#sammy's magical au

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

Talking in Your Sleep

(Disclaimer: three of the characters in this story belong to me. For more information on LeviathanPat, go here. For more information on Sylph, go here. And for more information on Sol, go here. Meanwhile, Sam Ryder belongs to my very good friend, @sammys-magical-au !)

(Not only is this story finally, FINALLY DONE, it's also a continuation/epilogue to one of Sammy’s recent works. Go here to read it for clarification. Plus, their story is based on elements from one of mine. So, if you’d like even more context, go here.)

(One more thing: if you’d like to use distorted fonts like the ones you’ll be seeing in this story, go here.)

(Trigger Warnings: nightmares/dreams, body horror, slight blood/gore, slight violence, talk of death/dying. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

How did these things happen? 

One minute you knew exactly where you were. And the next you were completely turned around for seemingly no reason other than maybe the universe just didn’t like the way you blinked.

That was why Sam had veered away from the sidewalk, had climbed the staircase attached to one side of one building that was almost as large as The Abnormal Orchard. Granted, they weren’t entirely sure why this place needed public access to its roof, but their phone just couldn’t seem to stop lagging and freezing for the past few minutes. It just wouldn’t cooperate with them long enough to load up a map of this unfamiliar city. 

Up here, they could see pretty much everything. All the lights that glinted through faraway windows.

Signs that glowed and blinked in specific patterns.

The streetlamps that loomed over sections of the sidewalk every ten-or-so feet, all warm-tinted, bathing anything under them in scarlet beams. When Sam had still been down there, those things had made it look like they’d truly dyed their locks rather than just naturally having golden-blonde somehow seep into blood-orange.

The whole display really got close competing with the moon’s cold, silvery rays.

Sam squinted, bracing their hands against the concrete safety-railing as they leaned forward.

That place off to the east, just at the edge of this downtown environment…that was the hotel, right? There was no way it couldn’t be—Sam recognized the abstract graffiti that had been left on the building’s far-wall, probably right in the blindspot of whatever cameras were hidden around the main entrance.

When you had to go on last-minute assignments as often as Sam did, you learned to memorize even the smallest details of wherever you ended up staying.

And that…made Sam give pause. 

Because as they stepped back, idly pacing along the roof’s barrier, not taking their eyes off the city below, they realized that they couldn’t see The Abnormal Orchard anymore. 

That should’ve been impossible: the museum had been built with such an imposing, tower-eqsue shape. There was no doubting how it was the tallest structure around here. 

Not to mention the establishment’s sign, adorned by a network of wires that all glowed with neon shades of violet and blue, all working together to form the image of a pomegranate with a cluster of eyeballs in the place of its seeds. 

A shudder ran through Sam’s shoulders. As a vegetarian, they’d be lying if they said that sign hadn’t reminded them of nightmares they’d had in the past. And they supposed that was the whole point. Something as creepy as that would definitely get the attention of passersby, make them curious enough to wander in and pay to look at the grotesquely-intriguing collections. 

Yet, no matter what direction they turned or how they craned their neck, Sam just couldn’t find it anymore.

Well, they’d already heard stories about plenty of businesses that were infamous for just…not staying in one place, fading in and out of certain locations for whatever reason. Sometimes a hollow space was left in the wake until the building decided to reappear, other times it was replaced by something else. Whether or not the people living near the place were aware of the change was a different kettle of fish. 

Sam hadn’t gotten that vibe when they’d visited the museum, but they’d been wrong before.

They chewed their lip, stuffing their hands into their jacket pockets as they headed back to the top of that staircase. 

Come to think of it…even with all the artificial light everywhere, Sam hadn’t seen a single car on the streets. 

Hell, they hadn’t even seen a single other pedestrian down on the sidewalks

That didn’t make any damn sense. You couldn’t have a city like this without some level of nighttime activity from the locals. 

Where was everybody?

Something with jagged edges began to fester in their stomach.

It didn’t help that the stairs ever-so-slightly shook and rattled with each step. They were metallic, seeming fairly new. They weren’t even too steep for the sudden quickness in Sam’s pace to cause any problems. But all the noise they made eventually sparked their anxiety.

Halfway back down to the street below, they began to reach out, intent on locking the banister in a white-knuckled grip.

They never got the chance. 

Instead, they got to feel a strange, foreign weight suddenly wrap around their ankle in a way that would’ve made the average blood-pressure cuff seem like a toy. 

Before they could even look down, Sam was yanked off-balance, and while their hands did fly up by instinct, it still didn’t do much to break their fall. They slid the rest of the way down the stairs, creating even more of a cacophony (though it was better than being reduced to a human slinky).  

It was over in seconds; they crumpled onto the sidewalk, but thanks to all their training, they didn’t linger. And as Sam picked themself up, they were just in time to see a clutch of oily-looking digits retract back through one gap in-between the stairs. 

Shock and fury never failed to make such an interesting cocktail in one’s head.

With one hand now fishing through their jacket for a weapon, Sam stormed over to look up at the underside of the staircase. 

Despite all their experience, part of them still sort of wished that they hadn’t. 

A vaguely humanoid figure was standing upside-down right beneath the spot where they’d fallen.

Not hanging. Not clinging.

Standing. 

As though his personal gravity had reversed its polarity and standing under the stairs was the only thing keeping him from floating up into the sky. 

At first, Sam’s brain struggled to categorize this figure as even being a solid entity; his form was even darker than the night sky above. It just had some kind of odd…rippling effect to it, like thick clouds of smoke or a deep shadow.

And yet, as Sam got closer, the figure seemed to become more compact. His head swiveled with a loud snap, his neck turning at a very uncomfortable angle to scrutinize them with a pair of eyes that blazed with sickly paleness.

Sam ground their jaw; it wasn’t the first time they’d had to deal with a monster, and it wouldn’t be the last, either. Besides, this guy just tripped them down a flight of stairs. While not even really TRYING to hide. 

“Hey!” Sam barked, The Lion’s Breath sliding out from the sheath they kept hidden in their jacket. “What the hell is your damage?!”

“...£µññ¥,” the creature spat, his lips peeling back far too long, revealing sets of glinting teeth. So many teeth, in fact, that Sam couldn’t even see a speck of gums in his mouth. They were all packed in like sardines, thin and long and sharp. “Ì ¢ðµlÐ å§k ¥ÖÚ †hê §åmê †hïñg.”

The creature then let his arms hang, his torso stretching with a chorus of pops and cracks until his hands touched the ground. He craned his chest for his head to finally be rightside-up, just barely shifting his shoulders, and then his face was suddenly a single inch away from Sam. The air seemed to vibrate around his head, which had proportionally grown to accommodate eyes that were now about the size of bicycle tires.

Sam ducked away, backing up a couple paces, raising the arm with The Lion’s Breath to guarantee at least a little more personal space.

“Whå��'§ †hê m円êr, §åm?” The creature inquired, his voice crackling like a fire. A dull thud from behind caught Sam’s attention, leading them to realize that the creature’s feet had finally dropped away from the stairs. They got to watch as his legs fused together, making his lower-half into some kind of thick, sinuous tail. 

The creature’s arms grew almost as long, allowing him to keep himself upright—to keep looming over his new conversation partner—rather than crawling on his belly. 

“Whêrê'§ åll †hå† ßråvåÐð Ì §åw êårlïêr?” He continued, tilting his head to the side. “Ì mêåñ, ¥ðµ rêåll¥ ÐïÐ jµ§† wål†z ïñ†ð M¥ †µr£ lïkê ¥ðµ ðwñêÐ ï†.”

Sam paused. They knew they’d never seen something quite like this before—

Seen.

But as the hideous, unfamiliar voice lingered the in air far longer than it should have, they realized they still somehow recognized it.

“...Pat?” Sam asked, readjusting their grip around their weapon’s hilt.

The creature snorted. He rolled his primary eyes, which seemed to encourage a few extras to sprout beneath them. “†hå†'§ þår† ð£ m¥ ñåmê. Ððñ'† wêår ï† ðµ†.”

Sam’s brow furrowed, only making a slight dent in their pokerface. Yes, they had years of experience with the supernatural and then some. Yes, being bonded to the Ancient Ones meant they could comprehend a little more than the average mortal could. 

Still, that kind of stuff came in varying levels. 

Things like Pat were a very strange example; they were equal-yet-opposites to the Ancient Ones. Sure, the latter could definitely hold more power at times, but outer abominations were just so…raw. So impossible. 

They were living proof that something always had and always would be wrong with the universe…as well as evidence on how that was just the way things needed to be. 

Sam lightly shook their head before lifting their chin, gazing up, up, up and directly into the monstrosity’s eyes. 

Pat, in turn, made the slightest move to lower his head, pinprick pupils shrinking even more, spinning, seemingly buzzing as he glared. 

“Well, maybe you’re one to talk,” Sam announced, finally remembering that there was a question for them to answer. “I was warned to wear a mask around you—so, where’s the reason for that, huh? Where’s all the mind-breaking horror that’s supposed to waft off of you guys at all times? I’m looking right at you, and nothing’s happening. It really doesn’t feel like I even need to shield my brain.” 

“Ððñ'† £l円êr ¥ðµr§êl£.” Pat arched his back, similar to how a cobra might flare its hood. “ñêï†hêr 𣠵§ årê ïñ †hê §åmê þlå¢ê å§ ßê£ðrê. Rµlê§ åñÐ ¢ðñ§êqµêñ¢ê§ jµ§† wðrk Ðêrêñ†l¥ hêrê.”

He continued his slow circling; Sam kept moving as well, kept The Lion’s Breath trained on him. 

“†rµ§† mê: ï£ ¥ðµ wêrê rêåll¥ lððkïñg å† mê wï†h𵆠å ßårrïêr…¥ÖÚ'Ð ÐRÖþ †Ö ¥ÖÚR KñÈȧ ÄñÐ §†ÄR† þÖÚñÐÌñG MÖR§È ÇÖÐÈ Ìñ†Ö †HÈ GRÖÚñÐ W̆H ¥ÖÚR HÈÄÐ.” 

Nearby, a new chorus started up: an awful, rubbery, stretching-and-splintering din. Sam glanced over to see how Pat’s “tail” was now splitting apart once again. Only this time, it divided into more than just two limbs. In a matter of seconds, it was a mass of writhing tendrils, like the flesh of an octopus had been grafted into the roots of a tree. 

“†hðµgh, ¥ðµr ßråïñ wðµlÐ þrðßåßl¥ ßê mêl†ïñg åñÐ ¢hµrñïñg årðµñÐ ïñ ¥ðµr §kµll. §ð, Ððïñg †hå† wðµlÐ ßê å ßï† êå§ïêr †håñ jµ§† †r¥ïñg †ð †ðµgh ï† ðµ†, rïgh†?”

And before Sam had a chance to reply, one of those tendrils cracked like a whip, a blur in the air as it lunged toward them.

