getting anxious in public settings.

4th: You cannot escape your home, you may have had parents who were either neglectful or didn't get along with each other and fought a lot. This may make you feel like you don't have a comfort place/home and you'll never find one, that you can't escape your "fate" of having a home life that isn't secure in the future because of your past and may be scared to start a family.

5th: You cannot escape the spotlight for better or for worse. This makes you uncomfortable with being alone with yourself as you may out on a facade due to multiple eyes being on you at all times, this can also lead to feeling helpless at times because nothing you do seems to go unnoticed. You're scared ghosts of your past will come back to haunt you because of the same and are neglectful to your inner child.

6th: You cannot escape control, this is mostly external and you may feel like you're constantly being restricted and that you can't be free. You may have trouble setting boundaries as people around you may disregard them, not only that but you may lack self-discipline as you see it may seem too limiting for you, and you may believe that it will try to stifle you and your creativity. You may also have trouble making your subordinates listen to your ideas and opinions.

7th: You cannot escape the image you've made of yourself and presented to the world, as well as your relationships (platonic and romantic) you're bound to it and feel like you need to abide by it constantly without a break. You may also have trouble leaving bad or toxic relationships because you fear you won't be able to find anyone else, and may have problems with negotiating in a way that benefits you.

8th: You cannot escape your own guilt and the occult. You find it very difficult to let go of people and things, memories and experiences and may feel like it's your burden to bear. May feel shame attached to masturbation or sexual acts in a way and may not be comfortable being in intimate situations both sexually and emotionally. You may also attract a lot of energy vampires.

9th: You cannot escape the philosophies others enforce on you. You may have grown up in an extremely conventional/religious or strict household where you were expected and taught to do everything by the book. You probably have a difficult time trying to see things from other perspectives and may be a little rigid, having to work on being open minded actively, you may also have a dicey relationship with religion.

10th: You cannot escape your work, you're a workaholic and it brings a lot of imbalance to your life. You always want bigger better things that blind you from the meaningful relationships you have and the growth that you can go through. You neglect both your body and mind, and are restless when it comes to your deadlines, you may butt heads with authority figures as well.

11th: You cannot escape your self-sacrificial nature. You have a tendency to give even when you don't have anything for yourself and then fall in a loop of self pity. Your relationships with your friends and your community may be unequal as you don't get much back. There's a feeling of needing to give back rather than wanting to which also negatively impacts your energy.

12th: You cannot escape your past. Whether it be your past in this life or in terms of your past life, old relationships, people, memories keep coming back to teach you lessons that you didn't learn because of your self limiting beliefs and self deprecating nature. You don't like delving deep because you're scared of what you'll learn and what you'll see rather than wielding that knowledge as a weapon.

All Rights Reserved tiamathh on tumblr. Do not steal, repost, plagiarise or reword and claim as your own!

[autumncrowcus]

Randolph often explicitly addresses his writings about sex to the personal needs of heterosexual married couples, but this address is at odds with the powers he ascribes to sexual activity, as well as with the capaciousness of his ideas about gender and sexuality. “I believe in love, all the way through”, he declared, “and while I live will help every man, woman, and the betweenities to win, obtain, intensify, deepen, purify, strengthen and keep it, and I will help all others to do the same. There! That’s me! I mean it!”34 He deemed earthly gender identity as “provisional,—that is, limited to a given arc of the universal polygon of souls’ duration”, while God is both male and female in his account.

Accordingly, while Randolph taught both “feminine” and “masculine” occult practices, these correspond not to the practitioner’s gender identity but to the types of power they exercise.36 The entire universe, he held, was organized around male and female forces, but he saw earthly notions of physiological sex difference as a ruse: “[I]t don’t follow that all who wear the Penis are in soul true males, or that a vagina is the sign of womanness”.37

Erotic magic, Black emancipation, gender fluidity, interplanetary spirit realms — these were but a few of the topics that preoccupied Paschal Beverly Randolph (1825–75), an occult thinker who believed that his multiracial identity afforded him “peculiar mental power and marvelous versatility”. Lara Langer Cohen considers the neglected politics of Randolph’s esoteric writings alongside the repeated frustration of his activism: how dreams of other worlds, above and below our own, reflect the unfulfilled promises of Emancipation.