Muscle memory kicked in. Without even blinking, Sam swung The Lion’s Breath. It met the oncoming tendril head-on, and—

And…

And the sword phased right through it. 

The metal came back in less than a second, but it was like a cloud of shimmering fog. Like evaporation in reverse. 

Sam felt their eyes widen, felt their mouth drop open. They tightened their grip even further, trying to use the hilt as an anchor. They couldn’t let Pat see them shaking. They couldn’t show too much fear. Abominations like him sometimes behaved a bit like cats; seeing fear helped them decide on what (or who) could be potential prey. 

To Pat’s credit, surprisingly enough, the tendril paused as well, looming in place…until it wasn’t. It swayed to one side, aiming for an opening Sam had left. Still, Sam was fast enough to block it, to try and literally cut the attack off. 

But the blade just…faded in and out of sight again. 

The tendril wove around to the opposite side now—a third attack, a third counterstrike, a third round of sword-warping-tomfuckery. 

Pat raised his brows. He clicked his teeth together, emitting a keening noise like knives being sharpened. It took a second for Sam to realize that he was snickering; it was like the sound was something solid, something that was actively being sheared by his fangs as it rolled out of his mouth. 

The monstrosity shifted in place, lying on his chest and folding his forearms in front of him, sort of like the stereotypical teenage gossip-monger at a slumber party. A third limb broke out from his side, elbow touching down on the concrete.

He raised the freshly-formed clutch of talons to his face, resting his chin on the new palm. “Ärê ¥ðµ Ððñê ¥ê†?”

“How—?!” Sam blurted, glancing back and forth between their weapon and their adversary. “This is made from Etherium! Eldritch beings can rarely even just exist within five feet of it!”

“Ððñ'† rêmïñÐ mê,” Pat hissed.

In spite of their shock, Sam snarled, storming a bit closer to the creature. “You yourself said that my presence alone was painful back at the museum! And that was just when this was only a bracelet! What the hell did you do to it?!”

Pat scoffed, rolling his shoulders. “Ì'm ñð† Ððïñg åñ¥†hïñg †ð ï†...¥ðµ årê.”

Sam felt their heart skip a beat. 

The seconds dragged by, watching as a smirk spread across Pat’s features, practically splitting his face in half. 

“Älrïgh†, ålrïgh†. ̆'§ ñð† jµ§† ¥ðµ,” he finally admitted, once he’d apparently gotten his fill of shock from them. “Mðrê lïkê...†hê wå¥ ¥ðµ'rê þrð¢ê§§ïñg †hï§ þlå¢ê, åñÐ vï¢ê-vêr§å. ̆'§ ñð† ¢ðñ§¢ïðµ§ å† åll.”

“‘This place?’” Sam echoed. “What do you mean, ‘this place?’”

Instead of answering, Pat moved again, one of his arms lunging forward to swipe at Sam’s stomach. 

And this time, Sam didn’t move quickly enough. A short scream ripped its way through Sam’s lungs, one arm flying up to shield their face. They waited to fall back, waited for the searing sensation of blood oozing through a fresh wound, waited for some kind of supernatural disease to start mummifying them from the inside-out…

But none of that ever happened. 

They kept their balance, didn’t feel any pain. 

Sure, they still felt the impact of the strike; it reminded them of a clump of dry ice. 

Cold and hazy and raw. 

But not painful. Not exactly, at least.

Against their better judgment, Sam lowered their arm and looked back down. 

Pat’s claws were still there, still pushing against their abdomen in a way that absolutely should have punctured through clothes and skin like a clutch of knives. 

Instead, those horrific digits simply hovered there, now seemingly severed where they should have made contact with Sam. They were each covered in that strange veil of gleaming, metallic smoke. Just like what had happened to The Lion’s Breath…

“§êê †hå†?” Pat wondered aloud. He pulled his arm away from Sam, and his talons immediately phased back, good as new. He idly wriggled them, examining them like he’d just gotten a manicure. He then nodded over toward the staircase. 

“†hïñk: £ðr m𧆠hµmåñ§, £ållïñg Ððwñ å §ê† ð£ §†åïr§ lïkê ¥ðµ jµ§† ÐïÐ wðµlÐ mêåñ ßrðkêñ ßðñê§, ��r å ¢ðñ¢µ§ïðñ, ðr êvêñ Ðêå†h. ÄñÐ ¥ê†…” He trailed off, making a vague gesture in Sam’s direction.  

Sam nodded without meaning to. They glanced down at their arms and legs, carefully stretching the muscles in their back and shifting their neck. 

The monster was right: even if Sam was a certified Tough Cookie, they should’ve been injured. There should’ve been deep, bleeding scrapes in the skin of their palms. Their ribs and knees and ankles should’ve been flaring with nearly white-hot pain.

But none of that was here. No cuts, no bumps or bruises, no blood…

“This isn’t real,” Sam murmured, realization crashed through their head like a tidal wave. Relief would’ve been included, but considering Pat’s presence, it was staying firmly hidden. “You’re not actually here. And neither am I.” 

“†hêrê wê gð!” Pat purred, his unearthly voice now dripping with sarcasm and a smidge of condescension. 

Sam glared at him. They shifted The Lion’s Breath in their grasp, now holding it close.

Pat eyed them. “¥ðµ ¢åñ þµ† †hå† åwå¥. ñð† lïkê êï†hêr 𣠵§ ¢åñ †r¥ åñ¥†hïñg å† †hê mðmêñ†.”

“Maybe,” Sam hummed, carefully sliding their thumb against the center of the blade. It felt so solid. So real. Just like it usually did. “But I don’t think I will.”

Pat shrugged, clicking his tongue…which, of course, led to it flicking in and out of his mouth like a party favor.

“This can’t be an out-of-body experience,” Sam mentioned. “If it was, then I’d be able to see my real self. And it can’t be astral projection either—I’ve done that before, and I can’t remember trying to set anything up before this happened.” 

“¥ðµ wêrêñ'†,” Pat agreed, drumming his claws against the ground. 

“So I must be asleep right now. I must be having a dream—or a nightmare.” Sam paused, then raised an eyebrow at Pat. “And I guess that means…you are, too.”

Pat’s eyes narrowed. A few of the ones lower on his face even began to melt in their sockets, popping and hissing. 

“†hå†'§ rïgh†…”  He pronounced through rows of gritted razor-teeth, his voice laced with bitter venom and warping like rusted metal, much lower than before. 

“What? Why’re you getting all huffy?” Sam took a step back, holding up a hand. “Things like you usually don’t even need to sleep.”

Another arm, fresh like a moth from its cocoon, sprouted from Pat’s other side. It wove past Sam and slammed against the wall behind them. His claws left deep, dark gashes in the bricks as he slowly raked them downward. 

“Ì §HÖÚLÐñ'† ßê §lêêþïñg!” The abomination snapped. “Ì ÇÄñ'† Ä£��ÖRÐ †ð §lêêþ! ¥ðµ håvê åñ¥ ïÐêå whå† §lêêþïñg ¢ðµlÐ lêåvê mê å† rï§k †ð?!”

Sam flinched at the new volume in his voice; it rattled through their head like some kind of broken bell that also happened to be full of acid. They had no doubt that, had this occurred in the real world, their ears would've started bleeding a bit.

Still, they didn’t let themself falter any further. 

This was just a dream. Nothing could hurt them. 

And if shit somehow did end up hitting the fan, they could find a way to wake themself. But for now…

Pat heaved an exasperated sigh, begrudgingly pulling his claws away from the wall.

“Ć lê姆 §ðl ï§ wïllïñg †ð kêêþ w冢h,” he muttered. 

“Well, excuse me for asking,” Sam deadpanned. “If that’s really how you feel about it, then why are you sleeping now?”

Pat’s eyes rolled around in his head, sort of like those bubbles in a jar of oil, quite literally looking Sam up and down. “ßê¢åµ§ê Ì wåñ†êÐ †ð gê† å ßꆆêr rêåÐ ðñ ¥ðµ.”

“Ah, yes. Not creepy at all.”

“ÐïÐñ'† håvê mµ¢h ð£ å ¢håñ¢ê êårlïêr. ¥'kñðw, ¢ðñ§ïÐêrïñg †hå† †rïñkê† ð£ ¥ðµr§ £êl† lïkê åñ ï¢ê þï¢k §lðwl¥ ßêïñg þµ§hêÐ ïñ†ð m¥ †êmþlê.”

“Why do you even need a read on me at all? I didn’t come here as a threat to you.” Sam felt a pit open up in their stomach, felt bile threaten to start rising in their throat. “What, have you suddenly changed your mind about—”

“ñÖ, Ì håvêñ'†.” Pat cut them off with a groan, dragging a hand down his face and subsequently tearing a few ribbons of abyssal flesh between his fingers. “Èvêñ ï£ †hï§ þår†ï¢µlår wðrlÐ ï§ þrïmï†ïvê, ï† §†ïll hå§ ï†§ mêr, åñÐ Ì'm ¢ðñ†êñ† wï†h †hê llê ¢ðrñêr Ì'vê måÐê ïñ ï†. §ðmê þðïñ†lꧧ wår ßê†wêêñ †hê þlåñê§ wðµlÐ rµïñ åll m¥ hårÐ wðrk. Ì †hðµgh† Ì måÐê †hå† ¢lêår.”

Though their lungs still felt a bit tight, Sam chewed their lip and nodded. 

Yeah, there could be a chance that Pat was lying…but then, if a creature like him wanted to cause chaos, he’d be all too invested with it by now. 

Shifting on their feet, Sam cleared their throat and continued, “You still haven’t really answered my question.”

Pat shuffled his arms as he thought. He tilted his head to the side—in fact, he kept on tilting it until it was upside-down. Surprisingly enough, this elicited no cracks or pops or snaps from whatever nightmare-fuel bones he had in his neck. Instead, his noggin seemed to just slide in place with no issue. And without his eyes ever leaving Sam. 

“Ì kñðw †hå† wê'll mêê† ågåïñ,” he finally replied. “§ðmêÐå¥ ¥ðµ'll ¢ðmê ßå¢k †ð †hê mµ§êµm. Ì'vê §êêñ ï†.”

Sam blinked at this. “...Why? How?” 

“Ì'm ñð† §µrê. §ðmê†ïmê§ ¢êr†åïñ Ðê†åïl§ êï†hêr †åkê lðñgêr †ð £ïll ïñ ðr jµ§† Ððñ'† ¢ðmê ålðñg å† åll.” Pat paused, his head remaining perfectly still while the rest of his body sprawled like that of a cat. “ÄñÐ êvêñ ï£ ï† †hå† wå§ñ'† hðw ï† wðrkêÐ, ¥ðµ rêåll¥ †hïñk Ì'Ð jµ§† gïvê µþ †hå† kïñÐ ð£ ïñ£ðrmå†ïðñ £ðr £rêê?”

He threw his head back(?) and barked a mirthless laugh. 

Sam couldn’t help but put their free hand on their hip, frowning and rolling their eyes at the display. 

Pat continued: “Èï†hêr wå¥, Ì £ïgµrêÐ Ì mïgh† å§ wêll †r¥ †ð ßê rêåÐ¥. Jµ§† §ð ¥ðµ Ððñ'† gïvê mê åñð†hêr mïgråïñê-wï†hïñ-å-mïgråïñê.”

“...Alright then?” Sam responded. They definitely would’ve been able to tell if he wanted to plant some kind of trap for them…but then again, if anyone knew about the side-effects of Etherium, it was them. “Is that it?”

Pat paused, thinking. “...Ì gµê§§ ï† hêlþ§ †hå† §ðl wå§ ïñ†rïgµêРߥ §ðmê 𣠆hê †hïñg§ ¥ðµ §åïÐ.” He then narrowed his eyes, tongue flicking as his teeth actively lengthened and curled. “ñð† §µrê wh¥, whå† wï†h hðw ¥ðµ †ålkêÐ Ððwñ †ð †hêm †hrðµgh𵆠¥ðµr vï§ï†.”

Sam pursed their lips. “I didn’t mean to come off as patronizing.” 

“Wêll, ï† §µrê £êl† lïkê ¥ðµ wêrê,” Pat huffed. “§ðl'§ ßêêñ wðrkïñg £ðr mê §ïñ¢ê ßê£ðrê †hê mµ§êµm rê-ðþêñêÐ. Ì'vê §êêñ þlêñ†¥ 𣠆hê ¢råþ †hå† rêgµlår þå†rðñ§ þµ† †hêm †hrðµgh.”

Sam sucked in a sharp breath through their teeth. Okay, yeah, they could definitely see how museum work, despite seeming so cushy from the outside, could potentially be just as much of a nightmare as more typical retail stuff. 

When they looked back at Pat, however, they noticed something different. They’d been wrong before, but they were certain that an odd type of softness had manifested in his too-pale, too-wide eyes. Obviously nowhere near the romantic type, but it wasn’t the scrutiny that had been drilling into them all this time, either. 

Well, Sol had said that he was a friend of theirs. Sam would be lying if they said they hadn’t had some doubts then, but now, with the vibes that the monster himself was giving off…

That train of thought promptly crashed and burned as Sam noticed how quickly Pat’s focus had shifted. He’d never really looked away from them this entire time, but right now, his eyes weren’t drilling into theirs. Instead, they were now fixed on…their teeth. 

Another feeling of wrongness began to churn in their stomach. They made to say something else, but Pat beat them to it. 

“Håvê ¥ðµ êvêr þµllêР𵆠¥ðµr †êê†h ïñ ¥ðµr Ðrêåm§?” For the first time since he’d revealed himself, his voice wasn’t accusatory or sarcastic. Now, it was filled with…curiosity.

That didn’t exactly help with Sam’s sinking feeling. “Sorry, what?”

“¥ðµr †êê†h,” Pat repeated, turning his head until it was rightside-up again. He leaned just a smidge closer. “̆'§ ¢ðmmðñ £ðr mðr†ål§ †ð Ðrêåm åß𵆠lð§ïñg †hêm. Hå§ †hå† êvêr håþþêñêÐ †ð ¥ðµ?”

“Jumping around a bit,” Sam mused, trying not to let the feeling grow too fast. “I’m not sure if I have, honestly. I can’t remember too many of my dreams, though I guess assisted stuff like this would be a different story. Why do you ask?” 

And now came the first time that Pat seemed confused. “Wåï†, hðlÐ ðñ. Èvêñ wï†h åll †hê †hïñg§ ¥ðµ'vê åþþårêñ†l¥ §êêñ, ¥ðµ—¥ðµ Ððñ'† kñðw åß𵆠†hê †êê†h Rµlê§?” 

The monster gaped at Sam for a few long seconds. Then he started snickering, which soon transitioned into full-blown laughter. It sounded like a horrific cross between a hyena and a mosquito. Maybe throw a few dangerously sparking electrical wires. 

“What?” Sam demanded, now both paranoid and indignant. “What’s so funny?”

“̆'§ jµ§†—” Pat kept giggling, kept shaking his head in disbelief. “¥ðµ'vê ßêêñ wðrkïñg ðñ §†µ££ lïkê †hï§ £ðr §ð Ðåmñ lðñg! Hðw håvê ¥ðµ ñð† £ïgµrêР𵆠†hå† †êê†h årê §ð þrê¢ï𵧠ïñ †hê§ê þlå¢ê§?!”

Sam felt their temper flare. “Well, are you at least gonna tell me what I’ve apparently missed?”

His laughter finally dying down, Pat leaned back, his grin somehow even more smug than earlier. 

“ñð, Ì Ððñ'† †hïñk §ð,” he hummed. He lifted himself up, bracing his hands against the alley’s walls. “Ì'vê gð† ð†hêr §†µ££ †ð Ðð. ßµ† hê¥, må¥ßê ¥ðµ'll håvê §ðmê £µñ lððkïñg £ðr †hê åñ§wêr§. Whð kñðw§?”

“Maybe I will.” Sam scowled at him, reminding themself just how effective a tool spite could truly be.

Pat clicked his teeth again, his extra arms reeling back and vanishing into his torso. He began to slither past Sam, but stopped short. “Öh, åñÐ ðñê mðrê †hïñg †ð ¢hêw ðñ…”

He whipped back around and surged forward. His talons lashed out, quickly pushing Sam back and pinning them against the wall. Sam ground their jaw, fighting the way their instincts tried to insist that the air had been knocked out of them. 

There was no air. That cold, dry feeling was back, but there was no pain. This wasn’t really happening.

“Ððñ'† †hïñk †hï§ gïvê§ ¥ðµ åñ¥ §þê¢ïål þêrk§,” Pat growled, his breath now hot as dryer exhaust, a combination of sulfur and dead flowers. “Ððñ'† †r¥ †ð måkê mê §lêêþ ågåïñ, ßê¢åµ§ê Ì£ ¥ÖÚ ÐÖ—!”

“𝕿𝒽𝖊𝓎'𝓇𝖊 𝖓ℴ𝖙 𝖒𝒶𝖐𝒾𝖓ℊ 𝓎𝖔𝓊 𝒹𝖔 𝖆𝓃���𝓉𝖍𝒾𝖓ℊ.” 

Everything seemed to freeze in place. 

The new voice that had interjected was…something else.

Soft yet echoing, like it was being spoken by several mouths all at once. As though there was a sound to go with the way steam curled through the air. It did seem to splinter around the edges, but it was still so…rich. Angelic and alien at the same time. Like glass shards being dipped in molten gold. 

Sam slid to the ground before they even realized that the hold around them had disappeared. 

Pat practically eroded away from them, finally, finally tearing his hideous eyes away.

It would’ve been impossible for Sam to not follow his gaze.

All that light they’d seen earlier on the roof…it’d been swallowed up and harnessed into a brand-new glow that was slowly-but-surely creeping its way through the walls and the ground. And the source of it…

Well, to be completely honest, it took a solid minute for Sam’s eyes to adjust.

But once they did, Sam was treated to the sight of another creature that mortal eyes probably weren’t supposed to see. 

Like Pat, this one had a relatively humanoid form, seeming to take on the shape of a woman. Though she loomed over everything like he did, she still seemed a bit shorter.

The illumination was flickering around her—no, from inside of her. Almost like a jack-o-lantern. 

Her skin was impossibly pale. But the longer Sam looked at it, the more they realized that the network of cells and veins inside was visible, and how those cells and those veins each seemed to give off a hint of different colors. Similar to the kaleidoscope effect of an opal. 

Not only that, but her flesh billowed, flowing and rippling so gently without any wind to make that happen. Like her figure was a amalgamation of cloth sheets. Or the hood of a jellyfish, or the petals of an orchid. 

Or maybe…maybe even some kind of wedding dress…

And that wasn’t even mentioning the holes. 

So many, too many holes that seemed to have been bored through her flesh, some stretching to be longer or wider than others, the most prominent ones being a pair in the upper-half of her face. The one trait they all shared was the fact they were the only hints of darkness in this entity’s form. The glow they offered was different: they flickered like embers at the bottom of a firepit, seeming to float perfectly in the center—

Eyes. 

Those holes were the creature’s eyes. 

And almost all of them were focused on Pat…except for a few that stared at Sam, effectively forcing them to hold still in a way the former monster somehow hadn’t quite been able to manage.

“§¥lþh,” Pat breathed, somehow creating the perfect cominbation of question and statement, his voice now consumed by an emotion that Sam simply couldn’t place. 

With a slight jolt, they realized that, despite the word sounding so foreign, they still recognized it. 

After all, it’d been what he’d wanted them to ask Harmonia about…

“𝕷ℯ𝖛𝒾𝖆𝓉𝖍𝒶𝖓,” the new entity answered, the word nearly as difficult to process as what Pat had said. 

Sam glanced back and forth between the two of them. 

Pat’s eyes bulged from their sockets, his pinprick pupils actually holding still for once. The void-like skin on his forehead twitched, as though something inside his skull had stirred in its sleep. Then, like a seam being split and widened as stuffing spilled out, a third eye opened up, wider and darker than Pat’s primaries, or any of the extras he’d had before. 

“Hðw—Wh¥..?” Pat trailed off. It almost sounded like his voice was on the verge of breaking. Like he was biting back something that had been bottled up for at least a few centuries.

Sylph tilted her head to the side, allowing long streams of light around her head to weave like a combination of flames and clouds and gentle snakes—her hair, Sam realized. 

“𝕴 𝖙𝒽𝖎𝓃𝖐 𝖞ℴ𝖚 𝖈𝒶𝖓 𝖙𝒶𝖐ℯ 𝒶 ℊ𝖚ℯ𝖘𝓈,” she replied, her melodious tone dragged down by a deeper wound of her own.

Pat blinked rapidly, visibly swallowing a lump in his throat. As though he expected her to just vanish for no reason at all if he didn’t look at her long enough. He began to reach out toward her…only to stop short, his talons clearly shaking.

Sylph’s primary eyes flickered, the flesh around them rippling to form a worried expression, making a dent in her calm. She quietly glided a bit closer. 

In the new silence, Sam suddenly became aware of a new sound. It was softer, much more muffled and distant than the voices of either entity. 

A deep, steady rhythm. Sam’s instincts swore up and down that it was organic. Inexplicably familiar, too.

…And not just one…

Sylph get out a soft sigh. “𝖂ℯ𝖗ℯ𝖓'𝖙 𝖞ℴ𝖚 𝖔𝓃 𝓎𝖔𝓊𝖗 𝖜𝒶𝖞 𝖙ℴ 𝓌𝖆𝓀𝖎𝓃𝖌 𝖚𝓅?”

Pat sputtered, but it didn’t seem to be out of anger. 