[itsalwaysteatimeinwonderland]

Finding Peace Pt.1: Paid in Lies (Spike x Y/N)

Requested: No. Part 1 of the Multific.

Synopsis: This is lore for the character in the other fics. It helps to build up the relationship and the direction. Feel free to get acquainted with it. <3

Word count: 2.5k

TW: None.

Masterlist | Next

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Another droll day with the Scoobies. The Magic Box was their hangout after all. Spike wishes he was anywhere but this place. However, he found himself at the metaphysical store more times than not. After getting the chip implanted and losing his ability to kill, he finds himself being amused by their banter and attempts at saving the world.

Today was different. The normal Scooby chatter was taken up by a voice he didn't recognize. A story he had never heard was being told followed by laughter. He was weary of new people.

"So then I told him that he couldn't tell a newt's eye from a bat's and that's what makes him a horrible wizard." Y/n exclaimed and laughter erupted.

"I can't believe you got into a fight with a kid over the last piece of candy." Willow stated.

"I take Halloween very seriously." You quipped.

"Aren't you like a hundred?" Xander chimed in.

"Rude. I'm 25. I can still trick or treat. They say it’s the only day the big bad doesn’t come out" you got up from your chair and walked to the register when you noticed Spike.

Everyone became nervous about your statement.

"What big bad?" Buffy asked.

"I don't know. It’s just something people say." Spike approached you. "Welcome to the Magic Box how can I h-"

"Don't bother with him, he doesn't buy anything." Giles interrupted, having come from the back room after he heard your comment.

"Oh. In that case, hi I’m y/n." Your voice was inviting, suspiciously so. Spike didn't trust it but didn't back away.

"I’m the big bad" he responded.

"Interesting. Then it means that you don't come out on Halloween."

Willow snickered.

Spike seemed incredulous. You just met him and you're already making fun of him.

"He's Spike, he just exists." Buffy chimed in.

"Rough." You stated.

An awkward silence followed. No one would say it, but they wanted you gone. It was time for the Scoobie’s nightly meeting, and you weren't invited since you were a regular civilian.

Giles finally got the hint. "Y/n it’s gonna be a slow night. Why don't you head home."

You hesitated but nodded. You packed up your things. "Night guys! It was nice meeting you Mr. Spike Big Bad."

As soon as you leave the chatter picks up. Conversations about the latest big bad and how to take them down takes up the space. But not for Spike. His interest is peaked by y/n. He's used to being mocked but never by someone he just met, much less a human. If you knew who he was would you still try that stunt? He was strung out from a previous altercation and was actively looking for trouble. So, he starts asking questions about you.

"She just came in one day and asked for a job. She doesn't talk much about herself but knows a lot about the occult." Willow offered.

"I bet she's a demon" Xander chimes in.

"How about we slow it down on the demon accusations. She might just be a big nerd like Giles." Buffy mentions.

Giles frowns at Buffy's retorts.

Spike mulls it over. He's decided to get more information out of you. He may be off base, but he feels that you're hiding something. No one comes to Sunnydale just because.

The conversation continues in the background as Spike devices a plan to follow you, maybe find out more about you. He exits The magic Box without a word. He’s hot on your trail watching your every movement until you stop. He doubles back into an alley. He hears you snicker. He’s so irritated by your calm demeanor that he breaks his silent stalking.

“You know, pretty girls shouldn’t be walking alone at night.” He walks up behind you.

“You think I’m pretty?” You turn around, a grin on your face.

He’s definitely annoyed now. “I could kill you if I wanted to.”

“Same.” She retorted and started walking off.

He stands there, flabbergasted. Who do you think you are? Don’t you know who you’re dealing with?

He walks up to you again, walking beside you. Eyeing you as you walk silently.

After awhile you speak up, “It’s weird for you to follow me.”

He’s quiet again. You knew he was following you. Most humans are oblivious. “You’re not afraid to be on your own, huh?”

“Nope. I’ve done it my whole life. Being an orphan does give you that hyper independence vibe.”

He stands in front of you, stopping you in your tracks. He thinks over whether he will show you his vamp face. Maybe scare you a bit. He decides against it. “Just be careful, love.” He walks away.

“If it’s so dangerous, why don’t you walk me home, big bad?” You shout out to him.

He stops, smirks and turns around. He smugly walks up to you and you both resume a quiet but steady pace to your house. Upon arrival you turn to him, “I can’t invite you in. I just met you and I can’t risk all that noise. Thank you for walking me home, though.”

He nods nonchalantly. “Goodnight, then.” He walks away feeling a bit awkward. Like, what just happened? He offered to walk a stranger home and you refused to invite him in? Did you know he was a vampire? Were you just being polite? So many questions.

The next day a similar occurrence happened. He saw you at The Magic Box, heard you talking about the occult soliciting laughter with your odd anecdote, and off you were to your home. He debated whether or not to follow you again. As if his feet had a mind of their own, he trailed behind you once more. He caught up to you and started small talk.

Where did you come from. “North Carolina”

Where were you going. “To find freedom.”

How long were you planning on staying. “’Till the money runs out.”

Who were you in love with. You paused at his bold question. He shrugged, “well, answer the question.” He pressed.

You took a pause. You told him of two previous lovers, both in which love was unrequited. You explained that you lived for the moment and not for men.

Before he could start up with questions you interrupted with your own. You asked the same questions. He hesitated to answer your questions honestly.

“Same questions. Go.”

He sighed. “England. Err.. to…” He paused. He realized he didn’t have the answer to where was he going and how long he was planning on staying at Sunnydale. How to explain that he is a vampire with no real vamp-like behavior? How to admit that he was obsessed with Buffy? So, he opted to skip to the last question. “It doesn’t matter. As for love, I had a nice lady. Crazy bird, she was. I loved her until she left me. Now I just go with whatever fancies me.” He flashes you a grin. You laugh.

“You’re harping on me, but you have no real plan or ambitions.”

That hurt his feelings. He had ambitions, in the past he wanted to kill the slayer. Now he wants to date her. Maybe his priorities got skewed.

As he further mulls over what you said, you both arrive at her home.

“Thank you for walking me home, again. It’s nice to have company.

And so, this became a daily occurrence. Spike would walk you home and ask you about your life, your day, and your connection to the Scoobies. It seemed harmless and he enjoyed how normal you made him feel. With you there was no talk of demons or the end of the world, just a normal human doing human things.

A month has passed, and Spike is still walking you home every day you work at The Magic Box. Today Spike felt bolder in his questions while walking you back home.

“What are we?” Spike side eyed you.

“That’s a bit forward. If you need to know, I thought we were friends. I mean, aren’t you and Buffy a thing?”

He was taken aback by your observation. Of course, he had a thing for Buffy, but it wasn’t reciprocated.

“Let’s change the subject…” Spike trailed off. “Friends, huh? Don’t got many o’ those.”

You smiled. “Then consider yourself lucky to have me.”

He looked away, a smile on his face.

You arrive at your house. “So, when are you inviting me in?” Spike spoke up.

You paused. How to tell him you know… “I’m not ready. Give me time.” You made heavy eye contact. He stepped closer to you, sharing your space. You stood there for what seemed an eternity.

“I’m not gon’ hurt you.” He whispered.

You nodded, “I know.” You leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek. You turned around and entered your house.

He stood there, surprised, and giddy. He smiled, a genuine smile as he walked back to his crypt with a pep in his step.

2 months have passed, and you too have spent a lot of time being close. Boundaries are still in place. Like he’s not allowed in your house, but you too linger at your doorway, in each other’s space. He is still after Buffy, but he brushes his hand against yours, whispers into your ear, and plays with your hair, among other affectionate touches.

3 months have passed, and you and Spike have gotten to know each other well. The Scoobies were weary of your inside jokes and playful glances.

“You know, the sun is setting quicker.” Spike mentioned as a hint that it was time for you two to head out.

You sighed. “Let me finish up this order.” You looked up at him feigning annoyance.

“Don’t want the big bad to get you.” Spike gave you a playful look.

You smiled. “Well, what am I keeping you around for?”

Xander groaned. “Kiss already.” He yelled in frustration which made you and Spike laugh.

As you were getting your bag a demon came crashing in through the entrance of The Magic Box. It snarled and tore down shelves and tables that were in his way. “Give me the slayer” He exclaimed.