He made to say something, but Sylph cut him off with a shake of her head. “𝕮ℴ𝖒ℯ ℴ𝖓. ℐ 𝒸𝖆𝓃 ℴ𝖓𝓁𝖞 𝖘𝓉𝖆𝓎 𝒽𝖊𝓇𝖊 𝖘ℴ 𝓁𝖔𝓃𝖌 𝖒𝓎𝖘ℯ𝖑𝒻; 𝖞ℴ𝖚'𝖗ℯ 𝓃𝖔𝓉 𝓉𝖍ℯ ℴ𝖓𝓁𝖞 𝖔𝓃𝖊 𝖜𝒾𝖙𝒽 𝒶 𝒷𝖚𝓈𝖞 𝖘𝒸𝖍ℯ𝖉𝓊𝖑ℯ.”

Pat lowered his head, wringing his talons. He nodded slowly. 

“𝕭ℯ𝖘𝒾𝖉ℯ𝖘,” Sylph continued. “𝕯ℴ 𝓎𝖔𝓊 𝓇𝖊𝒶𝖑𝓁𝖞 𝖙𝒽𝖎𝓃𝖐 𝖓ℴ𝖜'𝖘 𝖙𝒽𝖊 𝖗𝒾𝖌𝒽𝖙 𝖙𝒾𝖒ℯ ℴ𝖗 𝖕𝓁𝖆𝒸𝖊?”

“¥ðµ §å¥ †hå† lïkê †hêrê'§ êvêr gðññå ßê å rïgh† †ïmê ðr þlå¢ê!” Pat argued, his tone a concoction of bitterness and agony, both going much, much further than just bone-deep.

Sylph flinched, her expression twisting into something that was truly unreadable. Then, pursing her lips, she drew closer. 

Now it was his turn to flinch, as if he hadn’t been expecting her to move. 

And then that strange, muffled drumbeat grew a bit louder, a bit faster…

Sylph looked at one of his clutches of claws, still hovering frozen in the air. She then raised her own handful of talons, pushing it forward until it rested against his wrist. With that, she carefully pushed her hand up until their palms were touching. She went still then, not budging an inch when Pat’s digits wrapped around hers, squeezing tightly.

“Hðw åm Ì §µþþð§êÐ †ð £ïñÐ ¥ðµ 壆êr †hï§?!” Pat demanded, his buzzing voice tapering down to a whisper. “Ì ¢ðµlÐ ñêvêr þrêÐ ¥ðµ ßê£ðrê, §ð—!”

“𝖂ℯ 𝒸𝖆𝓃'𝓉 𝒷𝖊 𝖕𝓇𝖊𝓅𝖆𝓇𝖊𝒹 𝒻𝖔𝓇 ℯ𝖛ℯ𝖗𝓎𝖙𝒽𝖎𝓃𝖌,” Sylph announced, her voice more stern than before. “𝕾ℴ𝖒ℯ 𝓈𝖙𝓊𝖋𝒻 𝒿𝖚𝓈𝖙 𝖍𝒶𝖘 𝖙ℴ 𝓁𝖎𝓃𝖊 𝖚𝓅 𝒷𝖞 𝖎𝓉𝖘ℯ𝖑𝒻. 𝖄ℴ𝖚 𝖓ℯ𝖊𝒹 𝓉𝖔 𝖋𝒾𝖌𝓊𝖗ℯ 𝓉𝖍𝒶𝖙 𝖔𝓊𝖙 𝖊𝓋𝖊𝓃𝖙𝓊𝖆𝓁𝖑𝓎.”

And the muffled rhythm came screeching to a halt. 

It did start up again…but only after a full, agonizing moment had passed. 

Sylph’s primary eyes softened a bit once again. She took a deep breath, glancing down as the air seemed to course all the way through her billowing tissues while she leaned closer to Pat. After what almost felt an hour, she looked back up at him. One of her arms was a blur as it wove behind him, reaching up along his spine.

“𝖂𝒶𝖐ℯ 𝓊𝖕,” she insisted. One of her talons tapped against the nape of his neck.

And then Pat was gone. 

No smoke, no cracks splitting open in the air, no dissipating, nothing like that at all. 

He’d just vanished. As though he’d truly been a hallucination cooked up by someone’s sleep-depreived, terror-addled imagination.

Sylph lowered her head; all the holes seemed to disappear into her skin–she was closing her eyes. Keeping them tightly sealed shut for a good long while as she tapped her claws against the ground.

There was only one drumbeat now, and it rang out much faster and louder than ever. 

Sooner or later, all of her eyes snapped back open in a way that would’ve made the average trypophobia-sufferer faint. She then turned her head to stare at Sam, her gaze curious…yet reproachful. 

Sam couldn’t stop themself from shrinking, from pressing their back against the wall, dipping their head to signal cautious respect. 

“...𝖂𝒽𝖆𝓉 𝓀𝖎𝓃𝖉 𝖔𝒻 ℊ𝖆𝓂𝖊 𝖉ℴ 𝓎𝖔𝓊 𝓉𝖍𝒾𝖓𝓀 𝓎𝖔𝓊'𝓇𝖊 𝖕𝓁𝖆𝓎𝖎𝓃𝖌?” Sylph asked, her voice somehow gentle and acidic at the same time. 

That was when the world around them began to flutter away. Like a person’s eyelashes twitching as tears dried up around them. 

___

Scrying was a basic trick; it was one of the very first magicks Pat had taught Sol, way back when they’d started hearing his voice in their head. 

It came in pretty handy when there was a guest (or perhaps an occasional intruder) who just needed to be spied on for whatever reason.

Windows, mirrors, even rain puddles were game. As long as it was reflective, it would work. You just needed to keep your focus steady.

Admittedly, it’d been somewhat difficult for Sol to stay focused on tonight’s particular task. 

It was simple assignment, really: use some other tricks to track down the stranger who had come to ask those cryptic questions, keep an eye on them as they slept…as well as watch for anything that could be a threat to the same mound of living nightmare fuel she’d been working with for a long time now while he slept. 

But if Pat’s views on sleep had ever been anything to go by…

Even if she knew she could trust him, Sol’s instincts told them that things just wouldn’t go too smoothly tonight.

Curled up in his nest-cocoon-hammock thing, Pat had been lightly tossing and turning ever since he’d finally managed to drift off. He’d been murmuring as he dreamed, his unconscious voice dropping to an octave that was almost too soft and too low to comprehend (then again, even if that wasn’t the case, Sol knew she still wouldn’t have been able to understand the language he was using).

Sol honestly wasn’t sure how much time had passed before Pat woke up. 

…It was so strange, feeling validated and concerned and scared all at once. 

After all, it wasn’t every night you got to watch your boss-and-kind-of-friend lurch up, gasping and choking like he’d been chained to the bottom of a lake. 

It wasn’t every night you watched that same entity try to climb out of his nest, only to fall and hit the floor with a loud thud due to how violently he was shaking. 

It wasn’t every night you could do nothing put watch your technical business partner shrink to the size of a human, then raise his clawed hands to his face…and burrow talons into flesh, effectively ripping both of his primary eyes out and throwing them across the room where they each landed against the adjacent wall with a sickening splat.

It wasn’t every night you got to see an outer abomination crumple into a heap on the floor, heaving and sobbing as veritable gallons of a viscous, oily fluid gushed out of the fresh, jagged hollows in his face.

Steeling their nerves, Sol crept past Pat, moving carefully and quietly. It took a painfully awkward amount of time for her to find both of his eyes, but she managed. Besides, he clearly wasn’t in the headspace to be judging anything right now. 

Though their nightvision had long-since grown more enhanced than average, Sol still found themself squinting through the eyeholes of their protective mask. Squinting at the gorey treasures in her shaking hands. 

(She’d expected his pupils to still be shaking too, the way they always did. But right now, shockingly enough, they were both still.)

Due to the hasty removal, both cavernous eyeballs were now adorned by some dents and cuts. 

…Well, cauterization typically couldn’t be such an easy solution, but Sol had their ways. She set the eyes down, then fished through the pockets of her purple leather jacket. It took no time at all for her to find her trusty striker-blade, as well as the chunk of rainbow flint that came with it. 

Sol chewed their lip, their thoughts wracked with worry as they listened to Pat’s cries. 

Using the blade might just make the injuries worse…

With a deep breath, Sol struck at the stone, expertly coaxing out a flame, small and delicate as though it was attached to a candle wick.

They then pressed the blade’s tip to their palm. They didn’t apply enough pressure to draw blood; it was just a way to encourage the fire to abandon the metal in favor of the offered hand. 

Unfortunately for the fire, Sol’s skin refused to char or melt. It did turn a deep shade of red where the flame licked at it, but that was it. It didn’t even hurt; it just felt like hot water pooling against them. 

Sol stuffed her tools back into her jacket, then returned their focus to the eyes. She delicately picked one up, holding her flaming hand around it, turning it this way and that to make sure that the unnatural heat convinced the wounds to melt in on themselves and close up. The process went by faster than expected: both eyes were repaired soon enough. 

They would’ve felt some well-deserved pride at that—their control was getting better, after all—but she still had a friend who needed help right now. 

Sol smothered the flame, then carried the eyes over to Pat. Something cold and clammy scratched at their ribcage as they looked over him. 

His sobs had tapered down into hiccups by now, and his horrific tears were already evaporating into columns of smoke, but he was clearly still in a bad way. 

Without a word, Sol sat down beside him, crossing their legs and biting back the stinging sensation that was trying to settle within their own eyes.

He’d take his back when he was ready.

@inkbedou @the-matpat-ever @b-is-in-the-closet

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

@sammys-magical-au

REBLOG if you have amazing, talented WRITER friends.

Because I certainly do, and I love every single one of them and their work.

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

LOOK WHAT I GOT—

Hey, @sammys-magical-au, @insane4fandoms, and @the-matpat-ever! Mind if I show you guys something?

I usually don't post irl photos on here, but I just HAVE to make an exception today.

Why? Well, because a couple of my Christmas gifts this year are very...interesting. I can't believe I forgot to share these yesterday (then again, I was tired as all hell, lol).

My dad and I have always had similar tastes/interests (horror stuff, dark comedy. etc.) So, of course he was the one to give THESE ABSOLUTE GEMS to me:

___

This plushie was obviously inspired by the Killer Rabbit from Monty Python. Yeah, Snare is a hare (I know, I'm always big on being detailed with my fanegos, I just can't help it) but are you really gonna look at this and tell me to not get all excited?!

___

And THIS...

CALIBAN ABSOLUTELY OWNS A MUG EXACTLY LIKE THIS NOW. I SWEAR I'M GONNA WRITE A SCENE WHERE HE DRINKS FROM IT IN ONE OF MY UPCOMING STORIES.

___

And you know what the best part is?

MY DAD DOESN'T EVEN KNOW WHAT I WRITE ABOUT! (On rare occasions I'll share my original stories with selective family members, but I NEVER share my fanfics with anyone but my friends.) HE LITERALLY JUST WENT OFF OF VIBES WHEN HE GOT THESE BECAUSE HE KNOWS ME SO DAMN WELL! 🤣🤣🤣

I LOVE YOU, DAD!!! 💞

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

So, just a heads-up...

Even though I favor Halloween over Christmas, I still like to try and write stories as gifts for the holiday.

I'm trying to do that this year. Specifically as a thank-you to some of my friends on this hellsite, @sammys-magical-au and @insane4fandoms, for being so awesome and engaging with me so much.

I initially wanted to post it either tonight or sometime tomorrow night (let's be real, probably after Christmas Dinner). However, due to a lot of irl stuff, my progress has kept getting delayed.

Just to be clear, I'm not giving up on this. I'm determined to see this story-gift through. It just might take a bit longer than I wanted.

So, I might end up having to post it on the 26th or the 27th. If that's the case, then I'm sorry in advance for the gift being late. We'll just have to see how certain things work out.

Whatever happens, thank you guys for everything so far 🫶🫶🫶 Whatever holiday you celebrate this time of year, I hope it goes great! (And I hope you'll enjoy what I'm cooking up once it's finally ready)

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

Oh btw! Right back at ya - 2, 9 & 13 for There Are Some Cons to Being and Archeologist…, A Couple Nights Later…, and It Might as Well Happen! Life is Already So (Old) God(s)damn Weird! (aka my personal faves of yours 😊😊)

~ @sammys-magical-au 💖

Thank you so much, Sammy! It's been FOREVER since I got an ask about characters or stories! (I'm pretty sure this is only the third creative-focused ask I've gotten this year. 🥲)

___

There Are Some Cons to Being an Archeologist…

2 — What scene did you first put down?

The start of recent-flashback-scenes; where Penn and Illinois were chatting in their hotel room, the day before they set out to explore the underground cave. I didn't come up with the opening scene of LevianthanPat circling the jeep and tapping at its windows until a few days after I started writing the story.

Since half of the story is made up of those recent flashbacks, I decided that I wanted to start it off with present events to keep readers curious.

9 — Were there any alternative versions of this fic?

Sort of? Y'know the middle of the plot, where Penn and Illinois find a certain chamber in the underground cave? They examine it, Penn gets some weird vibes, and the two of them decide to leave...only for Illinois' nemesis of a boulder to crash in?

Originally, I had planned to write the duo actually leaving the chamber, only to encounter the boulder further along and find themselves in an entire slapstick chase sequence until they were eventually driven back to that one chamber and the boulder finally broke the petrified mass at the center.

However, while I was writing, the story got much, much longer than I'd anticipated, so I had to make some cuts to the plot here and there.

13 — What music did you listen to, if any, to get in the mood for writing this story? Or if you didn’t listen to anything, what do you think readers should listen to to accompany us while reading?

Well, writing rituals are a bit all over the place for me. Half of the time I do enjoy having some background noise, but other times I need it quiet in order to focus.

The time I spent on this story was the latter. However, I think “Seven Devils” by Florence and The Machines would be a somewhat fitting song for certain themes later in the story. (Due to LevianthanPat being involved, lol.)

___

A Couple Nights Later…

2 — What scene did you first put down?

The scene where Murdock, Caliban, and Azalea stopped to visit Sparky's and Ness was the one to wait their table. Mainly because I'd been holding onto the exchange of technical puns between Ness and Cal for SO DAMN LONG and was just so eager to finally get it out, lol

9 — Were there any alternative versions of this fic?

I think one initial idea was for the story to not involve Murdock, but I decided to bring him in because...well, I want to write about him more and more often as I continue developing The Pentas Family's lore/stories.

Along with that, another thing that didn't make the cut was for Illinois to be much more active in convincing Penn to talk with Caliban and Azalea. As in, Illinois basically pushing Penn over to the other table, or just approaching the other table to introduce himself and explain what Penn told him about his estranged cousins.

Obviously, I didn't go with that, because I really wanted to show how Illinois can respect boundaries. Although you've gotta admit, he does kinda give off the vibes of a headstrong friend who might up and drag his buddies into something they're avoiding/procrastinating on.

13 — What music did you listen to, if any, to get in the mood for writing this story? Or if you didn’t listen to anything, what do you think readers should listen to to accompany us while reading?

Didn't actually listen to any music during the writing process. But, if I had to pick a song to be playing in the background, I think I'd go with “bury a friend” by Billie Eilish. (Yes, I know, I'm so old-fashioned, har-har.) Especially for the scene where Penn realizes that he recognizes Caliban and Azalea...as well as how he can see them subtly recognizing him as well...

___

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

2 — What scene did you first put down?

This was one of the stories that I just wrote from start-to-finish. (Which, in hindsight, might be why I ended up in a time-crunch and pretty much just wrote from noon to nighttime in order to post it on time for your birthday 😅)

Still trying to go back to my old tricks of just jumping around and getting the big/important scenes out first so I can be inspired to write stuff around them, thus filling up the story a bit faster.

9 — Were there any alternative versions of this fic?

Nope, not really. I was honestly kinda surprised at myself; I usually have a bunch of ideas and end up needing to just settle with one for a single story (unless, of course, I can find a way to convert the extra ideas into scenes and have them lead into one another nicely enough).

13 — What music did you listen to, if any, to get in the mood for writing this story? Or if you didn’t listen to anything, what do you think readers should listen to to accompany us while reading?

Lol, like you said before, I mentioned “Mx. Sinister” in fic for a reason. I was already planning on having Cruz play his violin in a scene or two, but I didn't want to just say that he was playing. I wanted to reference a real song so readers could imagine the music. Plus, I'd looked it up on YouTube, and it seems like there aren't any violin covers of “Mx. Sinister”; really, all I found were piano covers.

(A little extra trivia here: IDKHOW is one of my favorite bands...but there's this up-and-coming singer on YouTube who I discovered by random chance, and I honestly like his cover of “Mx. Sinister” more than the original. His name is Clem Turner, and I highly recommend checking out his channel and all his other covers! He has the voice of an angel!)

___

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

@sammys-magical-au This is definitely something Azalea would say...but we both know she probably picked it up from listening to Caliban's morbid jokes

like the first rule of cooking is to have fun and be yourself and the first rule of baking is to stay calm because the dough can sense fear

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

The Gift That Keeps On Giving: Incorrect Quotes (please just ignore how none of them are holiday-themed...)

Remember this post? Well, unfortunately, it was pretty damn prophetic. The gift-story I've been working on will take more time than I expected. (On the bright side, maybe I can make a weird little New Year's Eve thing out of it.)

But I still refuse to not post something special for my friends on here for Christmas!

And if it can't be a full-on story, then I'll go for the next best thing: MIXING FANMADE CHARACTERS INTO MEMES.

(Disclaimer: two of the characters involved here do not belong to me. Casey Clowes was created by my amazing friend, @insane4fandoms. Sam Ryder, meanwhile, is the OC of another one of my wonderful moots, @sammys-magical-au! And as for the character who do belong to me...well, if you'd like to learn more about them, they'll each be linked as they're introduced.)

___

[Since they're sort of on the same page, Casey is trying to interview Sam. He's currently trying to discuss The Pentas Family with them.]

Casey: How did you even get into an alliance with them to begin with? How can you handle all the horrific stuff they do?!

Sam: *looking past Casey, watching through the window as Murdock, The Newcomer, Caliban, Azalea, and a few other Pentas members are chasing a few targets/rivals down in the streets*

Sam: ...Sometimes, I'm not really sure, either.

___

The Newcomer: *talking about the rest of The Pentas Family* “i CoUlD fIx tHeM." The Newcomer: Yeah? Well, I could accept these guys as they are. You don’t like murder? Grow up. The atrocities are part of my family, and I’ve decided they’re funny.

___

Casey: Oh, fiddlesticks! This really ruffles my feathers!

Murdock: *looking genuinely disturbed/concerned* PLEASE just say "fuck."

___

Garret: *kicks in the door to a target’s hideout* Your free trial of life has ended.

___

Caliban: Reverse tooth fairy where you leave money under your pillow and the tooth fairy comes and leaves you a bunch of teeth.

Casey: . . .Why?!

Caliban: *shaking a bag of teeth* Just because.

___

K.O.: If I got my foot cut off, then picked it up and swung it at you, would that be me hitting you or me kicking you?

Casey: Well, you'd really just mentally scar me more than anything!

___

Parker: Look, in my defense, I had some really good music on, and it made me want to do something kinda evil.

Casey: . . .

___

Azalea: Hey, there’s our old friend!

Casey: ...You and your buddies literally tried to kill me at some point.

Azalea: That was obviously just our way of getting to know you.

___

Val: People like to say “you can be part of the problem or part of the solution,” but I happen to believe you can be both

Casey: That is NOT how it works.

Sam: *shrugging* I mean...technically, sometimes it can be...

___

Two-Toes Johnny: I’ve had a lotta people ask me, “Hey, Johnny, are you a glass-half-full or a glass-half-empty kinda guy?” Two-Toes Johnny: And after some time to think, I can now confidently answer that question. Two-Toes Johnny: *pours some water into a glass. . .and then smashes that glass on the floor*

___

Phoenix: I can’t do this, it’s against my moral compass.

Casey: Your moral compass is a roulette wheel.

Phoenix: What's your point?

___

Miles: Nice opinion! One small issue, though. . . Miles: . . .I’ve planted a landmine in an undisclosed location inside your house. Every step you take is now a risky move.

___

Casey: I think my guardian angel drinks.

Sam: Join the club, dude.

___

Howie: *pulls up one of his cars with a few other Pentas members riding in the backseat; rolls down the window and honks the horn at The Newcomer* Get in, loser! We’re committing homicide!

___

Casey: My bounty is missing, and there's literally blood on your hands! What did you do?!

Garret: Alright, fine. I may have aggressively hugged him...specifically with my scarf...around his neck.

Casey: So you strangled him to death?!

Garret: No, no. I aggressively hugged his neck with my scarf.

___

Casey: WHAT ARE ALL THESE DEAD BODIES DOING HERE?!

Jay: *nudges one with his shoe* Honestly, not much.

___

[Sometime after Casey managed to steal a bounty from Murdock]

[Extra Context: Murdock is 5'10. Casey is 6'3]

Murdock: Listen, I get that we don’t see eye-to-eye on some things, but—

Casey: That’s because you’re short.

Murdock: . . .WHAT did you just say to me?

Casey: Oh, I’m sorry. Did you not hear me down there? Should I sPEAK UP?

Murdock: What are you doing?!

Casey: I didn’t say anything. What’s up? Ah, sorry, DOWN. ‘Cause that’s where you are.

Murdock: ARE YOU TRYING TO GET YOUR—

Casey: “Kneecaps broken?” You gonna kick my shins or somethin’? ‘Cause that’s all you can reach, right?

Murdock: What is wrong with you today?!