“I’m right here, tall and ugly.” Buffy jumped in.

“Not slayer.” He swatted her away. “Real slayer.” He pointed at you. Everyone looked at you confused. You debated on whether to feign innocence or help out. Before you had made up your mind the demon started charging at you. At that point you back flipped into his line of fire and kicked him in the jaw. Everyone stood incredulous.

You proceeded to beat the demon punch after punch. Not holding back, you pulled a sword from a sheath you had strapped on your back under your shirt. Without hesitation you went for the demon’s throat, blood splattering everywhere. You stood covered in blood but triumphant.

Silence followed. You turned around, “Ta-da?”

Buffy stood from her spot and marched up to you. “Who are you, really?”

“Yeah, explain yourself.” Spike yelled from the back.

You sighed, defeated. “Everyone sit down. I’ll explain. Please, just listen and then ask questions. It’s a long story.”

You proceeded to explain that you were close to 1,000 years old, 985 to be exact, and that you were then deemed the slayer in your village. You were raised by your grandfather who was also your watcher. On the night of your 25th birthday, you killed a vampire that was the lover of a very powerful witch in your village. The witch, heartbroken and vengeful, put a curse on you that you would not die until you found peace. That doomed you to roam the Earth in the search of true peace.

The gang was quiet. The atmosphere was heavy. You were ashamed and embarrassed.

“Why did you lie?” Spike spoke up first. His voice was heavy with anger.

“I had to. It’s so difficult to be open about why I still exist. It’s shameful.” You lowered your head.

He didn’t seem satisfied with your answer and left. Your eyes trailed after him. You knew you hurt him. You purposefully created a whole life, and he believed it. You both shared moments, connection, vulnerability and yours was all a rouse.

“I’m confused. How can you not die?” Willow asked.

Her question snapped you back to reality. “Um, uh, Well… If I get mortally wounded, it heals faster. Even if it’s a fatal blow, my body regenerates.”

“What happens if you get decapitated, maimed, or burned alive?” Xander asks, curious.

Everyone looks at him. “What?! You were all thinking it.” Everyone nodded.

You chuckled. “Two words. Deadpool powers.”

Everyone nods. “That makes sense and ew.” Xander responded.

You stand there, still covered in blood answering question after question. Have you searched how to break the curse? Do you know what will give you peace? How many slayers have you met? Do you enjoy being eternal? You answered every question until they were satisfied. The conversation shifted to how 3 slayers could exist.

“It makes sense now how you knew so much about the occult.” Giles chimed in.

You grinned. “I dabble.” You say trying to be funny. A joke that landed flat due to the circumstances.

“I know this is weird. Me existing is weird but know that I didn’t mean harm. I’m just trying to figure out how to end this curse. I can’t be running around divulging my existence to every slayer. Having two slayers makes it easier to say that there is a third but still. You must understand where I’m coming from.”

The gang was quiet, pensive. “I think it’s best that you go. We can talk more about this tomorrow.” Giles stated.

“I know this is stupid, but do I still have a job?”

Giles glares at you. You raise your hands in a defensive stance. You decide it’s best to leave.

You walk home, alone. It’s the first time in the last three months that you were walking home alone. You felt tired and sad. Not only did you potentially lose your connection with the Scoobies, but you also lost who you considered to be your closest friend, Spike.  

Loud thrashing and banging can be heard inside the crypt. Spike is enraged and full of energy. Of course, the one person he wanted to lean on was a fake. Another illusion in his path. He felt like he could confide in her, trust her. She was no more than a liar, a con artist. To hell with her sob story. She hurt him. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t been honest himself, he did the best he could while obscuring the truth to protect her. To protect her! She would pay for making a fool of him. Everyone mocks him for his lack of vampire like behaviors. Everyone puts him down for failing at killing Buffy. But to made out to be a rube for trusting, for caring, that’s where he draws the line. He was vulnerable and he got paid in lies.

[det-agency]

payneland yule exchange 2024

@clementiiny

tw: bullying/abuse/ptsd/underage drinking

prompts: pre-canon, hurt/comfort, domestic vibes charles-centric fic

Charles eyes the space Edwin cleared out for him on their homemade bookshelf.

-------- ≪ ｡❅*⋆⍋⋆*❅｡ ≫ --------

It was funny at first, two ghosts were haunting an old abandoned building. Nestled in off streets on some abandoned development project in Southern England. He can remember when they first stumbled in on a mirror hopping exercise, and Edwin taught him how to concentrate so that he could help move the discarded clapboard pallets. The way the pressure built on his hand without the texture of the wood was so alien to him at the time. When the hastily nailed planks finally rose his eyes darted to Edwin automatically.

“Very good Charles,” his smile radiating in his voice and eyes.

“Thanks mate, I think i’m getting-”

The pressure dissipated instantaneously, the rush of sand colored boards falling in a blur and crashing so loud to reverberate in the unfurnished concrete building.

No one spoke or moved for a minute.

-------- ≪ ｡❅*⋆⍋⋆*❅｡ ≫ --------

Now two months have gone by and he has an empty shelf of the same discarded wood. Right next to Edwin’s growing collection of magical tomes and comics.

Somehow.

The sentiment is nice, but Charles isn’t much of a bibliophile. The last book he cracked open himself was probably Warriner’s English Grammar and Composition- complete course. If he had Edwin to read his coursework to him before his midterms- as well as the signs of faery possession- he might have had a better time retaining information.

He lets his mind fidget with the idea. Sneaking around to study with Edwin would have been loads more enjoyable than swotting up everytime he got wind of a quiz. For all the vapid consternated lecturing about their desire to teach the next generation diligence he’s surprised none of the teachers caught on to his more extreme study habits. He needed to revise twice as long as his mates, whilst still keeping on top of his cricket practice. The stench of smuggled coffee in the shared dorm space, sting of untreated paper cuts on his cricket bat, and echo of quickly flipped paper while on the bench-minutes before practice begins- still haunts him. No one can say his scholarship was not merited. To be candid, a few of his peers tried. They should put his name on a medal.

He winces.

They’d probably think that was lame though. With his friends there was always a give and take. Charles would be too excited or too visually distinctive, and then they would disparage him before intervening. He can almost hear them now, in his head, mocking him for caring enough to wonder what books Charles thinks Edwin would want next to his collection. They’d probably ring his bell if they caught him idling, grinning at it, like a gormless old twit.

Charles starts picking up the books Edwin had pushed to the far side of the room and carrying them back towards their place on the shelf. Each one aged into a different neutral hue.

It’s not like getting lumped aside the head is the worst, he’s just had his fair share of it. The sharp painful corrections reverberated through concert gigs, class, and his old house. With his Dad it was something you could count on. Like the chime of a clock or the clunk of his boots on the floor above him when he got home.

The closest he gets to that is when Edwin scolded him when he misplaced a hand-bound copy of Materials Toward a History of Witchcraft V. II.

His hands were steepled and eyebrows were pinched as he faced Charles.

“It is of our best interest to have our books on occultism organized if we are to keep helping any stray ghost that takes your fancy.”

His tone is sincere with “steps to make sure this does not happen whilst they are in each other’s company.”

It had been the first time Edwin had mentioned a future- their future- together.

So…there are more instances where he messes up with Edwin.

His first offense was gathering discarded vinyl records from the estate to solve the case of the mummified musician. He may have gathered more than necessary. The boxes littered their settled office with the crowded oppressive atmosphere of an obstacle course.

“ I don’t understand the importance of collecting memorabilia from his estate if his condition clearly exemplifies a pharaoh's curse, Charles.”

“Except he’s never been to Egypt, and something is wrong with these records, Edwin.” Charles tests.

“Whatever do you mean?” Edwin asks, hands centering more nervously.

Charles takes the dingy milk crate containing the cursed record to the top of their newly acquired office desk. “He didn’t have any photos of his parents in that house. Closest we got to them was that burnt photo with his passport. So whoever his family is in Egypt he isn’t going back to see them often.” He grabs the third vinyl ceremoniously holding it up and points accordingly.

“This band was based in the UK and was underground in the 70s; they did not have the money to parade around publishing records in Egypt, mate. It also doesn’t have English import tax added to the price on the back so we can figure whoever gave it to him wasn’t a distributor. Finally,” He slides the protective sheet from the record. “The Matrix numbers are utter gibberish.” Charles raises his head to find Edwin studying him instead of the vinyl.