Casey: Oh, do we have a short fuse today? DO WE. . ?

Murdock: Why are you being so insulting?! I—you—we were just having an argument—

Casey: Sorry, speak up. I can’t hear you all the way down there.

Murdock: . . .

Casey: Speak a little louder for me. Y’know, ‘cause you’re short.

Murdock: THAT’S IT, I’M GONNA—

Casey: Whoa, calm down there, you little IMP. ‘Cause, y’know, the shorter they are, the closer to hell—

Murdock: I GET THE JOKE, AND NOW I'M GONNA KICK YOUR ASS, I SWEAR TO GOD!

___

[Sometime after Casey calls a truce with The Pentas Family. Recently, he's been struggling with a strange case, so he's reluctantly sought out some help/advice from Caliban Caliban. The two of them have been sneaking around the city late into the night; they're just now approaching the building where Casey keeps his office]

Casey: *turning the corner and looking up* ...SCOUT!

Caliban: *following Casey's gaze, his eyes widening and mouth dropping open* ...SNARE!

[Scout and Snare are currently sitting on the roof of the building, just above the back entrance]

Casey: WHAT THE HECK ARE YOU DOING?!

[Neither Scout nor Snare answer, since they're respectively a beagle and a hare]

Caliban: HOW DID YOU GET UP THERE?!

___

Two-Toes Johnny: *pouring himself a glass of wine* GOOD MORNIN'! Don’t forget to drink your water and mIND YOUR FUCKIN’ BUSINESS! Two-Toes Johnny: . . .This is wine, but you KNOW WHAT I MEAN! Two-Toes Johnny: If the things in your life are not bringin' you inspiration, income, or orgasms, they don’t belong in your life! So stop lettin' them linger around! Two-Toes Johnny: Ignore the judgmental people who always got somethin’ to say! They look like wildebeests, and you’d rather be the bitch that’s being talked about than the miserable bitch who’s talkin’! Two-Toes Johnny: So, thank you for comin' to my Sunday service. We fuck ‘em up, we fuck ‘em down, we fuck their friends when they’re outta town. Two-Toes Johnny: *takes a sip of his wine* . . .AMEN!!!

___

K.O.: YOU’RE TOO LATE, CLOWES! I AM NOW FORKLIFT CERTIFIED!

K.O.:*drives around, laughing maniacally. . .at least until he crashes the forklift into something, causing now broken shelves to start falling. . .*

K.O.: *stops laughing* o-OH MY G O D—OH MY GOD—WHAT THE FUCK IS—AAAAAAAAAAHH—!

___

Azalea: Okay, what does A stand for? Phoenix: Arson. Azalea: Aww, you're so good. Okay! B! What does B stand for? Phoenix: . . .Barson. Caliban: *laughs* Azalea: What stands for C? Phoenix: Commit arson. Azalea: D! Phoenix: Don't come near me, I'm going to commit arson. Caliban: *now on the floor, laughing even harder*

___

Parker: We are one hundred meters from your location and approaching rapidly. Parker: S t a r t r u n n i n g .

___

Casey: Sometimes I wonder why humans have different blood groups.

Caliban: So I can enjoy different flavors.

___

“What are you, exactly?”

Val: A mobster.

“No, what’s your gender?”

Val: I’m a contract killer.

“No! Like, what’s under your dress?!”

Val: *pulls out a minigun from their thigh-holster under their dress* A GUN.

___

[Casey has gotten caught up in one of Miles' booby traps. Surprisingly enough, it's not a harmful one, but it's still pretty damn aggravating since it ruined one of Casey's stake-outs. Sam has found Casey and is now helping him out]

Sam: Is there something you'd like to say, Mr. Clowes? Casey: *one eye twitching* Oh, there are SEVERAL things I'd like to say...

___

@the-matpat-ever @b-is-in-the-closet @lampsforsocks @bloodyhound12345 @yourannoyinglittlesistersteph @flaming-dolph16

[slut4-haydenchristensen]

jason: who the fuck-

bruce: language

jason:

jason: WHOM the fuck-

bruce: NO-

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

Cruz Freitas

To whoever is reading this: I hope whatever holiday you happen to celebrate this time of year is going fantastic for you! Best wishes, and Happy New Year!!!

I personally celebrate Christmas (and even if I didn't, gift-giving would still be my primary love language to friends and family), so I figured it would be fun to create a fanego as a present for my amazing buddy @sammys-magical-au! Just a little something to show my gratitude for all the times they've helped me brainstorm for my stories!

(I might try to do this for more of my Tumblr friends next year; I'll admit that this instance was kinda last-minute 😅)

[Edit: I've since added a few more lore-bits to Cruz as a character, but they're in different posts. For more info on Macaroon, Cruz's pet outer-creature-cat-thing, go here. For more info on Cruz' mask and ritual equipment, go here.]

[Edit 2: mine and Sammy's buddy @inkbedou has created  some fantastic artwork of this guy! Please go follow them and show them some love!!!]

So, since this character is for Sammy, he's obviously a LixianEgo

Cruz is basically my headcanon name for the character that Lixian voices in Late Night Mop. (I actually brought up the idea of making said character into an ego in an ask I sent to Sammy a while ago.)

When I watched the Let's Plays of LNM roll out, I grew attached to the theory that the whole last-minute cleaning job was actually just a trap/long-con to appease the demon that had been summoned.

So. . .yeah. Cruz may not be part of a cult, but he's still what most wannabe cultists like to pretend they are. As for why Cruz chose to make a hobby out of summoning horrific abominations. . .well, I'm not really sure, but I know he's not gonna explain himself anytime soon.

I won't say Cruz isn't a bit of a misanthropist, but he still knows how to interact with others. I.e., how to put on a personable facade in order to "make friends" until he's gained enough of their trust to lure them into his escapades. You can't just mingle with outer monstrosities without making a sacrifice or two, after all.

On the other side of the coin, Cruz has a shocking knack for taking mind-melting eldritch vibes in stride. Honestly, he's way more casual and collected when hanging out with atrocities against nature than he is around his fellow humans.

He's grown a decent collection of occult books/artifacts over the years. Most things in this collection have been acquired through less-than-legal means, because duh. Cruz has long-since learned to navigate the more paranormal side of the Dark Web/Black Market.

He's picked up several languages in order to translate for his projects. Some are human (such as Latin/Pig Latin). Others. . .not so much (the pronunciation is difficult for someone without multiple forked tongues, but Cruz is nothing if not a determined bastard, so he manages).

He's also musically-inclined (inspired by the fact that there's a violin hanging on the wall in LNM's master bedroom). The majority of summoning rituals don't require music, but he'll be over the moon whenever he manages to find one that does.

If LNM didn't make it obvious, Cruz isn't phased by gory stuff. Hell, the bloody mess in that game is small potatoes compared to some of the other offerings/rituals he's set up in the past (and in the future. . .😈)

That demon from LNM wasn't the first ungodly creature Cruz has summoned, and it certainly won't be the last, either. In fact, his latest schemes may or may not involve. . .ah, what's his name again? Oh yeah! The terrifying EldritchPlier himself, as well as Lunky and Co.

Thanks to all the surreal shenanigans he's experienced, Cruz has developed a literal sixth sense. Though it takes concentration/mental strength, he can see/hear/feel/smell/taste all kinds of things that most people are better off not being aware of.

While Cruz operates with little regard for his own sanity or the well-being of other people, he still has enough morals to not sacrifice babies/kids.

Happy Holidays, Sammy!!! I know this isn't much, but I hope you like this guy! Please feel free to write about him whenever you want! (No pressure of course, but still!)

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

@sammys-magical-au Imagine literally any of the egos (canon and fanmade alike) saying something like this when chatting with the ISWM characters 😂

my brother works on a boat so when he rants about his job I can’t take it seriously because he keeps angrily referring to his boss as “captain”. like sorry ur having 19th century sailor problems my guy

[sbpstudios]

hits Sammy Lawrence with my glock o Magical girl. also i finally made a Jack design my god.

[brainfilehasstoppedworking]

I hate how it looks but it made me giggle

[space-batzz]

Old tawog art dump 5/5

Other au’s

Magical girl au

Not too big of a fan of Penny’s proportions in this one

Isekai au (I have screenshots of me explaining it at the time if you’re interested)

Penny’s dress was inspired by the princess from Gumball’s story in (insert episode), just like the story she is also a princess

Isekai x nextgen

Sammy’s outfit is supposed to be a combination of a suit and a dress

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5

[noahtally-famous]

not me popping back on here with a post after months of semi-inactivity (uni is being a bitch) just to reiterate how much i love writing the pahkitew island cast.

aside from sammy and amy (obviously), literally everyone else can be shipped with one another and it'd make sense to some degree, like it takes skill to create a group of people so inherently shippable (platonically and/or romantically) and ofc the writers didn't know it they just shoved a bunch of random ppl together and dusted their hands off on it but fr tho 😭

(yeah im planning out my leonave 'stranger things inspired' au, and the gears are turning, and i forgot just how much i love writing for this dumbass group)

(i swear im working on the next chapter of a guide to surviving the apocalypse too)

[sir-ballister-boldheart]

I’m intrigued by “Ambrosius punches Todd” 🤣 for multiple reasons

~ @sammys-magical-au

Smart people knew to stay out of his way. People who knew what was good for them.

Unfortunately, Todd was not one of those people.

WIP WEDNESDAY

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

Day 9: Plants

(Disclaimer: only one of the characters in this story belongs to me. If you’d like to learn more about LevianthanPat, go here. This story is actually something of a sequel to the first time I wrote about him and EldritchPlier, who belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe. CryptidXian is yet another one of the LxianEgos made by @sammys-magical-au; go here to learn more about him.)

(Trigger Warnings: body horror, implied sleep problems, implied nightmares/night-terrors, gore, blood, organs, body horror, 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 to FancyTextGenerator.)

Day 1 Day 2 Day 3   Day 4 Day 5 Day 6 Day 7 Day 8 Day 10 Day 11 Day 12 Day 13

It feels like only a moment or two has passed since you closed your eyes for the night. 

Now you’re reopening them and finding yourself in something that is most certainly not your bed. Most other people would probably panic in this situation, but you don’t. You know you don’t have to.

For one thing, whatever you’re lying in isn’t a bathtub full of ice, either. ‘Matter of fact, as you push yourself to sit up, a decent amount of leaves fall away from your face to join the rest in the pile around you. They all come in lovely shades of red and orange and yellow; it makes sense, considering the state of the trees outside your apartment. 

For another thing, you can’t feel the leaves as you brush them away from your clothes. It’s not that your skin is numb—everything within touching distance just doesn’t have the texture it should have. The leaves don’t crunch or crackle under your weight (very unsatisfying, I know).  

You’ve learned to recognize this hazy, near-weightless sensation. 

You’re asleep right now. You’re dreaming. 

And you have enough experience to brace yourself right now. You may not know how or when it’ll happen, but you absolutely know that there’s going to be a twist here.