“You know an awful lot about vinyl records, how come your interest has never come up before?” Edwin poaches.

“I’m not interested, mate, this case is just stupid convoluted and I’d really appreciate getting this case closed as soon as possible, yeah?” Charles twists away placing the covering back onto the record and into the jacket delicately.

“Right, of course.” Edwin reassures.

The following offense had occurred after a few days of dodgy eyeing on Edwin’s part. The silent treatment had gotten so intolerable he had resulted in point blank annoying him about the local bands when they walked past the building on their way to pick up new comics and magical tomes from the only occult shop in London to sell to “new ghosts.”

The cold morning air clung to the energy around their forms as they made their way through almost empty city walkways. The greys and blues of the world still clinging to the buildings and street as Charles prattles on about trumpet melodies and inconsistent show times. They had been trotting by a street light holding fast against the elements when Edwin had stopped walking and Charles went ramrod straight.

“Did you use to go to shows frequently?” he asks hesitantly, but his eyes are narrowed and posture is straight, holding a brick sized hand bound french magic book and a recent batman issue with the same reverence, snug against himself.

Charles feels the panic, in his arms and stomach, unfurl their tendrils.

“I-er-well, we all had the go-ahead to leave campus, right, but we could never make it back in time if we went too far, did we? This venue didn’t card, so we always found our way here…eventually.” Charles stammers.

Edwin’s eyes drift to the unassuming dark building with torn weathered posters littering its wall. “You mentioned going to see the Po-Goues in January, but the poster says they were playing January 14th, which is shortly after your holiday. So I may surmise, you came back to St. Hilarion's and then went to a concert in which the interim school faculty would be exceedingly vigilant. You must care about them a great deal.” His eyes roam, and lock back onto Charles, assessing.

“Didn’t think you were actually listening, mate.” Charles teases.

“The Kon 5 is playing next week, so we could attend a show, if you are still interested in such things.”

Edwin steels himself, takes a breath, and then points to one of the newer additions to the wall. Charles follows the line of action from the base of Edwin’s shoulder to the mass-produced poster for the stupid band he used to wait in line to see.

-------- ≪ ｡❅*⋆⍋⋆*❅｡ ≫ --------

The building is dark. Metal and Brick both painted over with worn black overcoats. The stairs lead to an expanse of hallway with an open bar and doors. He remembers Mark used to remind him not to be an idiot and forget the stuff they came in with. Abandoned high heels, coats, and a metal bat line the walk-way. If you follow it you can pass the bathrooms to the back and you can see the open floor of an expansive former church turned remodeled stage.

The members come up one after the other. Each fiddling with equipment and performing checks on their respective instruments.

Charles’ energy is erratic. His hand had phased through the bars of the catwalk; they were camped atop up to his forearms. Being inside shouldn’t be putting his nerves on edge. He should be able to differentiate being in the building now with Edwin for one of his favorite bands and the “friends” who introduced it to him.

Nevertheless, every place his eyes rest rip memories from the depths of his mind to the cold air around him. He remembers, agreeing to help one of his roommates move to afford one of the coats everyone wore. Being too scared to decorate it. Skipping class so no one would see him go to a Citizen 8 gig alone. Standing in the dorm’s communal bathroom, looking in one of the mirrors to the shades of purple on his body, no recollection who to inculpate. “It was just a lark, we didn’t mean any harm.”

Getting harrassed.

Getting Killed.

”Hard Lines mate, maybe next time.” muttered at his fucking funeral.

“Are you alright?” Edwin asks.

“What-er- yeah” Charles stutters, “Sorry, we’ve-I’ve- just never got here early before.”

“Oh, that’s good.” Edwin hesitates.

“Oh, yeah, brills.”

It’s strange they don’t have any roadies or stage-hands aside from the band members. Charles points to the stage. “That is the lead singer James doing the mike check. and-” his arm halts its motion as they both watch in horror as the drummer touches his kit, glows red, dives behind the curtain, and begins screaming hysterically backstage.

Edwin looks at him quizzically.