Hundreds of years of scientific progress have already passed. Research has grown, numerous experiments have been documented, and people can still only throw their best guesses at the concepts of sleep and all its weirdness.

You doubt humanity will ever be able to fully understand sleep. 

A bit of a pessimistic outlook, yes, but you have every single damn right to be a pessimist. 

It’s been months since the constant stream of nightmares started plaguing you. 

Ten months, to be specific. 

Ten. Whole. Months. Of having a raging dumpster fire for a sleep-schedule. 

(To be fair, you’d be lying if you said you weren’t a bit relieved that the nightmares didn’t finally end at nine months. Because timing like that would’ve just been begging fate to open a whole new horrific can of worms for you. . .)

Sure, this has paved the way for you to become a somewhat lucid dreamer, but that’s not really a silver lining. Just because you’re aware of when you’re dreaming doesn’t necessarily mean you have any more power in aforementioned dreams than you did before. 

You’d think that, at this point, you would’ve been able to adjust the nightmares. 

You’re sure that you could’ve adjusted to them, but you cAN’T, BECAUSE THE DAMN NIGHTMARES ARE ONLY HALF OF YOUR PROBLEM!

You heave a sigh, dragging your dream-hand down the side of your dream-face. It feels like how the plume of smoke rising from a freshly-ignited scented candle looks.

Yeah, the impending scenario is going to suck, but there’s no point standing here and getting yourself worked up over it. In fact, that’ll probably just make things even worse whenever they do decide to happen.

Might as well just take it in stride. 

You pick yourself up, pulling a dream-leaf from your hair and letting it flutter down to the ground, which is blanketed by long, unkempt grass. Turning around in a small circle, you realize that you’re in the middle of. . .some kind of garden? There’s a decent amount of trees surrounding you, all at varying distances from one another, but it seems only one of them has actually shifted colors and shed its leaves. 

All the rest are in full bloom, their branches covered in flowers. You can recognize a crabapple here, a cherry blossom there, a few different Cape Myrtles. The explosions of color are so pretty that it takes you a few seconds to realize how the trees are twitching. Not swaying like they would in the wind—there’s no trace of a breeze around you. Twitching. Like wayward muscles in a person’s arms or legs.  

You chew your lip, making a note to not get too close as you start walking. The grass almost feels like water around your ankles. It’s not wet (thank God, because having to deal with wet socks on top of a nightmare would just be needlessly cruel); it just seems to have the same weight as a creek or a pond. 

You keep your head on a swivel, miraculously alert and aware for a sleeping person. You know there’s really no point, but you’d still rather at least see the danger coming than be caught off-guard. So, of course it doesn’t take too long for you to discover the patches of flowers that are growing around the bases of the spastic trees. It takes even less time for you to realize how the aforementioned patches apparently go on as far as the eye can see. Sure, there’s enough space for you to wander without accidentally harming any of the flora, but they’re still pretty much everywhere. 

It makes you think of anatomy textbooks, of their chapters on the circulatory system, to be exact. The grass-pathways can be compared veins, which would leave the flower patches and trees in the roles of larger organs. 

Logically speaking, wouldn’t that make you a germ? A foreign, invading virus?

You’re not sure, but that doesn’t mean you want to find out.

Even with your paranoia, you just can’t help but pause to kneel down and get a closer look at the flowers. You immediately have to rethink that choice when several stems all pivot in place in order for their blossoms to look back at you. 

A mix of roses and peonies, each one coming in either a dark or pastel hue. They’re all gorgeous. The slick, rolling eyeballs in the centers where the pollen should be. . .well, they come in different colors too, along with different pupil-shapes. Some of them are welling up with tears, which drip out between the petals and plop down into the soil. 

You have to swallow a lump in your throat, but at the same time, you don’t think the eyes make their flowers look bad. Just a little strange. It could be worse: they could be shooting lasers in your face.

For whatever reason, you offer a polite nod to the flowers before standing back up and continuing your stroll. Even as you move farther and farther away, you can’t stop feeling all those little eyes on you.

You’re casting a shadow—all of the plants are as well—but it’s dim and flickering. You can see everything just fine, but the light beaming down on this environment is dull. That doesn’t take away from all the colors, but it still makes you feel like there’s a thin dusting of tarnished brass over everything. 

You look up, craning your neck. 

The sky is completely and utterly filled with clouds. Rather than white, they’re a mixture of gray and a deep shade of mottled yellow, along with a tint of otherworldly blue around the edges. They really do look just like clouds always seem to look in abstract painting: a bit jagged around the edges, still and purposefully layered. You can’t see any trace of the sun (if there even is a sun in this dream). 

You keep glancing down at all the flowers you pass. Plenty of them have teeth lining their petals, along with little tongues that waggle up at you without making a sound and uvulas in the place of their stigmas or styles or whatevers. (None of these ones burst into song, to your slight disappointment.) 

A number of the flowers actually appear normal, if not simply weird-looking all on their own with no help from ever-shifting dream rules. Orchids of the bat, monkey-faced, naked-man, et cetera variety. A plethora of chimeras, pitcher plants, voodoo lilies, sundew, swaddled babies, dancing girls, baneberries. . .Hell, you even come across a few classics: sunflowers, tulips, sweet williams. 

But they all seem to have a sort of. . .fleshy aura. Like they’re bound to become abnormal one way or another and you’ve just so happened to catch them before the changeover. You don’t know how to make sense of them. 

Sooner or later, you come across a hill. It’s a small one, but standing on it can offer a good view of all the other flora around here. It’s also topped with one tree, keeping it  sequestered from all the others. You move slowly, carefully, squinting up at this particular tree. Once you’ve scaled the hill, you realize that it isn’t twitching at all. It’s standing perfectly still, like a normal tree should. Curious, you begin to pace around it. 

Your instincts tell you there are trees just like this in the real world, but you’re still positive that you’ve never actually seen one. It seems to be about thirteen feet tall, covered in reddish-brown bark. Oblong, glossy green leaves adorn its branches, many of which end in little clusters of hanging fruit. The berries are a cheerful color, soft orange enveloped by red, perfectly spherical with rough-yet-fuzzy-looking surfaces. They look a bit similar to strawberries, but you predict they’d taste a little more tart. A mild, sweet scent is wafting off of it from all angles. 

While it doesn’t have an entire patch of smaller plants to loom over, there’s still a generous amount of black flowers growing close to its trunk. You rack your brain as they stare at them. Morning glories? Hibiscus? No. . .hollyhocks. 

You’re so proud of your memory that it takes an embarrassingly long few seconds for you to notice movement between the flowers’ stems. (It’s honestly kind of hilarious, considering how you’ve been bracing yourself for whatever is going to make this dream into a nightmare.)

But then, out of the corner of your eye like The Shining, you see a gnarled, pale hand rise from the ground.

You freeze in place. A prickly sensation crawls along your spine. 

As you watch, the hand is lifted higher and higher into the air on an unnecessarily long arm. There seems to be an elbow-esque joint every twelve inches. By the time it could easily tap you on the nose, the hand dips back down, causing the rest of the limb to arc with a series of pops and clicks. The hand hovers by one of the hollyhock blossoms. A few bony fingers reach for those dark petals; sharp nails protrude from the cuticles, but they don’t tear into the flowers. No, they’re just. . .gently probing them. Almost like a curious toddler would. 

That allegory dies a quick death as the long, low creeeaaak of a tree branch breaks the silence, as you look back up to find a ghoulish face, angled upside-down, mere inches from yours. With nostrils ever-so-slightly flaring like a raccoon and dead, milky-white eyes drilling into yours, the creature announces, “฿ØØ.”

You don’t scream, but a high-pitched, unintelligible noise still escapes your lips as you reel back. You trip over your own feet, feeling as though a bucket of icy water has been dumped over your head as you collapse onto the grass. 

The creature snickers at your shock. As it turns its head rightside-up, bangs of black hair fall into place just above its eyes, matching the stubble growing along its jaw and above its lips. Its head ever-so-slightly pushes toward you. This helps you discover how its neck looks a lot like that arm protruding from the hollyhocks. The only difference is that it’s even longer. As you get to your feet and back away, you see how the creature’s neck is poking out from behind the fruit tree.

That’s. . .not possible. 

The tree’s trunk is thin enough to wrap your arms around. There’s no way it can actually be hiding the rest of this entity’s body.

And yet, that’s exactly what it’s doing. (Or maybe this creature just doesn’t have a torso? Who’s to say? Not you, that’s for sure.)

“₳Ⱨ, ₮ⱧɆ ØⱠĐ Ø₦Ɇ-₮₩Ø ₱Ʉ₦₵Ⱨ ₮₳₵₮ł₵,” Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe proclaims, speaking in what you believe to be a thick Portuguese accent. “ł₮'₴ ₳Ⱡ₩₳Ɏ₴ ₣Ʉ₦₦Ɏ.”

“. . .W-where the hell did you come from?” You blurt. You know that’s not the nicest thing to say right after meeting someone, but Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe literally started this off with a jumpscare. 

“₮ⱤɄ₴₮ ₥Ɇ, ɎØɄ ĐØ₦'₮ ₩₳₦₮ ₮Ø ₭₦Ø₩. ɆVɆ₦ ł₣ ₮ⱧɆ ₴₮ØⱤɎ ₩₳₴₦'₮ ₩₳₳₳₳₳₳Ɏ ₮ØØ ⱠØ₦₲, ⱧɆ₳Ɽł₦₲ ł₮ ₩ØɄⱠĐ ₴₮łⱠⱠ ₱ⱤØ฿₳฿ⱠɎ ₥₳₭Ɇ ₮ⱧɆ ł₥₱ØⱤ₮₳₦₮ ₱₳Ɽ₮₴ Ø₣ ɎØɄⱤ ฿Ɽ₳ł₦ ₥ɆⱠ₮.” Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe raises an eyebrow. “₦Ø₩ ₮Ⱨ₳₮ ł ₮Ⱨł₦₭ Ø₣ ł₮. . .ł ₵ØɄⱠĐ ₱ⱤØ฿₳฿ⱠɎ ₳₴₭ ɎØɄ ₮ⱧɆ ₴₳₥Ɇ QɄɆ₴₮łØ₦.”

The way your stomach sinks feels even worse that it would in the real world. 

You realize far too late that this entity isn’t just a product of your brain. He’s not just another nightmare. 

He’s a sentient being. He’s in a weight class of his own. 

And the fact that something like him is interacting with you while you’re dreaming does not bode well.

“I don’t want any trouble,” you insist, holding up your hands defensively. “I’m literally asleep right now. If I’m trespassing—or if I did anything to disturb you, I-I swear I didn’t mean to.”

The closest section of Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe’s neck is pushed upwards, folding horizontally. Two joints bend by either side of his head, pointed toward the sky. It’s only when the arm extends further from the hollyhocks, along with a second arm that stretches around from somewhere just out of eyeshot, and glides closer to him, hands spreading in a lame gesture that you realize he’s simply shrugging without shoulders. “₮ⱧɆⱤɆ'₴ ₦Ø ₮ⱤØɄ฿ⱠɆ. ł ₲ɄɆ₴₴ ł ₴ⱧØɄⱠĐ'VɆ ₭₦Ø₩₦ ɎØɄ'Đ ₣ł₦Đ ɎØɄⱤ ₩₳Ɏ ⱧɆⱤɆ ₴ØØ₦ɆⱤ ØⱤ Ⱡ₳₮ɆⱤ.”

“. . .What?” Somehow, you’re caught even more off-guard than you already were. “What do you mean by that?”

“ØⱧ, ₵��₥Ɇ Ø₦. ɎØɄ ₭₦Ø₩ ₩Ⱨ₳₮ ł ₥Ɇ₳₦,” Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe chuckles, lightly shaking his head. Even with the total lack of irises and pupils, he’s still able to give you the classic Seriously? look. “ł'₥ ₦Ø₮ ₮ⱧɆ ₣łⱤ₴₮ ₥Ø₦₴₮ɆⱤ ɎØɄ'VɆ ₥Ɇ₮. ₳₦Đ ł ₩Ø₦'₮ ฿Ɇ ₮ⱧɆ Ⱡ₳₴₮, Ɇł₮ⱧɆⱤ.”

You can practically feel the color drain from your face. You don’t try to stop yourself from nodding. You’ve been taking sleeping medication, practicing healthy bedtime rituals, yadda-yadda-yadda. 

And even if that stuff has been helping a little, it’s still pretty damn useless in the face of certain things.

Two things, to be precise. And they both start with P. (Well, as far as you know. You haven’t been able to learn their full names; apparently because you need multiple forked tongues for correct pronunciation. You’re still not sure why either of them bothered sharing this information, since you don’t exactly have faces to put those partial names to.) 

Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe watches you think, his face-splitting grin becoming thoughtful. He tilts his head to the side, edging just a little closer to you. The way his neck contorts through the air almost reminds you of a caterpillar climbing a tree. 

“How do you know about that?” You wonder aloud. You’ve learned that it’s pretty common for creatures like him to just know many things without actually having the means to, but you’re still curious. Besides, if he’s content with just chatting, then maybe he’ll stay that way until you’re able to finally wake up. 

“฿Ɇ₵₳Ʉ₴Ɇ ł'VɆ ₴ɆɆ₦ ł₮,” he answers. “₴Ⱨ₳ĐØ₩₴ ₥₳₭Ɇ ₱ⱤɆ₮₮Ɏ ₲ØØĐ ₲₳₮Ɇ₩₳Ɏ₴ ł₣ ł ĐØ ₴₳Ɏ ₴Ø ₥Ɏ₴ɆⱠ₣. Ɇ₴₱Ɇ₵ł₳ⱠⱠɎ ₩ⱧɆ₦ ₮ⱧɆɎ'ⱤɆ ฿Ɇł₦₲ ₵₳₴₮ ฿Ɏ ₣ⱠØ₩ɆⱤ₴.”

Your train of thought screeches its way into a collision. “Wait—so. . .so, you’ve been in my room before?”

“ɎɆ₳Ⱨ, ₳ ₣Ɇ₩ ₮ł₥Ɇ₴. Ø₦₵Ɇ ₩ⱧɆ₦ ɎØɄ ₩ɆⱤɆ ₳Ⱡ₴ɆɆ₱, ₮₩ł₵Ɇ ₩ⱧɆ₦ ɎØɄ ₩ɆⱤɆ JɄ₴₮ ØɄ₮ Ø₣ ₮ⱧɆ ₳₱₳Ɽ₮₥Ɇ₦₮,” he replies, very much unbothered by the way your jaw drops. 

You blink. You blink again. You begin to pace around in a small circle, hands subconsciously rising to grasp at your head like it might fall off. 

Memories of previous nights barge their way between your ears. The red light outlining your bedroom door from the other side. . .the pair of glowing eyes on the rippling figure looming against the glass of your window. . .their respective, concerning-yet-oddly-personable voices calling out to you, going back and forth between squabbling with each other and trying to convince you to let one of them inside. . .

“Do you know them?” You finally ask. You’re not sure where that question came from, but it feels like it could be important. 

For the very first time since you saw him, Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe’s smile fades. He clicks his tongue and chews his lip.“ɎɆ₴, Ʉ₦₣ØⱤɆ₮Ʉ₦₳₮ɆⱠɎ.”

Your nights of being a literal captive audience for Plier and Pat’s disputes have been terrifying enough. You never would’ve guessed that the one classic vampire rule could apply to outer abominations, but you damn well haven’t forgotten to thank your lucky stars for it. 

. . .Except now you’ve just learned that apparently not all surreal horrors have those limitations and you’re talking to one that’s pretty much had access to more than enough blackmail material and if he’s been able to do that then how many others have been sneaking in while you’re unaware and—

“ɎØɄ Ⱨ₳VɆ ₲ØØĐ ₮₳₴₮Ɇ ł₦ ₣ⱠØ₩ɆⱤ₴, ฿Ɏ ₮ⱧɆ ₩₳Ɏ,” Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe mentions. His seemingly-unconnected arms draw closer to each other, folding across his che—uh, neck. The left hand’s palm supports the elbow of the right arm as its hand idly grasps his lower jaw. “ł ₮ØØ₭ ₴Ø₥Ɇ ₵Ⱡł₱₱ł₦₲₴ ₣ⱤØ₥ ₮ⱧɆ ₱Ø₮₴ Ø₦ ɎØɄⱤ ĐɆ₴₭. ₳ⱠØɆ VɆⱤ₳, ₲₳ⱤĐɆ₦ł₳, ₳₦Đ J₳₴₥ł₦Ɇ, Ɽł₲Ⱨ₮?”

You’re snapped out of the near anxiety-attack in a way similar to a rubber band breaking. 

“Um. . .yeah, that’s right,” you cough, thinking of the three green friends you recently purchased from that nursery downtown. You’ve personally named them Sonny, Cher, and Yasmin, but that information doesn’t really seem relevant right now. Besides, there’s a good chance the monster already knows that.

Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe nods, and his grin reappears so quickly, like it never left his face to begin with. Despite his unsettling demeanor, you can still detect some genuine gratitude. “ł'VɆ ฿ɆɆ₦ ₥Ɇ₳₦ł₦₲ ₮Ø ₳ĐĐ ₮ⱧØ₴Ɇ ₮Ø ₥Ɏ ₵ØⱠⱠɆ₵₮łØ₦ ₣ØⱤ ₳ ₩ⱧłⱠɆ ₦Ø₩.”

You nod back, mind momentarily going blank. You’ve learned that there’s a slew of unsavory truths behind even the most unassuming things, but this guy’s apparent fondness for horticulture doesn’t seem too nefarious. (Read: seem. You still need to stay on your toes.)

About thirty seconds of painful awkwardness pass the two of you by.

Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe lowers one arm in order to drum his nails on the fruit tree’s trunk. 

You rock back and forth on your heels, biting at the inside of your cheek. And right as you have an idea of what to say next, a long, low, gurgling sound breaks the strange silence. Several more join it.

You and Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe glance down just in time to see how the black hollyhocks are trembling. The nearest one leans forward, with a round lump in its stem that definitely wasn't there a few minutes ago. You watch with confusion and mild dread as the lump works its way up, pushing at the plant’s green skin from the inside. Then, once the lump settles at the part where the petals all gather at the base of the flower’s head. . .it retches like a drunk college student on helium. 

The hollyhock angles its blossom downward, and to the tune of a long, sickening sssqqquiii-plop! a slimy heart is pitched out, landing on the grass with a solid splat. Strands of blood cling to the black petals. The bloom quivers in a way that almost looks like heavy breathing.

A small scream tears through your throat as you stagger back, unable to take your eyes off of the new mess.

. . .Well, that last part changes once all the other hollyhocks start spitting out a variety of wet organs, the blood threatening to spray on your clothes. You know it’s just dream-blood, and you know you’re just wearing dream-clothes. But you also know that there will always, always be unpleasant side-effects to touching blood that’s just leaked out of something it shouldn’t possibly be leaking out of in the first place. 

You clamp a hand over your mouth; the wave of nausea that rolls over you feels itchy and sweaty and poisonous. 

Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe, meanwhile, heaves a sigh as he leans toward the flowers. “ⱤɆVɆⱤ₴Ɇ Ⱨ₳₦₳Ⱨ₳₭ł,” he announces in a grim tone. His smile vanishes again, this time being replaced by a guilty wince. “ł ₥Ʉ₴₮'VɆ ฿ⱤØ₭Ɇ₦ Ø₦Ɇ Ø₣ ₮ⱧɆ ⱤɄⱠɆ₴ ₩ł₮ⱧØɄ₮ ⱤɆ₳ⱠłⱫł₦₲. . .Đ₳₥₦ ł₮, Đ₳₥₦ ł₮, Đ₳₥₦ ł₮. . .”

His neck encircles the tree, giving it some space as he examines each of the gore-spewing flowers. The worry in his features grows worse and worse. If not for your reasonable disgust, you’d probably feel sympathy. 

Eventually, he stops what you can only categorize as his method of pacing. His neck arches like that of a striking cobra as he purses his lips, obviously thinking. “₦Ø₮ Ⱡł₭Ɇ ł ₵₳₦'₮ ₮₳₭Ɇ ₵₳ⱤɆ Ø₣ ₮Ⱨł₴ Ⱡ₳₮ɆⱤ,” he murmurs. After retracing his path around the fruit tree, his milky-white eyes wander back over to you. 

Your breath hitches in your throat. You feel your eyes twitch and grow to the size of dinner plates. Your body doesn’t feel light anymore. It feels heavy, far heavier than what the scale in your bathroom suggested the last time you used it. A sensation that can only be described as pin-and-needles mixed with overwhelming heat oozes along your skin. You keep backing away. Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe. . .well, he doesn’t lunge at you. He doesn’t look angry enough to do that. But he’s still following you, still staring at you.

Out of nowhere, your ankle collides with something solid, and you fall back. 

You don’t topple into the grass. You don’t crash down onto anything.

Your vision swims, the world around you becoming an awful mix of spiraling colors and noise as you fall and fall and fall and—

Your ears pop as your eyes snap open. You gasp for air, sitting up with enough force that it’s a miracle you don’t trebuchet across your bedroom.  Your hands fly to your head, scrubbing at your eyes, pressing at your temples. 

And as your vision adjusts itself to the darkness, as you roll your shoulders to try and force yourself to stop shaking, you happen to peer over at the pots on your desk. 

Sonny, Cher, and Yasmin peer back, still and silent as always.

. . .Or, they are now. 

You swallow a lump in your throat, wondering if you actually just managed to catch Cher’s snow-white petals quivering.

@sammys-magical-au @inkbedos