“Well, that was the drummer.” Charles stammers, “Er-‘m sure, he’s fine, mate”

The Kon 5 are about twenty or so minutes into their set. The trumpets and drums are sycophantic in their rhythm drilling the crowd. Shouts of encouragement and lyrics are spurred out from the people around them. He looks to his right, Edwin stands in his school uniform tight and pristine despite the dingy atmosphere and sub-par lighting. His soft, thoughtful expression breaks into a smile when his eyes lock with Charles.

Guilt stabs him inextricably.

Edwin’s face falls and he pulls him towards the front of the venue. The Green lighting is strained on the hallway to the bathrooms that Charles has had the misfortune of painting in sick after a few too many jars.

“It’s okay if you don’t like the set we could head to the office and-” Charles starts.

“That is not the drummer.” Edwin states matter-of-fact.

The words left no room for negotiation, and were left between them.

“The Glowing was reminiscent of faery possession.”

“They just got back from France,” Hammering draws from Charles’s heart and hits his stomach.

“The shows-the tour,” he supplies, “They might have picked it up in Paris. ‘Right, Edwin?”

“You have the list of tour destinations memorized?” Edwin asks.

Charles feels stinging behind his eyes first.

“No, no, I just used to have their albums on tape and the upcoming tour destinations printed on back ‘innit.”

“You had their albums on tape? I had no idea you were passionate about music when you were alive,” he states.

“ We should see if the drummer could lend us some tapes after we rid him of his faery infestation.” Edwin mutters nodding to himself.

“Passionate?” Charles squawks.

“I don’t know why you insist on pretending you have no-interests or hobbies Charles, but you are clearly knowledgeable on the subject at hand.I had hoped your admission to your interest in music had been an olive branch between us, since you are so pliable to my rantings on thaumaturgy and protection charms, but you seem more fretful. ” His eyebrows are knit together before he continues, “I do not want our companionship to be so one-sided. I don't know any of your passions nor do I wish to have our place of residence devoid of your impression.”

“Mate, i didn’t mean-”

“I saw you restocked the bookshelf. Do you not see the office as a worthwhile place to store your belongings?” he continues. “Honestly, Charles, if you have no plans to stay we need not discuss it, but at least give me something to remember you by.”

The clawing in his throat builds with the silence between them.

“I-er,” he tries looking towards the cheap drywall, “This is just the first time it was okay to care about things, y’know?

And- yeah. I don’t, er- ” his voice breaks, and he half expects Edwin to shove him.

He doesn’t.

Instead, Edwin’s hand is steady as it grips his lapel.

He follows the pale pressed fingers to his wrist, up his covered arm and settles his gaze near Edwin’s face.

“Maybe on our return from our next trip from the occult book shop we can purchase some recordings.” He whispers.

Charles feels the buzzing energy in his hands again. He weighs everything said before him. The new revelation stripped the version of himself he had presupposed Edwin saw.

“Five minutes backstage,” Charles surrenders, picking up one discarded aluminium bat.

“Or we are summoning that drummer.” - ------ ≪ ｡❅*⋆⍋⋆*❅｡ ≫ ------

On the way back they pick up a walkman and cassette tapes for the Po-goues, rage parade, and Citizen 8. They leave behind a newly faery-exorcised signed guitar as payment.

When they get back to the office they make it to the middle of the floor before Edwin stands before him with his hand extended.

“What, right now?” Charles asks.

Edwin remains waiting patiently.

The magic canvas bag prognosticates. He swats his hand inside and picks up the cassette player, a tangled mess of earbuds, and the Citizen 8 tape all in one go.

Edwin’s hands dip for a second under the unexpected weight of the cassette player, but adjusts accordingly. Charles presses the eject button and places the tape into Edwin’s other awaiting hand. His fingers hold it in an unconventional manner while Charles stares in awe.

Too soon he presses the cassette into the cartridge and the hand is tucked under the handheld player.

“The earbuds please, Charles.”

Charles' eyes and hands return the mess of wire that he is desperate to untangle. He separates the left and right sides from the main auxiliary cord. Edwin’s hand reaches below and takes the jack and presses it into the aux with succinct precision. He returns, thumbing the earbud from Charles’s left hand to press it to the side of his face. He feels the loss of contact, and then watches Edwin take the earbud from his right hand before putting it to his own ear.

For a moment, he watches the cord between them.

The black wire joining their faces is short, forcing them a little closer than they usually get. His eyes flicker over Edwin’s face, but they find no discomfort. No, Edwin’s face is concentrated as he works. His eyes pinched with the ghost of a smile on his lips. They’re so close he can see the hint of stubble atop his lip and jaw. The coil coupling them taps below his ear twice before-

Edwin pressed the cartridge closed.

The guitar riff expels gruff and triumphant. Five seconds in the drums pick up a heavy beating in the heart of the song. Their lead singer screeches her arrival in a familiar melody.

Edwin’s eyebrows pinch slightly before a soft smile exposes a hint of dimples caresses his face next to the wire joining them. It takes a dull ache in the side of Charles’ face to realize he’s been smiling too. He feels the contact of Edwin’s fingers against his own before realizing he’s unconsciously reached to support the cassette player with him. The weight is lighter than anything he’s held in this new form.

It takes a few minutes before Edwin wanders to pick up his place in a discarded french spellbook. With both ears filled with the rapid pounding of a drum beat he places the remaining two cassettes on his spot on their shelf. With his energy still warmed from Edwin’s presence, he lays a hand on the exposed wood and lets himself press to feel the pressure.

[magewritesstories]

[ ʏᴜᴊɪ ɪᴛᴀᴅᴏʀɪ ] ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅꜱ

summary: you and yuji, a couple? no, no way, you're just really close friends tw: none, you and yuji pull an adrien agreste note: in honour of someone asking me and a close friend if we were dating lol. word count: 501 words (small blurb not really a one-shot) jujutsu kaisen masterlist

IT'S NOT HARD FOR SOMEONE TO GET THE WRONG IDEA. I mean, anyone with an outside perspective seeing Yuji give you a piggyback ride to the school sports field would assume you were dating.

It's especially not hard for Setsuko, since she's been there to see the way you cling to Yuji every time something scary happens.

It's not hard for Takeshi to misunderstand either, not after the multiple times he's watched Yuji take the long way home just so that you wouldn't have to walk home alone.

Now, in hindsight, sure these are things that friends do for friends too but eventually the little acts start to pile up.

You're the one who indulges your pink-haired best friend and lets him rant on and on about the newest Jennifer Lawrence movie he's watched.

Yuji's the one that's already slinging your bag over his shoulder before you even start to—dramatically—complain about the fact that all your books are going to give you back hernia.

So, when that day Yuji shows up to P.E. wildly waving his hand in greeting with you on his back, equally enthusiastic, it's the straw that breaks the camel's back.

The rest of the day is spent observing you and Yuji. Both of you are completely oblivious to the fact that any of this is happening, simply brushing it off as your friends being their usual weird selves.

Eventually though, during the occult club meeting both teens sit the two of you down with angry stares (they really don't look that intimidating.)

"Okay, out with it," Setsuko orders, arms crossed, "Are you two dating or something?"

You and Yuji give her a confused look before turning towards each other and bursting out laughing simultaneously.

"Huh? Us?" You manage to reply between laughs, "That's very funny Sasaki-senpai."

Yuji nods, wiping away a tear dramatically. "Is this some kind of early April fool's joke?" He asks with a grin, "'Cause if it is I think you guys should stick to the supernatural genre."

Takeshi stares the two of you down in disbelief, "You're really not dating?"

"Nope, we're not," The pink-haired boy next to you replied, "Wait, what even made you think that?"

Now it's Takeshi and Setsuko's turn to share a disbelieving look. "The two of you act like newly-weds," Your upperclassman replies, "Without all the kissing."

"Really? I thought all friends acted that way?"

"Well, I suppose some do, but it's still weird."

You and Yuji shrug. "Well, we're not dating," You finally reply, "I think it's kinda funny that you thought we were though."

After that, the normal occult club meeting continues and neither of you mentions the strange question again.

And if either of you notices the way you suddenly can't hold eye contact with Yuji as long as you used to or the way the tips of Yuji's ears match his hair whenever you link your arm through his on the way back home, neither of you mentions it.

Yeah, definitely just close friends.